#on the other hand excellent blending in

[mantisgodsdomain]

Every living bug has a personal scent - a blend of pheromones that generally acts as a personal "name", or "voice", in pheromonal communication. In social bugs, this tends to be stronger. As communication via pheromone is extremely species-specific, learning to manipulate them in more detail than some basic altering your expression of any given emotion tends to be something of a niche skill set, particularly among solitary bugs. It's most commonly learned for in-species communication, or by the bugs responsible for putting up pheromone signage in social-bug-heavy areas, but also has some fairly wide utility in less legal manners.

As pheromones are highly specific by bug, a bug of one species may have significant difficulty parsing the pheromones of a bug of another species. While social bugs in hives and colonies generally have something of an instinctive grasp of what various pheromones mean, and will often pick them up as part of communication among themselves, solitary bugs tend to be significantly less sensitive to them, and may struggle to distinguish between similar pheromone signals even if they know what both mean.

As a consequence of this, the vast majority of signage within a hive or colony can be wholly illegible to a solitary bug, even if it is perfectly clear to the hive's inhabitants. Bugs with reduced sensitivity to key pheromones used in social signalling can also suffer from this, particularly in places where pheromone signage can be important to operation. While these can be learned over time, unfortunately, it isn't always enough to make up for the social impacts.

Though it is possible to learn to suppress your personal scent, it isn't a widely distributed skill, and it's associated with criminals more than anything else - on a similar level to learning to lockpick, it's a cool trick to show off that also has a solid chance of getting your coworkers to ask you if you've stolen anything recently. Though suppression can make your scent more subtle, it can't eliminate it entirely, and most bugs who are seriously concerned about hiding their identities will wear some sort of masker to confuse their scent.

Monsieur Scarlet, due to a side effect of his personal flavor of mage, is capable of cutting off his own pheromone production entirely, or selectively shutting off specific pheromones. To other bugs, this will smell uncannily "blank". Since pheromones are still the main means through which bugs will communicate emotions, even beyond being a personal identifier, it's sort of like someone's face... slipped off, and there was just a void where it used to be.

Along with his short-range teleportation tricks, this makes him very good at slipping a tail, but also works against him in being an extremely distinctive trait that's very prone to freaking people out. Generally, you don't stop producing your personal pheromones until you die- but he's not producing a dead-ant smell, and he's very clearly up and moving, just lacking any personal scent. It's prone to tripping a sense that something is horribly, unnaturally wrong. Also, it's not very good for his body to stop making a bunch of major compounds. Generally, he'll opt more for things like cutting out stress pheromones than taking out everything.

[pricesprincess]

smut mdni

werewolf! simon who posts videos of him fucking other creatures such as other werewolves, vampires, pixies, really anything he can get his paws on that get really good views that is until he meets you, a little trinket fairy.

he sets up the tripod, and you're standing next to him, only ending at his massive hip. you're waving and smiling so cute and sweet too.

you're plump with extra to grab and simon loves that.

que ten minutes in the video and you're being bounced up and down simon's fat cock, the knot nudging against your gaping entrance.

the camera was high quality, able to get an excellent view of the way your pussylips swallowed his impressive girth.

your slick gushing making simon's glistening dick and fat sack that was swollen and drip with your creamy cum that made a mess between his thick and powerful thighs.

simon had his hands tucked underneath your knees to keep your legs spread open as he used you for his own pleasure like you were a toy.

and in a way you were.

the way his tapered tip kissed your cervix you squealed with pleasure and pain that blended together in an intoxicating haze as you gripped his biceps letting your head bounce around.

he fucked into you so deep that you swore he was in your throat, simon was everywhere and there was no escaping his hold or his dick.

comments and hefty tips flowed in the more your pussy gushed that sweet essence which wafted up to his snout that he pressed into your neck. each thrust jingled your trinkets noisily.

your sweet cries brought in the most viewers simon has ever had, sure everyone else he fucked was good but you? you're better.

the way you cling to him trying to tap out after your third orgasm but simon wasn't done. "you promised me love to finish this video, now be good and let me cum in your wet hot cunt "

his knot swelled before he pushed you all the way down making your pussy swallow him whole. "simon! fuck!" you wailed loudly.

a thick load of cum filled your quivering cunt which only added to the wet sticky mess between your legs as simon read the comments petting your hair and kissing your cheek.

"i think you'll just be a regular from now on."

comments and relogs with tags are really appreciated <3

[lowkeyren]

—my muse, my cure.

in which : both you and jiaoqiu are deeply concerned about each other's health but have an unconventional way of showing it.

pairing : jiaoqiu x gn!reader

wc 850, established relationship, 2.5 spoilers woops (but this isn't angst trust), also ib by an iconic line in 2.5 iykwim, art by @/Lianzi_ on x, reblogs r much appreciated!!!

how do we get a picky eater to eat green peppers?

being a picky eater isn't easy, especially when you have a sly fox like jiaoqiu in your kitchen.

you think you're safe when you see a simple, mouthwatering dish; but with him, there's always a catch. beneath the savoury aroma of perfectly cooked meatballs or the comforting warmth of a soup, he hides the things you avoid —finely diced peppers, a hint of spice, or icky vegetables you swore you’d never touch.

jiaoqiu doesn’t say a word, but the way his ears twitch gives him away. he watches with a subtle, knowing grin as you take a bite, waiting for you to realize what he’s done. though by the time you do notice, it’s already too late. despite your best efforts, the subtle icky flavour of green peppers have already permeated your taste buds.

“you didn’t even notice, did you?” he teases, his voice laced with mischief.

you shoot him a glare as you reluctantly finish the dish, the flavours blending together so seamlessly that you almost forget what you were trying to avoid in the first place. (seems like his culinary skills managed to win you over once again)

“that’s not very polite of you, doctor.” 

jiaoqiu’s smile widens at your response. “ah, come on now,” he says, feigning a hurt expression. “it's all in good fun. besides, you know those peppers are packed with vitamins. it’s good for you.”

you let out an exaggerated sigh, your irritation still simmering. “well, just because your dish turned out good, don’t think i’m letting you off the hook that easily,” you say, rolling your eyes, though a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

jiaoqiu only chuckles at your response, clearly amused. “i see how it is,” his tone taking on a teasing lilt as he steps a little closer, “you best stay on your guard then, dearest.” 

“how do we get a picky eater to eat green peppers?” the answer is quite simple. chop the peppers and mix them with minced meat to make meatballs, allowing the meat’s flavor to mask the peppers so even your fussy spouse can enjoy them.

how do we get a stubborn doctor to drink his medicine?

being a doctor isn't easy, especially when you’re injured and your partner is more worried about your own health than you are.

“qiu’er, i’m back!” the sound of your voice instantly draws his attention, he turns his head in your direction, the subtle rustle of sheets accompanying his movement. the bed dips slightly under your weight as you settle beside him, the warmth of your presence soothing. “here, i brought you some tea,” you murmur. 

“careful, it’s hot.” you gently lift the cup to his lips, the steam rising and carrying with it the sweet, spiced scent of cinnamon —he immediately notices the strong overpowering smell right away.

ah… cinnamon? so you took his advice from years ago, but unfortunately a fox’s senses are sharper than most. 

his nose scrunches slightly as the liquid gently brushes against his lips. “spiked my tea with something, dearest?” you pause, setting the cup down with a soft clink. though just as you’re about to retort, his hand reaches out, searching for you with a gentle touch. his fingers graze your arm, then find your hand, which he clasps with a tender grip.

“cinnamon is excellent for masking strong odors and is even used to conceal the scent of poison... but you wouldn’t be so cruel to me, would you?” he remarks with a playful smile, though there’s an ironic edge to his words, given his current condition.

you let out an exasperated sigh, “you wouldn’t take your medicine, qiu’er. i never thought you’d be such a stubborn doctor.” 

he chuckles softly, the sound low and a little raspy. “stubborn? i prefer ‘selective.’” his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. “and i chose to have you as my doctor.” 

“if it means i get to be the one who takes care of you, then i’ll gladly accept that,” you reply, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “now get some rest —doctor’s orders.” you help him settle back on the bed, careful not to accidentally press on his bandaged wounds, before gently pulling the sheets up to cover him.

you lean down to kiss the crown of his head, running your fingers through his hair in a soothing, rhythmic motion. “i’m only following your orders, baobei,” he mumbles softly, his words trailing off as he drifts into a peaceful sleep.

today the sun may blaze brightly in the sky, but its brilliance fades next to the warmth of your smile, a light that, though he may not be able to see, touches his heart more profoundly than the brightest day ever could.

how do we get a stubborn doctor to drink his medicine? easy. disguise it in a comforting cup of tea, masking the bitterness with cinnamon, so even he won’t notice until it’s too late. of course, your tricks never really fool him, but he lets you win anyway.

homeboy has been through so much

MASTERLIST.

[kngrose]

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐄

sevika with a s/o from piltover

WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, fluff and more fluff

from roselí ᡣ𐭩 : happy new year! i hope everyone’s had happy holidays! i’d like to thank you all for the kind messages and for all of your submissions; my inbox is filled. i took a small hiatus to prioritize family and to sort out my other blog and content, but mother has returned and asks will be answered! ᡣ𐭩

Just thinking about the first time she catches you sneaking into the undercity.

You definitely weren’t supposed to be there, you or your friends; But you all had ended up feeling a little ballsy and sneaking into Zaun after a few drinks of stolen alcohol from their parents.

It was fun. One might call you shallow or privileged for ‘escaping’ Piltover to party in Zaun. Randomly appearing from your wealthy life to the common wealth; because you had that luxury.

But how could you care? It was exhilarating to get away from all the snobs of Topside and the snobby school filled with snobby teens and all their snobby parents money.

You see in Topside, nothing less than brilliance was expected of you. From a young age you were groomed to excel in every aspect of the word: your parents meticulously planning out your life. Enrollment into the prestigious school was non-negotiable, and to your parents your success wasn’t measured by personal growth, but by your accolades and connections.

It’s not enough that you’re accepted into such a narrow landing, you must exceed their expectations. Achieve feats that cement your families legacy.

And after being the top of your class, exceeding in every extra curricular, and remaining poised and graceful at all times, you’ll be expected to choose a suitor and marry into more snobby wealth.

All the rules and regulations were much too heavy a burden, and it felt nice to be at ease for once.

And so what if for once turned into every now and then…

Your friends had long ditched the idea, emphasizing that it was a ‘one time thing’ and they wouldn’t be supporting your idea to keep frequenting the ‘poor’.

Well so be it, if you had to be alone, a lone wolf you’d be. You’d navigated these streets before, you know your way there and back—

“Lost, sweetheart?”

The voice was low and sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. You froze, your hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger hidden under your cloak. When you turned, a woman stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the brick wall. Her stance was deceptively relaxed, but her sharp gaze missed nothing.

She was larger than life, her broad shoulders and metal arm gleaming faintly under the dull glow of a nearby streetlamp. Even in the dim light, her gaze was unmistakable—dangerous and amused, like a predator catching sight of prey.

“I don’t think this is your side of town,” she continued, taking a step closer. The sound of her boots against the cobblestones echoed ominously. “Little piltie girl, right? The hell could you possibly be doing all the way down here?”

Your breath caught. You’d done everything to blend in—rough clothes, a lowered hood—but it clearly hadn’t been enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.

She just scoffed, the sound deep and mocking. “Sure, and I’m the head of the Council.” She tilted her head, studying you like a puzzle she was deciding whether to solve. “You stick out like a sore thumb. So, why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’re looking for?”

You hesitated, weighing your options. Lying felt pointless; she’d already seen through you. But telling her the truth? You weren’t sure if that would be better or worse. “I’m just passing through,” you said, attempting to sidestep her.

Her metal arm shot out, blocking your path with a loud clang as it met the wall beside you. She leaned in, her face close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across her cheek. “Passing through?” she echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s funny, because people from Piltover don’t pass through the Undercity. They either come looking for trouble, or they’re running from it.”

Her words made your stomach twist. You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off, her sharp gaze narrowing. “Let me guess,” she said, her tone almost bored. “You’re here for something you can’t get topside. Something dangerous. Am I right?”

You swallowed hard, your silence giving you away. “Something like that..”

She huffed through her nose in amusement, leaning back just enough to give you a moment to breathe. “Thought so. Look, Piltover girl, this place eats people like you alive.” She paused, her eyes glinting with amusement as she sized you up. “You should stay where you’re safe. Never know who might be looking to ruin something so soft.”

Looking back, it’s a bit ironic.

She’d put in enough effort to try and keep you away; told you harrowing stories and showed you the daunting realities of Zaun. She’d walked you through the slums of the place, let you see the true living conditions. True, it was a lifetime different than Piltover. Also true, you now understood the shallowness of calling such a place ‘fun’. You’d seen the truth now, and it almost made you want to make a change. She’d succeeded in making you want to stay away from the undercity entirely.

Just not her.

Of course it wasn’t anything either of you had planned or foreseen; The random attraction that you just knew was mutual. Of course attraction wasn’t enough to put a label on it, but you figured when she became your unofficial guide of the Undercity that it was enough to be called acquaintances.

The first few nights were cautious. Going directly against her orders, as she’d called it, she’d caught you sneaking through the Undercity again. She figured she’d just let you wonder around and probably get mugged or whatever. But she couldn’t— and against her better judgment, she chaperoned you.

Sevika didn't trust you— why would she? What sort of a pea brained Piltie would come down here? For fun, at that? She kept her distance, watching you as you wandered the undercity with the wonder of someone who had never known hardship. You’d asked questions, not just about Zaun but about her: her arm, her life, her thoughts. Sevika answered sparingly at first, her natural suspicion at war with a growing amusement at your audacity.

But you kept coming back, and Sevika found herself drawn to you stubbornness. Unlike most Pilties, you weren't trying to fix anything or impose your ideas of progress. You just wanted to understand. Over time, Sevika began to meet you intentionally, waiting at the same spot every night after her work was done.

She took you deeper into Zaun, showing you places most outsiders never saw: the hidden workshops where discarded scraps became innovation, the quiet corners where people found moments of joy amid the chaos. In return, the you shared snippets of your life in Piltover-stories of rigid expectations and a yearning for freedom that resonated more with Sevika than she cared to admit.

Your relationship grew slowly, almost entirely against your wills. For you, Sevika was a stark contrast to the life you’d known: a life of politeness, restraint, and pretense. Sevika's blunt honesty and strength were intoxicating. For Sevika, you were a reminder that not all Piltover elites were heartless or blind to the suffering below.

Your connection deepened in secret. Meetings in shadowed alleys and hidden corners of Zaun, far from prying eyes. Sevika, ever the realist, tried to keep her guard up. "This is dangerous. For both of us," she would say.

But you were persistent. "Everything about my life is already decided for me," you whispered one night, your voice trembling. "This... you... it's the only thing that feels real."

Sevika knew the risks. She'd spent her life surviving in a world that crushed the weak. Falling for a Piltie—a woman whose family was arranging her marriage to a wealthy, ambitious topsider— was a vulnerability she couldn't afford.

And yet, Sevika couldn't stop herself.

She supposed if she’d treated you like the liability that you were this could’ve been avoided.

"Your folks are trying to get you with some preppy boy? Damn. Just imagine the look on his face when they tell him that their daughter's in love with some thug twice her age."

She’d joke about it a lot, but you could hear the insecurity behind her ‘joking’ words.

The arranged marriage loomed over you like a storm. Your parents saw you as nothing more than a pawn in their political games, and the marriage was meant to strengthen their position in Piltover's cutthroat hierarchy. It was a hard pill to swallow. You hated it, but defying them would mean losing everything; your family, your status, your safety.

Sevika would sneer at herself privately. How could she— hardened by years of betrayal and loss, find herself wanting something she’d never thought she deserved?

Love.

With a piltie… It left a bitter taste on her tongue.

"I could run away," She recalled you offering one night, laid up in her flat, voice filled with desperation. "Leave Piltover. Stay with you." But she shook her head. "You don't belong in Zaun, and I don't belong topside. Running won't change that. Not to mention," She sat up on one arm looking down at you, “You know what type of hell they’d raise down here if you go ‘missing’?” You bit your tongue at her words, and she’d avoided your gaze. The truth was painful.

The alley was partially quiet tonight, the only sound the soft hum of the dying streetlights. You should’ve known better than to come back here. Every trip to the Undercity felt like stepping further into a fire, knowing you were already too close to getting burned.

The streetlights above flickered in the distance, casting a pale glow that barely penetrated the smog-choked night air. You tugged your scarf tighter, feeling the weight of it—of the lies you’d told, the deceit. But your heart beat faster as you heard the sound of heavy boots crunching the metal beneath them, unmistakable even in the shadows.

“You’re late.”

Sevika’s voice broke through the silence, low and commanding. You hadn’t seen her yet, but you didn’t need to. You knew the sound of her voice, the sharpness that always lingered in it.

You turned slowly, your heart catching in your throat when you saw her silhouette leaning against the rusted wall. Her eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, locked onto yours with a gaze that was both predatory and possessive. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her stance confident and unyielding.

“I had to make sure no one followed me,” you said, your voice quiet, laced with the unease that always came with being here. Being with her. She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips curling up in a half-smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Do you think I’d let you get caught?” she asked, stepping forward, her presence commanding the space between you.

You stare at her with fond eyes; She’s was everything you weren’t supposed to want—strong, dangerous, and untouchable. She had a reputation that spread like wildfire through both cities, and you were well aware of the risks.

And yet, you’re drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

Her gaze softened, just for a second, and she reached out to gently push a strand of hair from your face. All of your reservations melted away. The rest of the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you.

“I hate that you come down here,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, a rare vulnerability creeping into her tone. “It’s dangerous… you’ve got no business in this place.”

You took a step closer, the pull between you undeniable. “I don’t care about that. I need to be here. I need to see you.” Her eyes darkened, and her breath caught for a moment before she let out a low chuckle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Piltover. If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t.” You reached for her hand, your fingers brushing the cold metal of her prosthetic, the touch both thrilling and unsettling. “I trust you.”

Sevika’s gaze flickered to your hand before meeting your eyes. There was a long pause, the air between you charged with something unspoken. Then, in a move that was both tender and possessive, she pulled you closer.

“You shouldn’t.” she murmured, her voice a low growl. “Not in this place. Not when you have everything to lose.”

“But I do,” you whispered, your lips brushing against hers. “I trust you with everything.”

She hesitated, and for a moment, you thought she might pull away, that she might remember the boundaries that should never have been crossed. But instead, her hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was raw and desperate—filled with the months of unspoken longing and defiance.

The kiss was everything you both had been hiding. Everything you both knew you could never have. The danger, the risk, the lie of it all, wrapped in the heat of her lips, the fierceness of her touch.

When she pulled back, her chest rose and fell with the same unsteady breath you were trying to catch. She pressed her forehead against yours, her metal arm resting at your waist as she held you close.

“You’re a fool,” she said softly. “This can’t go anywhere. You know that, right?”

You nodded, your fingers tracing the edge of her leather coat. “I know. But I don’t care.”

She chuckled darkly, though there was something softer in her gaze now—something that, for the first time, made her look almost vulnerable. “We’re both fools then,” she said quietly, before kissing you again, deeper this time, as though sealing a pact neither of you could break.

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[esouliie]

everything comes out, teenage petulance ⋆⟡˖

– synopsis | someone from wanda’s past interrupts your saturday morning and you’re not happy about it. wanda, however…

– warnings | angst, hurt/comfort, age gap couple, reader is younger & inexperienced and with that comes✨ emotional immaturity✨ but wanda is *chefs kiss* at giving reassurance :3

– notes | not proof read but the writing is rough!!! but but but i tried to write the inexperienced reader in an age gap relationship with the concept of conflicting emotional maturity… and i hate it lol, the dialogue sucks ass :/ i wish i could write reader with better petulant teenager energy!

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and the soft hum of Wanda moving about the kitchen. Saturdays with her are your favorite, a break from the routine of the week. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. Wanda's voice floated in from the other room.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," her tone gentle and affectionate. "I've made us some coffee."

You stretched and yawned, making your way to the kitchen where Wanda stood by the counter, her eyes twinkling as she hands you a mug. You took a sip, savoring the rich flavor of your favourite Colombian blend, overloaded with the insurmountable amount of sugar and cream she put in. Usually, she complains about how you take your coffee - constantly complaining how your daily sugar intake was enough to knock out an elephant - but she knew you wouldn’t drink coffee any other way.

And you needed coffee.

"Thanks, Wands," you mumbled as you smiled up at her, noticing her nose scrunch as she mimicked your smile. She's a few years older than you, and she wore it with pride. She was confident in herself, there was never a time she felt insecure about her age, and the most emotionally intelligent person you’ve ever met. In the beginning of your relationship, all of your “arguments” ended with healthy communication from Wanda’s side whereas you’d close up like a clam, refusing to talk or fight or even run away. You’d just switch off. And so, her maturity and confidence used to make you feel a bit self-conscious. But every day was better, because you have an excellent teacher who loves you endlessly.

You and all your emotional problems.

"Ready for our walk?" she asked, reaching for the leash. "Lucky's been waiting all week."

You nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. Let's go."

You both had been watching Lucky for the past couple weeks. Your bestfriend - Kate Bishop - had recently gone to Russia to visit her girlfriend’s parents. You were all for it, an exciting buzz had followed you the whole upcoming week. Wanda was a bit unsure at first, having never owned a dog, she wasn’t sure how to take care of it, but you reassured you had enough experience for the both of you.

The park was just a short walk from your house, and as you stepped outside, the crisp morning air filled your lungs. Lucky, the exuberant golden retriever, darted ahead, his tail wagging furiously, but never too far away from you both. The park was alive with people and their pets, the sound of laughter and conversation mingling with birdsong. Children ran across the grass, their gleeful shouts echoing through the trees.

Wanda took your hand, her fingers warm against yours. "It's such a beautiful day," she said, her eyes scanning the park. "Perfect for a walk."

This week had been especially busy for both of you. Wanda had been tirelessly working as the director of her own gallery, a lifelong dream that she had finally realised after months of dedication and effort. Meanwhile, you were preparing for your finals, which meant spending countless hours holed up in the library or Wanda's home office. As a result, the past few days you had seen very little of each other, making the rare moments like this morning even more precious.

You hummed in agreement and squeeze her hand, feeling a rush of affection for the blonde. “Here! You take this!” She offered, handing you Lucky’s ball in exchange for his lead.

Just then, before you could run off to play fetch, someone called out, "Wanda!" Her grip on your hand immediately loosened, and she dropped it, stepping a few steps away. You turned to see an older man - his mousy brown hair styled neatly with a suit jacket over his arm - approaching with a skip in his step.

There was no ring on his finger.

"Wanda, is that really you?" he asked, a broad smile spreading across his face , showing a bit too much teeth for you, as he hugged her warmly. You almost rolled your eyes as they rocked side to side in their embrace, shared laughter floating between them.

As fucking if.

“Vis! It’s been ages.” Wanda is the first to pull away, and yet her arms are still wrapped around his biceps. Your eye twitched as you notice her brush her fingers along the stretched fabric.

You stood there awkwardly. The pair fell into easy conversation as if they were ex lovers or something, and you waited for an introduction that never came. Their voices became a distant murmur as you drifted away from the conversation, your attention returning to Lucky, who was no longer by your side, and who was dangerously close to the pond, trying to reach the ducks with his snout.

“Lucky! Leave the ducks alone!” You called, grabbing his lead from Wanda’s, albeit loose grip, hurrying over towards the dog who was either ignoring you or hyper-fixated on reaching those ducks.

You’re not sure what happened next. You either spooked Lucky out of his trance or he really was being an ass today, but as soon as you got close enough to clip his lead to his collar, he spun on his back legs, knocking into you and zooming away. You stumbled, your balance slipping as you flailed to stay upright. With a yelp, you tumbled down, your body hitting the muddy bank. Your leg splashed into the water, soaking your entire leg. Wet and cold, you scrambled to stand up but a sharp pain shooting through your ankle had you sinking back on to the bank, before you managed to pick yourself up on your good leg. Tears from the pain and embarrassment blurred your vision as you looked down at the state of you. Your pretty dress Wanda had picked out for you this morning was coated in mud and all sorts of dirt. You watched in grimace as pond water dripped out of your shoe as you moved away from the scene of the crime.

Remembering you weren’t alone, and your girlfriend had probably seen the dog wipe you out, you searched for Wanda, only to find her still with her “old friend.” In fact, they seem to have moved over towards a spare bench as you noticed how close they were sat next to each other. Turned towards one another, their arms were basically brushing. Wanda had laughed at something Vis had said as she threw her head back, almost falling backwards until he grabbed onto her, pulling her closer towards him.

The sight made your stomach churn. Anger swirled in a violent revenge inside, and yet, it was sadness that slipped down your face. You felt a burning sensation in your chest and a lump forming in your throat.

All you wanted to do was go home.

A mother and her young daughter who had watched you fall made their way over to you, the question already posed in the way she looked at you. “Are you alright?”

Your teary eyes shifted back to the bench. Still lost in conversation, you watched and waited, wondering what it was they were talking about, wondering if she had even noticed you’re hurt.

But it’s clear she hadn’t seen you fall… or maybe she just forgot you were even here.

“I’m fine.” You replied, but your eyes deceived you.

The woman followed your gaze, “Oh! Are they your parents?”

You scoffed but there wasn’t any bite to it, and fresh tears rolled off your face, “No.”

You began to hobble forward, in search of Lucky but the stranger was one step ahead of you. She grabbed onto your arm, claiming you shouldn’t put your weight on your injured ankle, as she sent her daughter ahead looking for Lucky. She found him in no time, on the other side of the pond, no longer trying to reach the ducks but sat watching them.

You called for him, and without a fuss, he came. You clipped him to his lead, as he stared up at you curiously. He seemed to sense your distress and was suddenly still, looking up at you with a sorrowful expression, as if he understood the part he had played in this. Before you could return to full height, he leaned his head into yours. His actions saying a thousand words, and you couldn’t help but smile at the pup, giving him a little scratch. “It’s okay, bud. I know you didn’t mean to.”

Meeting the concerned mother’s gaze, you pointed towards Wanda, “I’m just gonna…” You trailed off but she understood, turning away with a genuine “get well soon”, instructions to ice your ankle as soon as you get home, and her daughter in hand. With that, she turned in the opposite direction, heading back towards where you fell.

You walked in the other direction, deciding to go around Wanda. You didn’t want to see her right now. Noticing the park exit in sight, Lucky dragged on his lead, trying to turn back the way you came.

“No, Lucky. We’re going home.” You ushered him through the gates, “She can stay here with him.”

A shout caught your attention. Behind you, Wanda was walking - almost running - towards you. The man was nowhere in sight. “Y/N! Where did you go? Why are you leaving?” You noticed a tinge of frustration in her voice, but that was dropped as soon as she took in your soaked state. “What happened?”

“Oh so you did remember I was here.” With that, you turned and walked away as fast as your ankle would let you.

“What-?” You heard Wanda struggle for words behind you before she caught up, her hand grabbing your cold, still - damp arm. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“You would know if you weren’t so impressed by your boyfriend back there.” You spat, shrugging off any hold she had on you.

She grabbed your arm again, firmer this time. “He’s not my boyfriend. His name’s Vision. We went to school together. I haven’t seen him in years.”

Her tone remained the same soft melody, despite the obvious frustration earlier.

You remained silent, scoffing in reply, as you tried to walk away, but she stopped you again, turning you around to face her.

Her warm hands held your cheeks, forcing you to make eye contact. “Hey, what’s really wrong?”

Her gaze softened, concern evident, and you felt tears pooling again as you fought within yourself, torn between letting go of your anger or clinging to it like petulant teenager.

“Don’t shut me out. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You forgot about me,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears streamed down your face. She wiped at them and a hum encouraged you to continue.

“You dropped my hand, and was talking to that guy so much, you didn’t even know I was still there. Lucky was acting up, so I went to get him, and I fell in the pond. My ankle really hurts, I think I sprained it, and I’ve ruined my dress and—” A sharp sob cut you off as your emotions overwhelmed.

Sensing your distress, Wanda pulled you into her arms. “It’s okay, baby,” she consoled softly, her voice remaining gentle and soothing.

Being in Wanda's arms usually helped you calm down. The warmth of her embrace and the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed steadily would bring you a sense of peace. You would listen to her heartbeat, syncing your breath to its comforting rhythm, as her presence soothe your worries away.

However your anger surged, unable to latch onto a single thing as it flailed wildly. You pushed back against her chest, but she didn’t let go. "No, don't baby me! You forgot about me! I fell into a pond, and you weren't even there to help. A stranger did, Wanda. A fucking stranger cared more about me than my own girlfriend because she was too busy with some fucking guy!"

Her grip tightened slightly as she whispered, a juxtaposed effort to your loud volume, “I know, and I’m so sorry.” But you were too upset to care, your hurt and frustration drowning out her words of apology. You tried to close down on yourself, shielding away from the pain.

“Wanda, let go of me,” you said, hands pushing against her as your voice trembled with the effort to hold back the flood of emotions.

“No,” Wanda replied firmly, her eyes searching yours. “Tell me how you feel.”

“I already told you! ” Her persistence had you shouting again, the walls you were trying to build around your heart crumbled. Tears welled up in your eyes as your throat closed up as you started to sob uncontrollably. Frantic images of Wanda on the bench with the man flashed through your mind, tormenting you. You wiped at your face desperately, but the tears kept coming, a torrent of pain, betrayal and immeasurable grief.

“You acted like I didn’t exist,” you choked out between sobs. “It was like you were ashamed of me.”

Wanda’s eyes widened, not expecting that to be your response. “I’m not ashamed of you.” She said, her voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t know why I dropped your hand or why I didn’t introduce you as my girlfriend. It was a mistake and I’m so sorry.” Her own tears began to pool, her sorrow evident.

“I could never be ashamed of you, Y/N.”

She pulled you into a tight embrace, tears falling on top of your head as she whispered a few more apologies, and a promise to do better, to never make you feel invisible again or doubt her love for you.

“I want to go home.” You whispered, with a defeated energy.

Wanda remained unconvinced, though she understood your struggle. She had been tirelessly encouraging you to be more open about your feelings, and she had seen you make significant progress. However, she knew that progress wasn’t linear. Despite your improvements since you first started dating, she anticipated the occasional bad day. Recognising that this conversation wasn't suited for a public setting, Wanda shifted the focus. “I think Lucky does too,” she said softly, nodding towards the enthusiastic dog at your side.

You followed her gaze to Lucky, who was wagging his tail so energetically - despite the tense conversation he had just been present in- it seemed he might take off at any moment. “Okay, boy. Let’s go,” you said, giving him the command he was eagerly awaiting.

As the golden retriever began to trot down the street, you turned to the older woman. “I’m sorry, Wands.” The weight of those few words lingered in the air, before you felt a gentle squeeze on your hand as Wanda had intertwined her fingers with yours, her grip reassuring and steadfast. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

She didn't let go the entire way, and once again, her presence was a silent promise of growth, support and understanding as you made your way home together.

[petriwriting]

Amortentia - Theodore Nott X Reader

Summary: Learning about amortentia in class

“And with the correct blend of ingridients, does anyone know what is created?” Professor snape asks in his brass tone. A hufflepuff girl raises her hand very hesitantly. “Yes?” He points to to the girl with a gesture. “It’s a live potion.” She says tenderly. “Correct.” Snape retorts, before awarding hufflepuff house a whole 5 points.

You and Theo are standing next to each other, curiously gazing at the cauldron that’s emitting a pink glow very curiously. “The two of you,” professor snape gestures again. You and Theo are first in disbelief, but then you each step forward. “One at a time, I want you to lean forward and describe to me the distinct scent of this potion.” He says.

“Yes professor,” you say. “I’ll go first.” Theodore says. She leans forward into the cauldron, and a pleasant scent fills his senses. “It’s like,” he pursed his lips in thought before continuing. “Lavendar… Cloves, and fresh rain.” He says finally.

“Very well, your turn ms/mr L/N.”

You step forward just has Theodore had, and take a moment to inhale. “. . .It’s warm, it smells like a campfire, cedar… and lemongrass, old books, tobacco.” It was an odd but unique mix that was comforting, familiar almost.

“Does anyone know why Mr. Nott and Mr/Ms L/N are picking up these particular scents?” Professor snape asks. Expecting someone to answer. You step forward after a bit of awkward silence. For a brilliant potions master, he could sure be intimidating sometimes. You could recall from this last lecture; “The scents are whatever the person thinks to be attractive or alluring.” You explain. Professor snape nods. “Excellent.” He cooes.

Your house is awarded 10 points. The remainder of the class felt like a blur, you were tired less engaged during the second half of the class, though when dismissed you were finally able to sigh in relief.

Theodore, whom had been your best friend since your first year noticed the shift in your mood. “You okay?” He says, packing his satchel with his potion making tools for class, his textbook and notes. “Yeah, just tired is all.” You said quietly, gathering your things as well.

“Maybe you can get some rest this afternoon then.” Theodore offered gently. He had always been kind to you in that way. “Maybe.” You lean back putting your hands on the table, brushing theo’s hand which was already there.

Although this was an accident you felt a jolt of energy and your heart began to race. The busy classroom died down until it was just the two of you standing there in an empty classroom. He didn’t move his hand. You smiled softly.

He caught your eyes, his gaze was soft and he slowly leaned in, taking a auick peek at your lips. You did the same until your faces were inches apart.

You would have totally kissed. If it were the poor kid who forgot his book who came back into the classroom. You each pulled away slightly as the student uttered a quick “so sorry.” And rushed back outside.

You and theo chuckled. You liked being so close to him. You could smell that funny scent from the potion from the first part of class start to fill your senses, campfire… cedar… lemongrass… old books… tobacco. You brushed it off, thinking maybe it was some coincidental thing. Or a mind trick. But professor snap had did away with the cauldron and the concoction already… it was strange. You were rattled in thoughts.

“Well, I ought to get going.” Theodore said. “Meet me outside common room tonight, 8 O’clock, and we’ll chat then. Yeah?” He offered. You were still enamored with yourself. “Yeah, Yeah that sounds great.”

“I’ll see you then.” Theodore said slowly making his way away. It took you a few seconds before you realized what was happening. The scent was there when you were about to kiss him, it wasn’t just the cauldron.. and you thought back to when you had answered professor snape. It hit you all at once in a sudden moment, you facepalmed and laughed in disbelief at yourself. It’s smells like whatever is attractive for you, it smells like someone you love… And you were in love, oh Merlin were you in love.

What you did not consider, was what Theodore was thinking. And how you were wearing lavender and clove scented perfume that day.

[navybrat817]

What do we think of a pining Bucky who isn't good at flirting anymore?

I love that idea, nonnie.

Bucky who is trying to get his bearings after everything and seeing you brings so much comfort to his life. You're patient and accepting. Just a good person. And you're so beautiful to him. One of the most beautiful people he has ever laid eyes on.

But he has a tendency to stare a little bit too long and doesn't exactly look away when you catch him. The old him would've said something charming, but the current him just continues to stare. Sometimes gives you an awkward smile in return. It's kind of sweet though, especially when he cringes before he looks away.

Bucky who wants to spend more time with you and finds excuses to hang out or linger nearby. You're so easy to talk to and listen to and don't seem to mind his company. It's nice that you want him around, especially when so many others want your attention.

But it creates another awkward moment when he laughs at a joke you make... to someone else. Both of you turn to look at him and he can't come up with an excuse for why he's eavesdropping because he wasn't even supposed to be there. How can he blend in so easily in any other situation, except for when it comes to you? You're nice enough to give him a soft smile when he salutes you and walks away. He wants to kick his own ass for that because he. Saluted. You.

Bucky who sees you talking to another guy one day and he once again lingers nearby. Are you attracted to him? Is he funny? Does it treat you well? He blurts out, "So, are you seeing him or something?" when the guy walks away. He looks a little relieved and a bit too eager when you say not only are you not seeing the guy, but you're single. Now's the perfect opportunity to ask you out, right?

But instead of taking a chance, he says, "That's great that you're single. Really great." He can feel the cheek tic the moment the words leave his mouth. At least he doesn't salute you this time when your brows furrow, but he quickly takes his leave again and groans once he's far enough away. He's an idiot.

Bucky who is happy you're still talking to him despite him being him and tries to surprise you one by making your favorite meal. He's so careful, checking the recipe multiple times to get it just right. He even manages a relaxed smile when he sees you and proudly holds up dish. "Heard this was your favorite, so I wanted to surprise you."

But almost like he's watching in slow motion, his super soldier reflexes can't stop him from dropping the meal right at your feet. His eye twitches when he realizes the food splashed on your shoes and legs. Neither of you speak and you hardly react. "I'm so sorry," he finally says. The sadness that takes over your eyes is enough for him to deflate. "I'm fucking hopeless around you," he mutters before grabbing something to clean it up, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

Bucky who doesn't understand why he can't just have this one thing go right. All he wants to do is be with you and be good to you. If you give him a chance... But why would you since he keeps making an ass out of himself? At least Steve and Sam don't witness any of his fumbling when it comes to you.

But his hope renews when you crouch to help him clean up the mess. The hope grows when you smile at him, his heart and stomach twisting in tight knots. "It's okay, Bucky. I'm sorry I didn't get to try it, but I'm sure it was delicious," you say, your hand touching his. He longs to feel you touch him again. "Maybe we can make it together sometime? If you'd like," you offer.

Bucky who isn't sure he heard you correctly even with his excellent hearing. Who says "Yes!" a little too loudly once the words register and makes you giggle when he pinches himself. He can't help himself. He has to make sure he isn't dreaming. And he hopes when you two make that meal together he can convince you to go on a date with him.

Awkwardness and all.

Our poor awkward Bucky. I kind of love him. What other awkward shenanigans can he get up to? Love and thanks! ❤️

[pucksandpower]

Lessons in Anatomy

Charles Leclerc x medical student!Reader

Summary: studying can be hard … good thing your boyfriend is more than happy to let you get some hands-on experience

You let out a heavy sigh as you flip through the anatomy textbook in front of you. As a first year medical student, you’ve been spending most late nights recently trying to memorize every muscle, nerve, and blood vessel in the human body.

Lately you’ve been completely absorbed in learning about the upper limbs — the shoulders, arms, hands and fingers — and it’s all starting to blend together.

Closing the textbook, you stand up and stretch your arms above your head, feeling the pull in your deltoids and biceps. You’ve read so much about the muscles, it might help to actually palpate and feel where they are on your own body.

You lift your right arm out to the side until it’s parallel with the floor, palm facing down. Gently, you place your left hand on your right deltoid and feel the round contour of the muscle. You trace your fingertips along the borders, visualizing how the muscle attaches on the humerus bone.

“What are you doing?”

You jump at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice behind you. Lost in thought, you didn’t hear him come home.

“Oh, I’m just, uh, palpating my deltoid muscle,” you say sheepishly as you drop your arm back to your side. “Trying to get a feel for where the muscles actually are.”

Charles grins, his bright green eyes twinkling with amusement at finding you in such an odd pose. “My talented girlfriend, always studying so hard,” he says.

You can’t help but smile back at him. The two of you met in school years ago, long before Charles became an F1 driver and your life became a whirlwind of travel, media attention, and hardly getting to see each other when coupled with your own studies. Moments like this — relaxed, easy, normal — have become few and far between.

Charles walks over to you and surprises you by taking your hand and placing it onto his upper arm.

“Here, feel mine instead so you don’t have to contort yourself,” he offers. “I’ll be your anatomy model.”

You laugh lightly and begin palpating the hard, defined muscles of his arm through his thin t-shirt. You locate the boundaries of his deltoid, impressed by the athletic development.

“Very nice delts,” you say teasingly.

“Why thank you, I work out sometimes,” Charles replies with a cheeky wink.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your smile. His playful arrogance is one of the things you love most about him.

Slowly, you map out the contours of his shoulder, mentally labeling the muscles — supraspinatus, infraspinatus, teres minor. Charles watches your focused expression with affection.

“How’s it going so far?” He asks. “Am I a good model?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmur absently, engrossed in your exploration.

You move down his arm, wrapping your hands gently around his biceps. You note the two distinct heads of the muscle.

“Can you flex for me?” You ask professionally.

Charles obliges, flexing his bicep and causing it to bulge up under your hands.

“Excellent, thank you,” you say, impressed by the muscle definition. Your fingers drift down his arm to his forearm, tracing the brachioradialis.

You are hyperaware of Charles’ eyes following your every movement. There’s an intimacy to having your hands on him like this that makes your heart beat faster. You try to remain focused, but with him standing so close, his warmth radiating onto you, it’s difficult to think clinically.

When you take his hand in yours, turning it palm up to examine the tendons along his wrist and fingers, you’re struck by its elegant beauty.

His hands may spend most days encased in racing gloves, but they still hold such graceful strength and capability. You find yourself tenderly tracing along the lines of his palm, the indentation at the base of each finger.

You look up to see Charles watching you, his expression soft and affectionate. Impulsively, you lift his hand to your lips and place a kiss along his knuckles. His eyes widen slightly in surprise before he smiles.

“I don’t think that’s part of the medical curriculum,” he says, his voice low.

You grin. “Just conducting some independent research.”

Charles lifts his other hand to lightly trace his fingertips along your jawline, leaving a trail of tingles along your skin.

“Well in that case, I think you need to continue your in-depth examination,” he murmurs.

Your pulse quickens as his fingers trail down your neck and along your collarbone. Gently, he turns you around so your back is to him and sweeps your hair over one shoulder. You shiver pleasantly at the feeling of his hands gliding along the slopes of your shoulders.

“It’s important to know the trapezius muscle,” he says close to your ear. His fingers skim down from the base of your neck, tracing the borders of the trapezius down toward your shoulder blades. You close your eyes, focusing on the sensation.

“Mmm yes, very important,” you breathe.

His hands span across your upper back, gently kneading into the muscle. You let out an appreciative sigh, the tension you’ve been carrying in your back dissolving under his touch.

Charles places a kiss to the curve of your neck as his hands work their way down your spine, counting each vertebrae.

“The vertebral column is quite elegant, don’t you think?” He murmurs against your skin. You hum in agreement, eyes still closed.

When his hands come to rest just above your waist, your breath catches in anticipation. His touch is driving you crazy but you don’t want him to stop.

Slowly, he slides his hands around your waist to your stomach, splaying his fingers possessively across your abdomen. He pulls your back against his chest until no space remains between you.

“How am I doing as your study partner?” He asks, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

“Mmm, top of the class,” you reply a little breathlessly.

He grins against your skin. “Maybe we should move this study session somewhere more comfortable.”

You turn around to face him, draping your arms lazily around his neck. “I’ll have to clear my schedule. My boyfriend’s this really busy, important Formula 1 driver, you know.”

Charles smiles, leaning in close until his nose brushes yours. “I think he can make time for you.”

He closes the remaining distance, bringing his mouth to yours in a kiss that curls your toes. You melt into him, all thoughts of anatomy and studying dissolving from your mind.

In this moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other. The chaos of life fades away and you’re reminded why you endure the challenges of his demanding career.

Because at the end of the day, you have this — your love, steadfast and true. The rest of the world falls away and you’re home.

[thedemises]

——— A BITE OF LOVE。 ★ jiaoqiu.

note; og idea — the idea of feeding your partner food & kissing them over the pots is so beautiful n intimate I wanna cry /j

“say, ‘aaah’ ,” a spoon was brought over to where your lips are, a red liquid emitting a spicy yet delicious scent into the air enters your nostrils. even while you're reading, jiaoqiu always has an excuse to make you his taste testee for his new dish.

“mhmm,”

your eyes still remain focused on your own business as you obediently open your lips for him to push the spoon into your mouth, the splash of hot flavor hits your tongue as you savour the tasty soup your partner had provided you to taste — of course, he made sure to blow on the spoon for you beforehand.

although it tasted as it was you expected from his excellent culinary skills, despite being a healer (“using food to treat my patients is my specialty, y'know,” is what you recall him saying a while ago), something was off; a missing element perhaps.

“well?” his large, furry tail sways behind him while jiaoqiu anticipated for your awaiting response, eyes shut with a smile and scheme in his heart, he knows how honest you can be with your feedback — which is why he deems you best when it comes to tasting his spices and whatnot, or anything in general; if you will.

even though your eyes were trained on something else at the moment, you still paused to make the effort to share your thoughts on jiaoqiu's soup.

“it just needs a pinch of salt, but it still tastes as exceptional as you are.” you remarked just as you slowly turned a page, your eyes flickering from the book to settle on jiaoqiu, unintentionally giving him a chance to lean in and press a chaste kiss on the lips.

it felt like a second too long but he pulled away just as quickly as it came, chuckling a bit at your taken aback expression.

“thank you,” and just like that, jiaoqiu swiftly leaves your area with a satisfactory look on his face. his tail swaying behind him while he makes his exit out of the room.

you stare dumbfounded from where he just left; the flavoring of pepper, paprika, chili powder, and other constituents still lingers on your tongue like an unforgettable, pungent aroma.

subsequently that same day, jiaoqiu had called you over to help him prepare rations for his patients. despite your initial confusion, you still agreed to help either way — to help others is something you like to do, occasionally.

“here, see if you like this,” jiaoqiu, yet again, calls you over as he motions for you to try something he’s eager for you to taste. of course you can't say no — although you're busy mixing something in one of the pots and the two of you are just a few feet apart in the kitchen — you faced your body towards him and moved forwards. you notice him offering something that seems to have filling of some sorts, it looks delicious too that you can't seem to resist... well, it's jiaoqiu; anything he makes is very appetizing.

with an eager bite, the treat yielded to your teeth, releasing a burst of flavor that spread across your tongue. the creamy filling mingled with the crisp outer layer, creating a harmonious blend that made you hum with delight. the contrasting textures and tastes melded together perfectly, creating a delicious explosion on your palate. you hum in delight, expressing your visible contentment.

“mm, that's good.”

you comment, gazing back at jiaoqiu with a smile and he smiles back; satisfied with your reaction as he settles the treat to the side on a plate.

“I think your food's trying to escape—it's on your face,” the foxian chuckles as he points out the small mess you had on the side of your mouth, where a smudge of filling lingers as you savor the last bites of the treat. you murmur a small ‘oh,’ and your hand reaches to wipe it off for yourself.

then, with a quick motion, jiaoqiu swipes the smudge of filling from your face onto his finger before you could. pausing for a moment, he brought it to his lips and licked it right off.

“mm...” he lets out a noise of consideration, a playful glint in his eyes as he savors the flavor. “... delicious.”

the peach foxian whispers and leans in, pressing a brief yet tender kiss to the corner of your mouth where the smudge had been, a fleeting act of affection that lingers longer in your heart than on your skin. without a word, he steps away, returning to whatever task had called him, as if the moment was as natural as breathing.

for a heartbeat, the world feels suspended, the gentle warmth of his gesture radiating through you. it’s only the soft bubbling of the soup in the pot that pulls you back to reality, your hand resuming its stirring almost instinctively. though your thoughts remain adrift, you can't help replaying the sweetness of the moment in your head.

© thedemises 2024. do not feed to ai, copy, steal, rewrite, or claim as your own. I will hunt you down for my sake.

[emchant3d]

siren steve and pirate eddie, part 2 pt 1

Steve heals slowly.

He’s irritable and restless, bedridden, and he doesn’t have the strength in his injured tail to support himself if he were to be tossed back into the ocean.

The crew helps him to the deck for a change of scenery and some sunshine - he seems more settled when he can hear the waves and feel the sun on his skin. He’s less snappish, at least, those sharp teeth tucked away behind his pink lips instead of bared in Eddie’s direction.

Eddie had panicked briefly about how much saltwater Steve needs, and he’d rolled his eyes at him. “Keep it near and I’ll be fine,” he tells him. “Half human remember?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “but the fish part is looking a little dry, sweetheart.” 

Steve slaps him with a tail fin.

He finds himself spending most days with the Mer. Part of it is pure fascination - it’s difficult to not want to spend time around a story come to life. And if he neglects his duties as Captain a little, well - that’s what his crew is for.

Slowly, he pulls more from Steve. He finds out what caused his injuries - “the deep holds a lot of creatures that like the taste of Mer,” he tells him. “I swam right into a nest. By the time I realized, they already had me by the throat and were dragging me to the seabed.”

“Gods,” Eddie murmurs, and Steve hums in agreement. “Evil little things. Razor sharp claws and teeth, and their tails are like whips. They move in schools, so if there’s one, there’s dozens others.”

He speaks of these kinds of creatures so casually, monsters that have worked their way into human lore and others that are unknown to them, but the idea of them still makes Eddie’s skin crawl.

It’s like Steve has a sixth sense for his discomfort. He’s lounging in a long basin Freak and Jeff put together, a shallow amount of salt water in it to keep him comfortable, and he rolls his head to the side, peering up at Eddie.

“They probably wouldn’t turn down a human, either,” he muses, dragging those unnervingly deep eyes up and down him, “but your little lungs wouldn’t survive that deep down, so you’re probably fine.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie snorts, and Steve breaks into a laugh.

As friendly as they’re becoming, Eddie knows Steve still doesn’t fully trust him. He’s excellent at reading people - he knows when someone is keeping secrets, and Steve is locked tight.

He doesn’t blame him. He knows it’s difficult to believe Eddie’s help doesn’t come with strings, and he catches Steve watching him and his crew sometimes, tense and on edge as if he’s waiting for someone to lash out at him.

Eddie hates it. But he doesn’t know how to settle him, not fully, and so maybe the solution is to craft those strings he’s looking so hard to find. Let him find what he’s looking for, but show him that they aren’t as bad as he’s built them up to be in that pretty head of his.

“So what other gifts are you blessed with, Highness?” he asks one cloudy day, the sky gloomy and overcast. A little rain won’t hurt them, but he’s hoping the darker clouds on the horizon will dissipate before they reach them and upend a true storm.

“Divination,” Steve says like he’s bored, and Eddie’s head whips around to stare at him. Steve holds his gaze, his own a little hooded, and he yawns softly.

“What,” Eddie asks flatly. Steve waves a hand dismissively. 

“Just about the ocean,” he says, like that isn’t still one of the most incredible things Eddie’s ever heard. “I can tell when danger’s near. When something isn’t quite right. Whole lot of good it did me,” he snorts, glancing down at his scarred torso.

The bandages have been removed, and pink skin is healing slowly where there used to be gaping wounds. His tail is faring much the same, scales missing from where he’d been bitten and ripped at, but the new flesh is beginning to blend in with the bright shades of his lower half.

“Everything was dangerous down there, I just tried to pick the safest option. I’m still pretty sure I chose right.” Eddie frowns. “You were almost eaten alive,” he says, can’t help it, and Steve cuts him a lazy smile.

“Almost,” he repeats, and Eddie supposes that’s an answer.

He takes a breath, calms his heart, and tries to act like the Captain he is. “So, if you stuck around, you’d be able to tell me what I’m heading towards.” Steve closes his eyes and lets his head hang back, arms resting on the sides of the basin. 

“Yes.” A cloud sweeps over them, blocking the sun from shining on Steve’s face, casting him in shadows. “I could tell you if you were sailing into an ambush, or if the waters were acting up, or any number of other useful little tips that could keep you and your crew alive.”

“You’ve thought about this,” he says, and Steve snorts.

“Of course I have. I have no home. No family. Going alone almost got me killed. I’m pretty but I’m not dumb, Eddie.” He opens his eyes, fixing his gaze onto Eddie’s. “So how about we make a deal?” he offers, and Eddie grins.

It’s an easy negotiation. Steve wants freedom. He wants to see the world. And he wants safety while he does it. Eddie wants an advantage, wants to keep his crew safe, wants them to thrive in this difficult life they’ve chosen.

They shake on it. Steve moves lightning fast as their hands meet, a sharp claw nicking his own palm and then Eddie’s, making him hiss.

“Fuck–” he grunts. A burning sensation shoots through him from hand to chest, fire hot and searing. He gasps, fingers locked around Steve’s, who stares at him impassively. “What…?”

“You’ve made an oath with a Mer,” Steve says simply. “You’ll be held to your word, Captain Munson.”

Eddie pulls his hand away and looks at his palm. 

A black mark surrounds the cut from Steve’s claw, a swirling spiral that snakes from the center of his palm in three little loops. Steve holds his hand out without being asked, showing the matching mark on his own skin.

Eddie’s no stranger to ink and tattoos, but this is decidedly different. It hums with an ancient kind of magic, a connection that he doesn’t - can’t - understand. Something unnameable settles into his bones.

This is a test, he realizes. Or maybe it’s insurance. Either way, it’s something Steve felt necessary to take Eddie at his word, and so he won’t ask questions - not yet, at least.

“Well, I’ve had worse deals, I guess,” he says, and when he meets Steve’s eyes again, some of the caution has seeped out of them. 

Eddie’s sure there’s more to be found out about this creature in front of him, but contrary to popular belief, he can be patient when it counts. 

For now he’ll take what he’s offered - a wary friendship. A slow-growing understanding. And a certain type of care, of gentleness, that curls warm within him and grows with every smile and soft look that Steve throws his way.

part 3 coming soon 💕 no tag lists, sorry!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Gossip Is Currency

Prompt Day 21: Formal | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Canon Background Stancy | Tags: Missing Scene from S2's The Pollywog, Post-Halloween "Bullshit" Scene, Pre-Steddie, Platonic Hellcheer, School Sucks, Eddie Knows

This is cruel and unusual punishment. 

Eddie sits on the stupid folding chair, behind the stupid folding table, with a stack of tickets to sell to the winter formal. It was this or another suspension, and it was only because he was sure Wayne would not appreciate not having to talk to the principal again anytime soon, that Eddie chose this option.

They've got bubbly cheerleader Chrissy Cunningham sitting next to him controlling the money box that they definitely didn't trust him to be anywhere near, as they try to sell tickets to the kids still roaming around during extracurriculars.

Chrissy hasn't said anything to him after greeting him, and he hasn't said anything in return. They hung out once before, during a middle school talent show, but he doesn't expect that she remembers that.

Another shitty jock walks up.

"Two?" Chrissy asks.

"Yeah," the kid answers, and she takes the money, makes the change, and all Eddie has to do is hand over the two ticket stubs.

He resents it. 

It's stupid, it's–

"It's bullshit," he hears from down the hall.

Yeah, it's exactly that.

And hell's frozen over, if he agrees with King Steve.

Harrington's in some sort of heated debate with Wheeler as they stomp down the hallway, bickering back and forth. She's a fucking firebrand, that one. Everyone thinks she's a priss, but oh no, Eddie's studied this whole school long enough to know that's not even remotely true.

Harrington's gonna get knocked down a peg or two under her, and deservedly so.

Seeing them coming in his direction is at least interesting. Eddie tears off the two tickets and hands them over to Tweedle Dumb, and keeps watching the free show heading his way.

"Winter formal tickets?" Chrissy asks Harrington, and Jesus H. Christ, does she have no observation skills? Now is not the time. This is the time to blend into the wall so they can get the dirty fucking details on this fight. Gossip is currency.

Harrington turns to look at them, and shakes his head no. He looks more sad than mad, and that isn't near as fun. 

"Steve," Wheeler says, and she looks annoyed.

Harrington runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends, and then they're gone. 

Well, that was uneventful in the end. He didn't learn anything worth repeating.

Eddie had heard rumors of a Halloween night blow-up, but wasn't there to see it with his own eyes. Apparently they're still in a tiff today.

He can still hear the echo of them around the corner and down the hall, and well, he's nosey. It pays to know everything that's going on in this school.

"Be right back," Eddie says, and follows them down the hall, with the excuse that he's heading to the pop machine.

He digs four quarters out of his pocket, and pretends it's hard to make a decision, before hitting the Mellow Yellow button. The machine whirrs to life, and the can drops down. He feeds the other two quarters in, still trying to listen to Harrington and Wheeler fussing by the double-doors.

Eddie can't really decipher much besides hissing mumbles. Damn.

He presses another button without even really paying attention.

Welch's Grape Soda.

He might actually pick that over the Mellow Yellow he thought he originally wanted.

Harrington and Wheeler leave, so Eddie takes both cans back towards the table, holding them up, an offer, "You want?"

Chrissy smiles, "Really?"

Eddie nods, "You choose," he says, and she falters, just a bit, looking up at him like there might be a wrong answer.

There's no wrong answer here. No trick. He puts them both down on the table, "Totally fine either way."

She reaches for the grape, and is still looking his way. He nods, "Excellent choice," as he picks up the Mellow Yellow, and cracks open the can.

"Thanks, Eddie," she says, like he's given her something more than a can of pop. Carver's a bigger dick than he'd realized, apparently. 

They sit in silence, waiting for more kids to finish up with their stupid clubs and practices. 

The door clangs closed on the other end of the school, and they wait. It's Harrington again. He crosses the hall intersection in his little shorts, and Eddie can see that he's pinching his nose as he darts out of their line of sight as quickly as he entered.

Then it's just them, alone in the hallway again.

"She called him bullshit," Chrissy whispers.

Eddie turns and looks at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

She does.

"On Halloween. At Tina's party. She called him and his love bullshit. I heard it myself, waiting for the bathroom. She was drunk, not making sense about Barb Holland. It was pretty mean."

"No shit?" he asks, leaning closer. 

She nods, giving him a rundown of the whole party. She's got all the good gossip, not just about Harrington and Wheeler's dust up. Eddie feels a twinge of something. 

He's well acquainted with being shit on publicly.

Nobody's around this school, and Eddie gets up to go take a piss. He can't sit still. Hates it. And doing it for this is a special version of hell.

He walks down the hall, to the bathroom. He stands in front of the urinal, unzips and is pissing when he hears the stifled cough from behind him.

Eddie turns to look and sees familiar shoes under the stall door.

Tucking himself back in, re-zipping, he reaches over and flushes the urinal.

"Harrington," Eddie says. 

He waits and there's no response. 

"Harrington," he tries again.

"Go away, Munson," Harrington says, and then mumbles under his breath, "It's bullshit. I'm bullshit."

Eddie takes three steps towards the door, then impulsively turns back.

"She's wrong, you know? You're not bullshit."

And then Eddie waits a beat before adding, "You're just an asshole."

Steve chuckles, and Eddie smiles to himself as he turns and heads out the door.

Timing is everything. 

Mission accomplished.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

[ms-snape]

Can we do something platonic? Reader is a wallflower, basically almost all the time is in the sidelines and no one notices her, she’s accepted she’s not that bright or that pretty but snape notices she’s actually good at potions and in his own way tries to encourage her potential 

Title: Noticed

Warning: Plaronic relationships, a bit of angst, insecurity

Words Count: 2900+

Masterlist

---

Y/n had grown used to the way people never truly saw her. It was like living in a haze, watching life happen around her but never being a part of it. Day after day, she sat quietly in the back of classrooms, observing the way others interacted, laughing, whispering, and forming connections she knew she’d never be part of. No one looked twice at Y/n—not even once most of the time.

She wasn’t like the other girls at Hogwarts. She wasn’t pretty, or at least not in the way that people admired. Her hair didn’t catch the sunlight like golden threads, her eyes weren’t the kind that sparkled when she laughed (if she ever did), and her smile didn’t light up the room. In fact, she rarely smiled anymore. There wasn’t much to smile about.

Her grades were fine—never the top of the class, but she managed to stay afloat, drifting somewhere in the middle where she neither failed nor excelled. The professors didn’t call on her often, perhaps forgetting she was even there. It was fine. Y/n had learned to accept her place on the sidelines.

There was a dull, heavy ache that lived deep inside her, a quiet sadness that made her feel small and invisible, even in her own skin. She had stopped trying to stand out. What was the point? She wasn’t clever like Hermione Granger, who everyone admired for her intellect. She wasn’t as daring as the Gryffindors, or as cunning as the Slytherins. She wasn’t even as quirky as Luna Lovegood, who, though often teased, was at least memorable. Y/n was just… there.

She spent most of her time in the library, hidden behind towering shelves of dusty books. She could go entire days without speaking more than a few words. It was easier that way—easier to blend into the shadows, where no one could see how much it hurt to be invisible.

And then there was Potions class.

Y/n wasn’t sure what it was about Potions, but the quiet, methodical nature of the subject suited her. She liked the precision, the way each ingredient had its place and purpose. It was one of the few things she felt competent at, though she would never say she excelled. She followed the instructions, brewed her potions, and handed them in without a fuss. Professor Snape never paid much attention to her, which, in her mind, was a good thing. He was intimidating, with his sharp gaze and cutting words, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his infamous temper.

But then one day, something changed.

It was a particularly dreary Wednesday afternoon, the dungeon classroom colder than usual. Y/n had taken her usual seat at the back, her cauldron bubbling quietly in front of her. Today, they were brewing a particularly tricky potion, and though she had followed the instructions carefully, something wasn’t right. The mixture in her cauldron was a shade too dark, and the scent was off, a sharp tang that shouldn’t have been there.

She frowned, stirring the potion with a sense of growing frustration. It was always like this—she always got close, but never quite right. The other students seemed to manage just fine, their potions shimmering the exact color described in the textbook. But hers… hers was always almost right, always just a bit off. Just like her.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

The sound of her name startled her, the wooden spoon clattering against the side of her cauldron as she looked up. Professor Snape was standing beside her, his dark eyes fixed on her potion with an expression that could have been disgust or disappointment—she wasn’t sure.

“Are you incapable of following simple instructions?” he asked, his voice low and cold, the words like a blade sliding between her ribs.

Y/n felt her face flush with embarrassment, her throat tightening as she stared down at her hands. “I—I thought I was,” she mumbled, hating the way her voice wavered. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she braced herself for a scathing remark. But instead, he waved his wand, and the potion stilled. “The essence of wormwood was added too early,” he said, his tone brisk but not as harsh as she’d expected. “And you’ve allowed the fire to burn too hot.”

Y/n nodded mutely, feeling a fresh wave of disappointment wash over her. Of course, she’d messed it up. She always did.

Snape glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Try again,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “And pay attention to the process, not just the result.”

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise. He didn’t walk away. Instead, he stood there, waiting, as if he actually expected her to succeed. It was strange—no one had ever given her a second chance before. No one ever waited for her.

With trembling hands, Y/n began again, carefully adding each ingredient as Snape watched. She adjusted the flame, measuring the powdered asphodel with a precision that bordered on obsessive. This time, she didn’t rush, didn’t try to simply get through the motions. She focused on each step, feeling the rhythm of the potion as it began to brew properly, the color shifting to the soft, translucent silver it was meant to be.

For the first time, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time—pride. Small, tentative, but real. She glanced at Snape, half-expecting him to criticize her again, but instead, he gave a curt nod.

“Better,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind. “You have the capability. You simply lack the confidence.”

Y/n blinked in surprise. “Confidence?” she echoed, disbelief creeping into her voice.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “You doubt yourself at every turn, Miss Y/l/n. That is why you fail.”

His words stung, but not in the way she had expected. It wasn’t the sharp, cutting sting of insult, but the uncomfortable prickle of truth. She did doubt herself. Constantly. Every time she brewed a potion, every time she sat in class, every time she walked through the halls of Hogwarts, she felt like she wasn’t enough. Like she was nothing.

“But I—” She paused, unsure how to explain the weight she carried. “I’m just… not like the others.”

Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something different in his eyes now, something that almost resembled understanding. “The world does not require you to be like everyone else,” he said. “It requires you to be competent. And you are, if only you would believe it.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn’t know how to believe in herself. She had spent so long fading into the background, so long being unseen, that she didn’t know how to be anything else.

Snape must have sensed her hesitation because his tone shifted slightly, becoming less cold. “You are not as invisible as you believe, Miss Y/l/n. Some of us see more than we let on.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard him right. Not as invisible? It was impossible. How could someone like him—someone so brilliant and intimidating—even notice someone like her?

But there was no hint of sarcasm or cruelty in his voice. He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t trying to tear her down. He was simply stating a fact.

For the first time in a long time, Y/n felt a flicker of warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t enough to chase away the darkness that lingered in her heart, but it was something. It was a start.

Over the next few weeks, Y/n found herself paying more attention in Potions. She stayed behind after class sometimes, quietly cleaning her station while Snape graded papers or arranged ingredients for the next lesson. He never said much, but every now and then, he would glance her way and offer a terse comment, correcting her technique or advising her on how to improve.

It was strange, this new dynamic between them. Snape wasn’t exactly kind, but he wasn’t cruel either. He didn’t treat her like she was worthless, like she was just another faceless student. He noticed her. He saw her. And that alone was enough to keep her coming back, to keep her trying.

One afternoon, as she lingered in the dungeon long after the other students had left, Snape spoke again.

“You’ve improved,” he remarked, not looking up from the parchment he was grading.

Y/n, who had been tidying up her cauldron, froze. “I have?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do not sound so surprised, Miss Y/l/n. You are capable, as I’ve said before.”

She hesitated, her heart beating a little faster. “Why do you… care?”

It was a bold question, one she immediately regretted asking. But Snape didn’t seem offended. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, regarding her with those dark, penetrating eyes.

“I care,” he said slowly, “because I have no interest in seeing wasted potential.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and meaningful. Y/n swallowed, nodding slightly as she absorbed what he had said. For the first time in her life, someone had seen something in her. Something more than mediocrity.

As she left the dungeon that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The shadows that had once consumed her felt a little less suffocating. She wasn’t there yet—wasn’t whole, wasn’t healed—but maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so invisible after all.

---

Y/n’s days continued in much the same way after that, but something had shifted. She still sat in the back of her classes, still kept her head down in the halls, and still spent hours in the library with her nose buried in books. But there was a new sense of awareness that came with it all—a realization that, perhaps, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always believed.

In Potions class, that subtle connection with Snape continued. He never praised her directly, never showered her with compliments or made grand gestures of approval. But there were small moments—glances exchanged over bubbling cauldrons, a word of advice spoken in his curt, indifferent manner—that told her she was being watched, acknowledged, and, in his own way, encouraged.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Enough to make her feel like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as insignificant as she had always thought.

It was a rainy afternoon when everything came crashing down.

Y/n had been keeping her head above water for weeks now, but the constant weight of her isolation, the crushing sense of being unwanted and unnoticed, never fully went away. The little spark of hope that Snape had ignited in her didn’t banish the sadness that clung to her like a second skin. It didn’t erase the countless nights spent lying awake, wondering what was wrong with her, or the gnawing feeling in her chest that whispered she wasn’t enough.

That day, it all became too much.

The lesson had been going well—she had even managed to brew her potion correctly on the first try—but a small mishap had occurred near the end. Another student had bumped into her table, causing her cauldron to tip slightly, spilling part of her completed potion onto the floor. It was an accident, but it felt like an omen. One small mistake, one tiny moment of chaos, and everything fell apart.

“Careless,” Snape had muttered under his breath as he passed her table, not bothering to stop and inspect the damage. The word was a knife to her chest, sharper than it should have been. He hadn’t even looked at her.

Careless. It echoed in her mind long after class had ended, long after she had cleaned up the mess and left the dungeon. That one word, spoken so casually, was enough to undo the fragile sense of self-worth she had been building.

By the time she reached the solitude of the empty corridor, the tears were already falling. She hadn’t cried in weeks, not since she had first felt that spark of hope, but now it was back—the overwhelming sadness, the feeling of being so small, so insignificant, it felt like she was fading away entirely.

Y/n slipped into an abandoned classroom, the door creaking shut behind her as she sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. The tears came harder now, spilling down her cheeks in quiet, desperate sobs. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that things were getting better, that she wasn’t still drowning in her own loneliness. What was the point? No one cared. No one even noticed.

She had no idea how long she sat there, her face buried in her arms, letting the tears come in waves. It wasn’t until she heard the door creak open again that she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she quickly wiped her eyes, scrambling to stand up. She recognized the voice immediately, that low, authoritative tone she had come to know so well. Snape.

She turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat as she saw him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed in his usual expression of mild disapproval. He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at her, his gaze sharp and piercing as though he could see right through her.

“I— I’m sorry,” Y/n stammered, her voice thick with the remnants of tears. “I didn’t mean to— I was just—”

Snape raised a hand, cutting her off. “There is no need to explain yourself,” he said, his tone devoid of any softness. “I am not here to reprimand you.”

She blinked, confusion washing over her. “Then… why are you here?”

For a moment, Snape said nothing, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite read. Finally, he stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His presence filled the small space, and Y/n felt her heart race in her chest. He wasn’t angry, but there was something heavy about the way he looked at her, something that made her feel vulnerable and exposed.

“I noticed you left in a rather… distressed state,” he said slowly, his voice careful. “And I find myself compelled to ask if you are… well.”

It was such a strange question, coming from him. Snape, who was always so cold, so distant, was standing in front of her, asking if she was well. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

Y/n shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I highly doubt that.”

The bluntness of his words caught her off guard, and she felt a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. She tried to hold them back, tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was no use. The dam broke, and the tears came again, harder this time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I just… I can’t…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. The weight of it all—the loneliness, the self-doubt, the crushing feeling of being unwanted—it was too much. She didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know how to put into words the way it felt to live in her own skin.

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Then, to her utter shock, he stepped closer, his voice low and steady.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said quietly, “you are not as invisible as you believe.”

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat, and she looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “I feel like I am,” she whispered. “I feel like no one sees me.”

Snape’s expression softened, just the tiniest fraction. “That is where you are mistaken.”

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer her any grand reassurances or platitudes. But there was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at her, that made her believe him. Even just for a moment, she believed him.

Y/n wiped her eyes again, sniffling as she tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I don’t know how to… not feel like this,” she admitted, her voice small.

Snape watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

“It is not about being noticed by others,” he said quietly. “It is about recognizing your own worth. You are capable, Miss Y/l/n. Far more capable than you give yourself credit for. And it is time you begin to see that.”

The words struck her like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the fog that had clouded her mind for so long. It wasn’t a grand declaration, wasn’t a promise that everything would be okay. But it was something—a lifeline, a thread of hope in the darkness.

Y/n nodded slowly, her heart still heavy but just a little lighter than before. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Snape gave her a curt nod, turning toward the door. But before he left, he glanced back at her, his dark eyes holding hers for just a moment longer.

“Do not give up on yourself,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet room. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/n didn’t feel completely alone.

Because maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always thought.

[tadpolesonalgae]

‘Having a softhearted partner’— headcanons/drabbles

a/n: @azrielhours yes I’m ashamed, appalled, and guilt-stricken at how humiliatingly long this took to write, but I also know you’re a kind soul so I’m banking on you not being perturbed or utterly furious with how late this is. (I’m hoping I can win some sentimental points here) 

I tried my best but I’m still not sure I really understand the concept of being softhearted, or a lover girl, but these are my fumbling attempts. I hope you enjoy them <3

warnings: Young adult batboys; surprise Elain appearance

Rhysand: Love Story

His fingers stutter, fumbling for a second as they catch on the lace at your back, but he swiftly liberates himself, easing in a steadying breath before sweeping you into the gentle waltz. You follow him effortlessly, familiar with the slow, patterned movements as feet step in time with one another, the skirts of your dress brushing against his finely tailored trousers. 

“Nervous?” You ask softly, gaze glancing shyly about the great hall, anxious of the other bodies swishing and swaying, their pathways interleaving with your own as you begin the slow rotation of the dance floor. 

“What is there to be nervous about?” Rhys replies, voice a touch fainter than a few moments ago when he’d invited you to dance with a hint of colour to his cheeks, subtly clearing the hoarseness from his throat. “I’ve grown up in this environment—I have nothing to be nervous about.” He swallows, glancing down at your slighter frame, keeping the tremble from his fingertips as they curve around your waist. “Are you nervous?” 

You flush, averting your gaze for a moment before returning your attention to him, head dipped a little. “Rather,” you answer quietly, “you aren’t thinking about what might happen if you misstep? Or bump into another set of partners?” He blinks, features pausing in consideration before surmising his thoughts. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. I’ll guide you correctly,” he assures, then, swallowing, adds a little softer, with that previous colour returning to his cheeks, “you look lovely, by the way.” 

A smile curves your lips, unsure where to look as warmth rises to your skin, almost certain he’ll be able to feel it from your proximity. “Thank you,” you reply, head still dipped, “I’m fairly certain my mother orchestrated the making of this dress so its details would blend more seamlessly with your own. So I suppose if you think I look pleasing, it’s thanks to your own fine tastes.” 

Carefully, he spins you beneath his arm, allowing you to twirl on your feet before gently pulling back to his chest, perhaps a little more firmly than would have been polite, but neither of you complain when it results in your proximity—his arms settling more securely around your waist, while you keep your hands splayed across the broad width of his shoulders.

“I forget how you excel at flattery,” he says in a hushed voice, unable to entirely help the way he lightly squeezes your waist as you turn. “Though do not mistake that for criticism—I quite enjoy receiving your compliments,” he adds, at last managing to pull that smile to his mouth that he knows has a charming effect on most women. He would very much like you to be included in that grouping. 

Warmth dances in your eyes and his breath hitches, having not anticipated the effect your own smile might have on him under the circumstances, acutely aware of the lightness of your step, trusting him to guide you right; the easy curve of your lips, content to openly enjoy his company. 

He swallows again, clearing his throat, but you speak before he has the chance to. 

“I was thinking,” you begin quietly, steadying your breaths as you glance up at him, “you’ve never visited our gardens during the summer, have you?” Rhys allows himself the space of a blink to recover, before nodding in confirmation, heart beating a little faster in his chest as he wonders at the direction of your speech. 

“Well, I was thinking, if your father is also okay with it, it might be nice for you to…visit. For a few weeks, or so. Not only could you see the gardens in bloom, but, as you know by now, the settlements surrounding our estate are occupied almost entirely by faeries. If your father might require persuasion, it would be a chance for you to also become more acquainted with the people who you will rule over, some day.” 

Rhys regards you quietly, his pulse increasing as he hears the invitation—spending a summer in your company would be nothing short of heaven. If he would be able to convince his father of his absence for that long. Maybe with the help of his mother, he might be able to escape to your estate for the weeks you suggested, temporarily freed from monotonous lectures with his sister and tiring training with his brothers. Lay with you in summery gardens, beneath blue skies and dappled shade, hidden beneath the lemon tree’s shadow you’ve told him so much about, it being a precious spot during your childhood that you’d kept to. 

He manages a nod, eyes softening further as he gazes upon you, soaking in the warm embrace you’re both wrapped in through the waltz. “I couldn’t imagine a more pleasant summer,” he replies, honestly, and your returning smile has his pulse fluttering unevenly. 

Yes, he will find a way to visit over the summer, even if it’s only for a fortnight. He’s already finding himself looking forward to it. 

Cassian: Fresh out the Slammer 

Your heart hitches as his deep laugh rumbles from the other side of the inn, one of the few set up in the relatively small war camp of Windhaven. Due to it being on the outskirts of Illyria, inns and trading stations are less frequently spotted, meaning they’re often more full too, with less choice for inhabitants of the camp to pick from. 

Turning to glance over to him, your heart drops when you see who he’s laughing with—he knows you and the other female don’t get along well. None of it has ever been so foolishly spoken directly, but she’s had more than a couple of unkind things to say about you, more than a few less-than-friendly looks sent your way and malicious whispers being passed between her and her companion’s mouths. 

He knows this—so why? 

“Something bothering you, sweetheart?” 

You blink away the habitual discomfort at hearing that name from a voice that doesn’t belong to Cassian. Attention returning to the male before you, you try to offer a believable smile, but their proximity is replaying in your mind—are you overreacting? You must be. He knows about that female, there’s no reason for him to be speaking with her. 

Glancing back helplessly, a spike of hurt pincers in your chest as you watch her slide her palm over the muscle of his forearm, and he leans closer. 

Liquid spills over as you set the glass down too roughly, almost dropping it as you forget about the male you’d been speaking with, standing from the seat and steadily making your way across the inn’s floor. You have no idea what you’ll say, just that you want him to stop, that he’s being unfair. Maybe the two of you aren’t officially together, but when he’d walked you back to your house one late night, when he’d shown you a couple of tips to keep yourself safe, when he’d gotten food in when you’d fallen sick over your cycle—that had been for a reason, hadn’t it? He’d been courting you, hadn’t he? 

Was it one-sided? Was he just a kind male? 

Is it unrequited again? 

It’s too late for you to second-guess yourself as you arrive at their table. 

Cassian casually glances over at you, and it’s only then the female’s sharp eyes narrow on you, hateful and disgusted at having her conversation interrupted. 

“Something wrong?” Cassian asks, and your brows dip a little, hurt undoubtedly blatant in your eyes. But you swallow, straightening your spine, trying to stand a little taller before both of them. “I was getting tired,” you manage to come up with. “I think I’ll be turning in now.” You swallow, waiting for him to get the hint, but he gives no reaction. You swallow again, raising your chin higher, to make up for the low. “I was hoping you…might walk me home, Cassian.” 

He looks over you, something shifting in his gaze that appears a lot like guilt, but it’s hidden too swiftly for you to be sure. “Sure,” Cassian answers slowly, nodding his head almost absently, standing upright from the raised table. “Sure, I’ll walk you home,” he repeats, more decidedly this time, keeping his attention on you as he settles his hand at the base of your spine, fingers hesitantly brushing the fabric, unsure of your mood, how to behave in such a civil environment. 

He had expected… Cassian blinks. 

He had expected you to act how everyone else had. 

The crisp Windhaven air nips at your throat, and you bring the shawl tighter over your shoulders, aware that while he’s close, he’s hesitating to step beside you to aid with warmth. Hot breath puffs out with each exhale, watching as it clouds against the cool temperature. You can’t feel your fingers. 

Cassian clears his throat, and you fight not to dip your head away as the conversation looms. You’re the one who has initiated this, it’ll do you no good to push it away, leaving it unresolved. You need clarity and confirmation. At least, if you want the chance for things to go further with him. Which you most definitely do. 

“Why were you speaking with her like that?” You ask, managing to glance at him, meeting his eyes as you ask the question for a fraction of a second. You don’t have time to worry at how jealous you sound—you are jealous. Jealous and upset he might choose to do something like that, knowing how it would make you feel. “I…you know how I feel about her.” 

“What about you?” He diverts, and you glance at him again with a furrowed brow, looking confusedly. “What about me?” 

Cassian scoffs, rolling his eyes before meeting your gaze again. “You asked what I was doing with her. I was doing the exact same thing you were with that male,” he replies, not minding the accusatory tone in his voice. He’s accustomed to wielding it in defence against these sort of malicious attacks; he’s been subjected to them enough times to know how this works. But your brows only furrow further. “He wasn’t,” —you flush— “He wasn’t caressing my arms or trying to seduce me.” 

“Sure he wasn’t,” Cassian replies, taking on a sardonic tone, looking away again. You flush with hurt at his assumption you would consciously and willingly continue speaking with a male who was trying to flatter you in that way while so obviously—… Obviously? Does he think otherwise? 

“Cassian…it isn’t fair to expect to find in me the same faults you’ve encountered in others,” you say softly. “And, it isn’t fair to compare your conscious reciprocation of her…intentions, to my situation. If he was being…inappropriate, I hadn’t noticed it. I wouldn’t have continued if I had known.” 

“And what does fairness have to do with any of this?” He asks cynically, not looking at you, powerful arms folded over his broad chest as he keeps a steady pace that has you hurrying a little to keep up. 

“Don’t you—” You fumble, glancing down before solidifying your resolve, gripping the sleeve of his upper arm to pull him to a stop. Cassian stiffens beneath your touch, glancing with surprise down to where you’re holding onto him, before meeting your eyes with some colour to his cheeks—probably the bite of cold.

You swallow, averting your gaze briefly but keeping hold of him. “I want things to be fair for you. To you,” you say softly. “Do you…do you not want the same for me?” 

He blinks, caught of guard by the sincerity of your expression, how earnest you sound in your question. And you’re right, he can’t just assume the worst of everyone, failing them before they even take a test. Maybe he did act brashly, a little unfairly toward you. 

He doesn’t like the hurt in your expression. 

“Cassian, I…I enjoy your company. But if you aren’t sincere…if my feelings aren’t reciprocated, please don’t string me along.” Your grip lessens on him, worried you’re being too pushy with your feelings where they aren’t welcome. “I’m sorry I upset you by speaking with that male, I had no idea it might look different on the outside to what I thought was going on. I promise I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Cassian holds still, hot breath puffing between each of you, and he becomes aware of how cold your fingers are through the fabric of his shirt. How nervous you look as your eyes skip about, before anxiously rising to look upward at him. He swallows thickly, guilt tingling in his gut, regretting not acting like a damned adult and just speaking with you about his worries. He nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice heavy. “That was stupid. I wasn’t—…I didn’t think properly.” 

Your breath catches a little, pulse spiking with nerves. “So you,”—you clear your throat—“we’re okay? I mean, we’ve sorted things out? You…” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Cassian’s cheeks warm, and he quietly takes your frozen hand in his much larger, much warmer one. “I enjoy your company, too.” 

Azriel: Young and Beautiful 

Full tears spill from gleaming eyes, reflecting the silver under the moonlight as you remain stood over the closed grave, shoulders shuddering under grief’s heavy cloak. The sight of you dressed in black, a thin veil over your face, brings back the lamenting groan of the organ, the somber melody that had been played before the coffin had been carried up onto the hillside, and buried upward at its crest, able to still watch the sun rise and fall each day. 

The downward tug of your lips is something he never wants to see again, the loss, the life that’s been stolen from all of them—never again. 

He walks forward silently, coming to a pause at your side, and his heart breaks further at the clarity of your sobs. Unashamed to shed tears over the departed, mourning her loss deeply, with feeling. He swallows thickly, attention resting on the burial, the life that was taken so cruelly. The life her brother had taken revenge for, having returned from Spring not even a full day ago. 

“You should come inside,” Azriel whispers, saying only what he should. You both know neither of you are yet ready to move on from this wound, and to rush it would be to dishonour the dead. But the wind does not grieve, makes no attempts to lessen its cruel bite, hot breath puffing from your lips with each stuttering exhale, and the familiar sting of sorrow cracks through his heart. “It’s cold,” he tries half-heartedly, “at least warm up a bit.”

His resolve disintegrates as you cast him a mournful look, your lids puffing from tears, eyes shining like glass beneath the cold night’s sky, swirling starlight reflecting in your irises. As if she’s already reached the heavens, and is waving goodbye. 

You don’t need to say anything to convey your sorrow; it’s one they’re all feeling. 

His throat rolls, and you turn back to the gravestone, quietening out of respect for his own grief, to offer him his own silence in which he’ll be able to mourn. 

Glancing up at the sky to cool the heat behind his eyes, Azriel inhales a slow, deep breath, allowing the cold, crisp night air to bring some clarity to his mind, sinking into his lungs as the clear night air disperses throughout his body, released in one exhale, as if breathing out his very soul. Azriel glances sidelong at you again, the obvious prickling of your skin against the cold. 

Closing his eyes briefly, he opens his wing, wrapping it delicately over your shoulder, cradling you in the only comfort he can offer. 

You lean into him without worry for appearances, hands clasping one another, your fingers like ice against his flame-scarred skin, pressing against his side as your head falls to his upper arm. 

It’s this small gesture that has his own walls cracking, lips tugging down as his brows pull together, hot tears sliding down his cheeks, making an effort to keep his breathing even so you don’t have to concern yourself with his own sorrow. 

You deserve the chance to grieve freely, without having to worry about the welfare of others. 

The least he can do is offer you that courtesy.

Eris: Golden Hour

Eris had encouraged you to rest when he’d pieced together your hunched frame and weakened legs, guiding you back to bed and setting you down in the mattress, taking infinite care not to jostle your body when he laid you down. ‘I’ll bring my work next door,’ he’d murmured, lips brushing your forehead, ‘Call if you need anything.’ 

Then he’d given a sharp whistle and all six of his hounds had leapt up onto the bed, a broad smile stretching your mouth as one nosed its way beneath your palm, squeezing itself under your arm, laying an elegant snout across your chest. Two more settled at your waist, heads lolling across your stomach, curling into your sides; another pair settling themselves around your legs, one between and another against your thigh; the last hound nestling into the pillows beside your head, taking Eris’ spot, likely picking up on the scent and taking it for comfort. 

The small beats of their tails excitedly thwacking the bedsheets as they nestled and nuzzled had your cheeks aching from smiles, fingers scratching behind ears and at the itchy parts of their napes, hind legs kicking with contentment before you all settled down. 

‘Are you sure? They’ll miss your company.’ You’d murmured, peering up at him from the shared bed, though you wouldn’t have been able to move even if you wanted to. Six large hounds piled atop and around one person is a surprisingly efficient way to keep someone still, you discovered.

But Eris had shook his head once, narrow lips softening at their edges, amber eyes twinkling as he took in the affectionate sight. ‘I’ll just be next door,’ he’d repeated. ‘I’ll come in to check on you in a while.’ 

‘Please don’t worry,’ you’d murmured, fingers brushing over his knuckles, lightly taking a hold of his hand. ‘I’ll be fine. You need your time to concentrate—I’ll manage.’ 

But Eris had just given you a look to tell you he knew better, before pressing another kiss to your forehead then departing. Leaving you feeling warm and fluffy despite the tension in your lower abdomen. 

Now it’s night and your husband returns, hounds eagerly padding at his feet, paws cleaned and dried after the muddy walk through the surrounding forest they take before bed. You slide your book shut and set it on the side table, directing your attention to him as he begins disrobing, clothes re-shelved if clean, and set in the wicker basket if not. 

After he’s finally washed and changed your smile widens, pulling back the covers for him to seat himself behind you, unable to even pull the duvet back over himself before you’re diving into his side, crawling beneath his arm and tucking yourself flush to his chest, arms tugging at his waist as you eagerly press your face to the crook of his neck, inhaling slowly, deeply. Treasuring every aspect of his feel: the clean, soapy scent intermingled with smoke and pine; smooth, hot skin beneath your touch, baby hairs curling at the nape of his neck; the silky soft brush of his nightwear against your cheek. The undeniable secure form of him that you’re able to wrap yourself around. 

“I missed you,” you mumble, pulling back to gaze up at him, forgetting the previously uncomfortable pressure between your hips, happy he’s back and by your side again. Warm and hot and strong and solid. Smelling divine, good enough to knock you out with a dozy smile on your lips. 

“You say that every time I don’t see you for a day,” Eris mumbles back, shifting beneath your grasp, hauling the duvet up as he settles down into the mattress. You squeeze yourself closer, leg inching across his hips as he whistles, allowing the hounds to leap up and scatter themselves in a close huddle around the two of you. “It’s because I miss you every time you leave me,” you whisper, kissing the underside of his jaw. “Even if it’s only for a day.” 

Eris rolls his eyes, faelights flickering out as he pulls you impossibly closer, tilting so he can nose at the crown of your head, lips grazing your skin. 

“I missed you too,” he whispers, softly, “now sleep. You were supposed to be resting today, not reading my hounds stories.” 

Lucien: amour plastique

Lucien’s lips are flushed red against the frost-filled cold, and for a moment you wish it was because of your teeth that they look so raw and bitten. 

The tip of his nose is rosey, cheeks pink while the rest of his skin is unusually pale, snow flakes catching on his lashes, eyes searing against the cool-toned blues of the snowy forest. 

He’s still only courting you, and yet this might be The Moment. 

Your heart flutters in your chest, mind and heart agreeing on one thing, for once. And that’s the male on top of you might be the last person you ever love. 

A slow, teasing smile spreads across Lucien’s fiery mouth, cupid’s bow stretching taut with the vulpine grin as his eyes twinkle with mischief. “Something on your mind, love?” He shifts on top of you, keeping you pinned in the ankle-deep carpet of snow, searing red hair sliding from over a broad shoulder, caressing your cheek and he has the audacity to flash his teeth in a feral smile as if he’d planned for you to feel as such. 

Maybe he had. 

“I’m thinking you’re acting quite the scoundrel, Lucien,” you reply, raising a brow while your heart pounds wildly in your chest. “Where did the charming gentlemale go who took my first dance last night?” 

“‘Gentlemale’?” Lucien drawls, the white of the snow making his teeth brighter—sharper—as they flash in a smile. He lowers himself closer, hair dragging lightly over the fluttering pulse at your throat. “You should have known my nature when you gave me that first dance, and I stole all your rest.” 

“‘Stole’?” You force a laugh, almost flinching when his eyes momentarily dip to your mouth. “You wouldn’t have received my first if I thought you were playing at some kind of deception.” 

“Then don’t pretend surprise when I keep you in the snow without offering a hand up,” Lucien whispers, close enough the mist of his breath caresses your mouth. 

You swallow, heart and mind aligning as the embers finally catch, a searing fire catching light in your stomach, burning as certain and blinding as the Day Court sun. “Without raising yourself up, either,” you reply, breathless. Amber eyes lock with your own; deep, and hungering for more than just flesh. “If anyone sees us…” You broach, gazes burning into one another as you trail off, seeing what he’ll do. 

Neither make an effort to move. 

“They’ll probably be correct in their assumptions,” Lucien murmurs, the intensity of his attention alone enough to keep the bite of ice at bay. Liquefying heat until it’s hot enough to fuel fire. 

Your brow narrows, head tilting as snow crunches beneath you. “That you’re taking me for a one-night roll?” Hands lift from your sides, settling on his shoulders, grip tight enough to suggest you’ll push him firmly away should he answer untruthfully. You weren’t made for a brief, singular apogee. You were made for everlasting; a ubiquitous kind of love.

Lucien’s heavy exhale might as well have been a hiss when he sees whatever’s in your eyes, strain contorting his muscles as his palms turn to fists in the snow. “If that’s all you’re seeking,” he growls, “tell me now, so I can salvage the little that’s left of me.”

Your breath hitches, staring up at the male on top of you, close enough to be sharing breath. 

Finally, your heart and mind sigh in unison. Finally a match who understands.  

Elain: We Fell In Love In October

The crystallised sugar of the plum is rough against your lips but her fingers are soft; pale and powdery; creamy-tipped nails curved and cared for, their pads skimming your mouth with a featherlight touch as she feeds you the sweet, your tongue catching her just before she pulls away. 

Your cheeks warm, thinking yourself too obvious. 

Elain’s cocoa brown eyes dilate, softening in the balmy heat, deep afternoon light glazing her in honey-gold that blazes on the pretty loops of her ringlets. Her fingers linger for a moment too long, then she’s retreating with the breeze. 

“It looks like it’s going to be a clear night,” you mumble with a palm over your mouth, neither quite looking at the other. The woollen blanket you’re sharing rustles as she shifts, dried grass rasping against its underside while another slow breath of air curls between you. 

Elain tilts her head, lovely hair spilling over one bare shoulder as she gazes up towards the pale blue skies. Already tinges of heat are beginning to warm the horizon while the sun prepares to dip into evening, then eventually leaving your side of the world until daybreak tomorrow morning. Plenty of time to admire the absence of such blinding light, the peace and relative quiet of the shadow-filled night, the whole world agreeing to share a single colour palette of darkest jade, midnight seas, and night-filled purple. 

You’ve both been waiting for a clear night for a while now, aching to lie beneath the pearly pattern of star shine, twinkling like slowly twirling diamonds, or moonstones. 

It’s only now, that you’re out here together, preparing to share a night and a blanket, that you realise you probably won’t get much of a chance to look at the stars. Not while Elain will be at your side, their light reflecting in her eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Elain murmurs, and you flush when you realise she’s peering at you, leaning her body across the blanket to face you. You fumble for an answer, eyes dipping away. “I was thinking how beautiful tonight is going to be,” you reply, glancing down to the small ceramic plate set between you, carrying sugared plums and powdered pastries, sweetened fruit slices resting atop glazed, fluffy bread. All offerings from Elain. 

Rosey lips soften at their edges as you peek back up at her. “The stars?” She murmurs, smiling quietly. You swallow, forcing yourself to nod, “the stars. And everything else.” 

Her eyes are twinkling now. “‘Everything else’…” 

Heat overtakes your cheeks beneath the intensity in her eyes, gaze darting elsewhere. But fingers dip beneath your chin, bringing your attention wholly back to her. “Tell me,” Elain whispers, close enough you can imagine how the words would feel across your mouth. 

“You.” The word is goaded from your throat by a golden thread, gently pulled and plied until it spilled across your tongue, reeled in to whisper in her ears. She smiles, and a weight lifts from your shoulders, “That makes me happy to hear.” 

Your heart pounds, pulse fluttering in your throat. She isn’t pushing you away. She doesn’t look disgusted. It makes her happy. 

Elain’s eyes seem to twinkle as she watches your frozen expression of shock, enjoying the confused flutter of your eyelashes as you blink, half curious, half awed. It makes her want to see the look on your face if she…“I want something sweet,” Elain whispers, leaning in close. “May I?” 

You blink back to life, lips fumbling as your eyes skate about the place. “They’re yours,” you murmur, breathless, “You don’t need to ask.” Why would she need to when she’s the one who brought them? Baked them and sweetened them? What delicacy will she choose, from the small plate?

A huff of laughter fans your mouth, her lips curving before she’s leaning closer, and- 

Your eyes widen, paralysed beneath her touch. The soft heat of her mouth. How can anything possibly feel so delicate?

For longer than you can think she holds her mouth to yours, lips tilting experimentally as they slope over your own set. Your fingers are trembling on the blanket, arms shaking while her touch remains calm and steady, as if she’s kissed you a million times before, and enjoys it just as much as she did the first. Elain deepens the intimate press, her head tilting as she angles your jaw, tongue slipping out to swipe across the sugared pillow of your lower lip, licking the powder away with slow, careful strokes. 

Calm, and completely in control of herself. 

You feel like your arms will disintegrate into a floury puff, body crumbling like shortbread then evaporating into a hot, sweet vapour for her to inhale. To bring into her lungs so you can be brought into her body and run your course. 

She leans closer and your arms melt like butter beneath her pressure, silky wisps of hair pooling over your collar bones as she lays you down, kissing deeper and you can’t help yourself, shaking hands rising from the blanket, sliding over her hips to settle around the pleasing curve of her waist. Elain’s spine slopes as your fingers trail along her arch, her own hands exploring through your hair and you wonder if she can hear the erratic pulse in your throat. Can feel it as she kisses you. 

You hope she can, if only so she’ll know your affection without the confusion of language getting in your way. An inevitable mistranslation between the beat of your heart and the useless words you possess. 

It would be impossible to express, so you kiss her back; kiss her longingly and tenderly, keeping your touch familiar and chaste in the hopes she’ll understand you desire her heart above all else. 

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[theirishwolfhound]

I do love the idea of an unhinged reader. Not like brutally unhinged but... like the kind that is harmlessly annoying and is just a brat to Task Force 141.

Like the mother fuckers nickname is Menace and they're somehow still alive after everything so they make it everyone's problem.

They're great at what they do, amazing even— but no team wants menaces like Menace, not even the heavens nor the hells want the damn person.

This is the same Menace who wears a devilish half-mask, but only above their mouth so people can see their shit-eating grin (think similar to the ghoul mask above) as they leave small firecrackers under the lids of toilet seats, or so people notice the way their lips curl up in mock disgust when someone is talking.

Menace who only goes through with the SAS training to one up another soldier they despised, enough to have sicked a pack of squirrels on that they personally hand fed a few days after— they even bonded enough with the little fuckers that when they were finally transferred out to be someone else's problem, the squirrels would steal the remaining soldiers foods.

Laswell, whose grand idea of knocking the boys down a peg since she's tired of their shenanigans includes getting this Menace of a person to join 141 with faint threats of blackmail— to which Coporal Menace respects, leading Kate to being the only one who is not subjected to the dumpster fire that is about to happen, but is only encouraged by her wife.

Price, who in his right mind, nearly rejects the idea of this misfit joining because of their turnover rate but gives in when Laswell tells him it would be worth it— that her wife likes them and they're an excellent solider after all.

Immediately upon arrival, Menace lives up to their name— pissing on the side of the building as if to mark their new territory before deciding it would be a good idea to rile up the behemoth of a man by asking Price: "Didn't anyone tell the poor bastard that Halloween was four fuckin' months ago? Look at 'em he looks emo."

It wasn't until then that the poor Captain realized how much of an untamed brat his new corporal was— only to be further set in after the first two weeks on base.

Sure Menace got along with Soap, but they were far too alike for Menace's likings and Gaz, sweet sweet Gaz, gave them a few too man odd glances and playfully snide remarks for their liking— meanwhile Ghost had made them scrub the bathroom from top to bottom with a small sponge, and well they could already see the forming regret in Price's eyes.

So Menace did what they did best.

It started out simple: silently attaching balloons on strings to the back of their clothes without them noticing, flipping all of the furniture upside down during the middle of the night, purposefully mocking every single move of one of the operators for a full day, sugar in the salt shaker or salt in the sugar dish, you name it they did it.

Glitterbomb the captain? Oh yeah, and there's still glitter in his mustache.

Tied the two sergeants' doors together so that neither could open it? Done and done, they were locked in their rooms for a good hour until someone cut the rope.

Move the lieutenant’s furniture two inches to the right so that he would constantly stub his toe? Yeah, you can practically see him fuming after every trip to his office.

And what irked the lads the most? Menace kept getting away without being caught— managing to even out sneak Ghost, which the only reason for it is: Menace knowing they don't know what they look like without that mask. So obviously they take it off and blend in with the many other people on base.

They made a fool of their sergeants, their lieutenant, and their captain and it was time to get back at the cunning prankster— but Menace grew suspicious. Usually they would have been booted out by a normal team by then, but what Menace came to realize a bit too late was that Task Force 141 was not normal.

And reality came to a head when Menace was called to Price's office to collect something— only for that something to be a bucket of ice cold water falling onto their head and for the captain to tell their now soaking wet and cold Coporal: "Game's on, brat."

PT 1 | PT 2

[jolalibrary]

18. calming peach

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eighteen of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 4.2k chapter warnings: dad!frankie. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. flirting. too idiots who clearly want to have a future together. an: we're so close to the end and i'm crying.

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key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

You’d never consider setting an alarm an hour early for anyone else, silencing it with a groan and stretch, leg bending out like a lazy, sleepy starfish until it meets him.

He who is waiting, palm sliding over your thigh, up to your waist, gently tickling your stomach until you wiggle. Frankie’s breath grazes your neck as he sighs, pressing each syllable to your skin, Morning.

Sometimes when you wake next to him, you stretch out and he comes to your side; others you fold over onto his, and occasionally you meet in the middle, leg between his, rousing to the sounds of neighbours, heartbeats, birds, or silence.

But like clockwork, always after a moment, your lips meet his in a tender kiss, soft and layered with a smile before growing needier, the only time his movements aren't slick and coordinated.

“Shower?”

He hums against your mouth, tracing the band of your sleep shorts.

Soon enough, the hour is stolen by cuddles and whispers before a shared shower washes away lingering sleep. Hisses blend with steam until you're both towelling off and slipping into clothes.

“Do you think you’ll be gone all day?” you ask, pouring fruit into your yogurt, handing him the bowl as he sips his coffee.

“Not sure—could be. You’re staying here, right?” You nod and grin, chewing a piece of fruit. “Good. I like knowing I’m coming home to you.”

His words spread warmth through you, a blaze of happiness. You stare at him for a moment before asking, “Is that so?”

Placing his elbow on the table, he traces his jaw as he stares. “Yeah. That okay?”

Shrugging, fighting a smirk. “Not the worst thing I’ve been told.”

“What you working on today? ” he says, pinching a piece from your bowl—ignoring the chopped-up, untouched yoghurt ones left for him. “Still those graphics?”

Nodding, you motion to stab him with your fork when he tries again. “Get your own, Morales. Stop wanting mine.”

“Can never stop wanting you.”

Narrowing your eyes, you watch him grab a piece from the free bowl, smirking as he chews.

“I made you a lunch, by the way.”

Chewing and smirking, he drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “Like a lunch lunch or—?”

“A lunch in a brown bag—with maybe a love note in there.”

His tongue pokes his cheek as he smirks. “Yeah?”

You nod, pointing at the fridge. He moves quickly, opening the brown bag, rustling through it before pausing and turning fully.

“You made me lunch.”

“I did.”

You might have ruined me for lunches from now on.

Ah, this is why I didn’t make you them before—wanted you to fall in love with me for me, and not my excellent packed lunch. You hating what you have today?

It’s not hitting the spot.

Did you make it yourself or grab it on the way?

Grabbed it?

Well, there’s why. It isn’t made with love.

I did like the fact I got a note in mine the other day.

Special treatment. Hope you didn’t throw it away.

Don’t laugh, but it’s in my wallet.

Aw Butterscotch, you loveeeee me.

If you make Luca a packed lunch, I think he’ll make you stay forever.

Well, I’m not going anywhere. If that’s okay?

I meant living with us, but good to know that we’re on the same boat about being a forever kind of thing.

I don’t make lunches for just anyone.

Because of the risk of them falling in love with you?

It’s a blessing and a curse, Morales.

Placing the platter down, a breeze blows the tablecloth on the newly painted and restored garden furniture Frankie had surprised you with.

The temperature warm, birds chirping as you check and recheck the various paint shades ready on the paper plates—the canvas’ already set up on their stands as he waits, resting his chin on his palm.

“Ready?”

Scrunching your nose, you sigh. “I think so?”

“What if I can’t paint you how I see you?”

Kissing the top of his head, feeling his head tilt up as you press another to his forehead, to his nose. “Oh, I’ll cry if I look like a monster.”

His laugh ripples out as you press your mouth to his, feeling one of his hands skate around your middle, squeezing.

A scroll on your phone one night had led the two of you to purchase a vase from Harold’s small homeware section, filling it with a bunch of different date ideas. Some cheap, at home, some further afield that required more planning.

Last week’s had been backyard camping. The tent had been big enough for all three of you, fairy lights strung on the inside as Luca’s s’mores (an insistence on them from both you and him) had accompanied well with Frankie’s reading of Luca’s ghost story. Which was basically one of his books with a ghost on the cover.

Today’s, on a rare free day off, had you both back outside and ready to paint. Thirty minutes on Frankie’s phone, a set of paint shades that would definitely make it difficult to capture the beauty of his eyes and an array of nibbles that smelt too good to keep avoiding.

As you sit, both grabbing a brush in hand, you glance over at him and nod as he begins the timer, his focus already deep on his canvas. He looks up, catching your eye and offering a smile that’s familiar, all but warm.

“You know,” he says, dipping his brush into a bright blue, “this might be my favourite date yet.”

You grin, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the sun. “Because you’re getting to paint something other than a dinosaur?”

He nods, eyes twinkling. “I do paint a good dinosaur.”

“You do. Very talented.”

Laughter continues as you begin with his outline, the conversation flowing as you try to capture his nose, his smile—the crinkle of his eyes. By the time the alarm goes off, you're almost happy. Dropping your paintbrush, hands up as you admire for a moment before picking yours up to show him.

“You’re going to be blown away.”

“I’m ready, baby.”

Turning yours first, his brows raise, leaning forward, slightly squinting. “I'm getting the idea that you like my nose...”

Smirking, slowly lowering yours back to the stand. “Oh, I like your nose, Butterscotch.”

Laughing, he then turns his and what you see takes your breath away. His painting of you, beautiful but also absolutely hilarious, has your smile cutting up into your cheek, teeth showing before a laugh rumbles out. It high-pitched, scratching your throat as it forces it out—tears pricking at your eyes, as he slowly lowers it.

“See? I told you I couldn’t paint you how I see you.”

You laugh, blinking back tears, heart full. “Frankie, you drew me as a dinosaur.”

He cracks then, mirroring you, laughing. “I wouldn’t run from you.”

Shaking your head, wiping another tear from your eye you snort. “I’d trample on you.”

“I’d let you.”

Wanted you to know that a certain person is wondering if he can watch cartoons and eat ice cubes with you. Aw, how’s the little man feeling? He’s still got a temp, but it’s less than yesterday and he’s managing to keep toast down. I’ve rang Harold already, thought he might have been okay today but. Does Harold need help?

You don’t even think, question.

The offer had been on your tongue on the day Frankie had called from the car to tell you he needed to pick Luca up. Explanation interspersed with hissing at traffic and grumbling, as you conjured the image of him tugging on his hair as he hurried his way to the school.

Frankie had said it would be fine when you’d offered before—it’ll be one day, that’s it. Now it was day three, and medication from the family medicine doctor as Luca battled an ear infection that had him not even wanting to talk dinosaurs.

There’s a delivery, but he says he’ll call his nephew.

Dialling his contact and pressing the phone to your ear, you drain the last parts of your coffee, tidying away the opened letters on your countertop as it rings, and rings, and—

“Call him and tell him I’m on my way.”

Frankie laughs, mumbling a hello as you hear him clanging a pan and something else. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I haven’t got much on—and even if I just accept it for him, let him tell me where he wants it, then it’s sorted.”

“You sure? This… you don’t have to do this.”

Laughing, grabbing a t-shirt from your drawer, before pulling out a pair of older jeans. “You kidding me right? I get to hang out with Harry—hear his puns first-hand? I’m more excited than he’ll be.”

“Rainy…”

Your mouth opens, letting out a heavy exhale before you stare at yourself in the mirror. Seeing the smile on your face from his words, finding yourself unable to tear yourself away from it for once. Liking it, the look of joy on your face, the one he etches just from his voice.

“Rainy?”

“It’ll be good for me—think I need to get out of the office, my house.”

There’s a silence, just for a moment. “You okay?”

Muttering an uh-huh back to him as you place him on loudspeaker, dragging the t-shirt over your head before he says your name.

“Just another rough day with a person who is using me as a punching bag. Woke up to an email, but… it’s fine, it’s really fine.”

“I hate that you keep having them.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me too. I feel like I brave it up and get rid of one and two grow in its place.”

Frankie exhales, his breath sliding down the phone, “Can I do anything?”

“Well, if you don’t mind me being fake Frankie, I’d love to go help Harold out—it’ll be good for me. Feel like… I’m good at something.”

“Rainy.”

“I know,” you say, finger-tracing a pattern on your bedsheets, “I know. But… just how I feel.”

“You’re good at lots of things.”

“Like?”

He snorts, loudly. “Making me laugh.”

“You laughed at a meme for ten minutes the other day about a dog’s tongue poking out.”

“It was hilarious.”

Sitting yourself down, back lying on your made bed, you run a hand down your face. “I’m just a little tired, I think. Usually, it wouldn’t bother me this much.” Frankie makes a noise in agreement, the back of your wrist resting on your forehead. “Truthfully, I want to see if Harold would be impressed by my puns.”

Frankie laughs, more clanging heard under it. “I’ll call him—but only if you promise to let me order you food for when you’re done.”

“Oh. Not worried I’ll get whatever Luca has?”

He snorts, and you can imagine the roll of his eyes even down the phone. “Unless you think you can catch an ear infection, I think you’ll be good.”

Smiling, slowly pulling yourself up to a sitting position, a pang of worry knocks through you—threatens to shake things. “Harold won’t mind, will he… I know you said he runs things differently.”

“I think he’s been wanting to replace me with you since you wandered in that day—he’ll be hoping it becomes permanent.”

Are you doing okay?

Yeah! It’s been fine, most are on palettes. Did spot a large order of butterscotch paint—that for you?

Haha, no. It’s actually been picking up in popularity.

It’s you modelling it on your page.

Shh, no it isn’t.

Baby, I love you—but I saw your latest video. From when you helped Benny, if I wasn’t already getting the chance to be in the sheets with you, I’d be thinking it.

It wasn’t that hot.

You really, really grossly misunderstand how hot you are, Francisco. Your arms for one.

You’re making me blush.

How the turn tables turn. Me, in your apron, you at home being flirted with.

Now I’m picturing you in my apron.

Yeah?

Don’t tell me what’s under it, let me fantasise.

Should I bring it to yours later?

Yeah. Yeah, do that.

There’s something about the noise of fight night.

It is both thrilling and anxiety-inducing as Frankie leads you in, his palm firmly on your back, guiding and easing you in. You reach a hand back to touch his wrist, a comforting ritual you’ve developed since that first time.

Your eyes scan and search for the others, a routine that brings a sense of normalcy to these events. Feet slowing, almost coming to a stop as you see Will wave, drink in hand, pointing at it as you nod back to Frankie and guide him through the growing crowd.

The music is louder tonight, the air tinged with more restlessness as you move, slide, and push your way through until you reach the rope.

“VIP, are we?” you call out, wrapping your arm around Will’s neck in a hug.

“Only the best.”

You step aside as the rope is reattached, letting Frankie and Will greet each other while you wave at the others. Out of the corner of your eye, you see all the slaps on the back, Frankie’s fingers cupping the back of his friend's head as he grins, nods, and talks right into his ear.

Then, there’s an arm around your middle, a familiar warm breath on your ear. “You good, baby?”

“I am.”

His lips press a tender kiss to the side of your head before you follow Will to sit down. As you settle in, you listen to Will telling Frankie that Benny is in the back and how he’s really stepped up over the last few days. You find yourself distracted, your tongue chasing the straw in your drink, until the conversation turns to yoga. Will mentions that you think it’s been quite good for Benny to shut off, and you give Frankie a look, mouthing, ‘Told you,’ to your boyfriend.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Will says suddenly, shouting over the music. “How did it go showing him the—”

Involuntary, your elbow slams into his side mid-sip. Your eyes widen as it forces a cough to smother the other words, staring boldly, almost coldly, right into Will’s face.

“I haven’t had a chance to show Benny the video,” you say, curtly, sharply. “It was very bright in the helicopter.”

You hope the lie is good enough, solid enough. You also hope Will picks up on it. Notice the distress in your eyes as Frankie, who is hanging onto your side and you can feel is darting his eyes from you to his friend and back again.

It takes a second, eyes narrowing, your stomach knotting as you fear the surprise you’ve been planning for Frankie is about to unravel.

“Ah, alright. Well, it would be good to see when it’s ready.”

Nodding, you lean into Frankie’s side, watching his eyes smooth out, relief washing over you as the tension dissipates. “Hey, so how does this night go? Is he the main fight?”

Shaking his head, Frankie adjusts his hold on his drink as he slings his arm around your neck, beginning to explain things as you shoot a smile at Will, managing to catch, quickly, the mouthed apology as you wink and let Frankie explain what tonight is for.

Your phone vibrates on the side, glancing at it as you help Luca roll out a small pizza circle from the dough you made last night.

“Rainy, can you helps me with my hat?”

Fingers adjusting his chef hat further down his head, a thing you hadn’t been sure if he would like until you saw his face light up when you pulled it out with its matching apron.

We should be done in about half an hour. And then I can come inside? You will be greeted at the side door by our mini-waiter who will be happy to show you to your seat. You breaking child working laws, Rainy? He had a work permit I swear.

Stepping back from him, you turn the oven on as you mentally tick off another thing, before scanning over the recipe that you have printed out.

It’s splattered in the sauce you’ve already made—and slightly damp from grabbing Luca's water earlier.

I think you’re lying. I think you grossly misunderstand how seriously we take things at Dino-Moralesaurus Diner. Excellent name though. I can’t take all the credit, your son is a genius.

At the sound of a knock, you help Luca down from the cooking stool Frankie had made him as he runs off excitedly screaming. It’s even harder not to grin at the sound of his boots coming off, as he comments nice hat, chef to Luca as you continue rolling out the dough.

You’re aware you’re covered in flour, that the side is a mess of sauce stains and random half-chopped ingredients.

“What’s this?”

Luca, now hatless, fulfils his duty as a waiter, offering the chalkboard to him as he explains, in the most adorable voice, that the special is pizza, the main is pizza and the dessert is—

“Rainy, what’s the dessert again?”

“Ice cream.”

“’Tis ice cream, Daddy.”

Lifting your head from chopping toppings, you catch his eye and exchange a knowing smile before Luca leads him to the already set table, clinking plates and silverware as he clambers up onto the chair to pour him a glass of lake water.

“Now, tell me, are the pizzas dino shaped?”

“Hmm, lets me ask the chefs. Chef Rainy?”

“Yes, Waiter Luca-saurus.”

You can’t fight the smile that spreads as you announce that unfortunately, tonight's dishes won’t even be fully round, never mind dinosaur-shaped.

By the time you’ve rolled out the dough and just about to begin spreading tomato sauce, Luca decides that there needs to be more dinos on the table. Freeing Frankie from sitting at the table and allowing him to join you.

“Chef Rainy, would you like some help with the toppings?"

“Only because you’re nice to look at,” you say, watching him roll up his sleeves as he moves to stand beside you.

You hand him a spatula for the sauce while you sprinkle cheese. Frankie insists on creating a ‘masterpiece’ with a mix of all the toppings, while you opt for a simpler choice, sprinkling it with fresh basil and tomatoes.

“By the way, Luca’s is store-bought. Thought poisoning your child would be hard for me to live down.”

Together, you lean against the counter as Luca runs back in, little feet slapping against the tiles as more dinosaurs begin filling up the table. Frankie goes into dad mode as he asks if he’s washed his hands before he’s running off again.

It’s barely a few minutes, but the timer goes off. Springing into action, removing Luca’s pizza from the oven—seeing the cheese golden, bubbling, filling the kitchen with a rich, cheesy aroma before you place it down and throw both yours and Frankie’s in.

You call out to Luca, who’s been eagerly waiting in the living room. “Luca-saurus! Your pizza’s ready!”

Luca comes running in, eyes wide with excitement as he climbs onto his chair at the table and you slice it up into smaller pieces and place it down.

“Mmm, this is so good!” he exclaims, his cheeks puffed out like a little chipmunk.

As Luca continues to enjoy his pizza, you and Frankie take a moment to savour the anticipation of your own creations baking in the oven. The timer goes off again, and you carefully remove the pizzas, setting them down on the counter.

“They look amazing,” Frankie says, admiring the crispy edges and perfectly melted cheese.

Taking your first bite, you’re hit with a burst of flavour, the freshness of the basil and the tang of the tomato sauce mingling perfectly with the gooey mozzarella. You share a look with Frankie, who gives you a thumbs-up, his mouth too full to speak.

“How did you like your homemade pizza?” you ask Luca, smiling at his enthusiastic nodding.

“It’s the best pizza ever!” he declares, reaching for another slice.

Frankie leans over, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he says softly.

You squeeze his hand, before moving to the sink to begin soaking them—just as Luca drags Frankie to pick the second part of the evening.

By the time you’re joining them, finding your saved spot in between them both, the movie is ready to begin, the opening credits starting before you’ve even got under the blanket. It’s minutes before you feel Frankie’s fingers sliding up and down your shoulder, your head turning, smiling as Luca sighs loudly next to you, eyes still closed, sinking deeper into a heavier sleep.

“You had a nice evening, Butterscotch?”

“Was perfect.”

“Thank you. For letting me do this—let us do this for you.” Shrugging, his free hand stroking over his face. “I’m proud of you. Six years is… monstrous.”

Snorting, resting his head on the back of the sofa, he grins a little wider. “Can tell the pair of you have had the afternoon together—monstrous.”

“He says it better.”

Nodding, Frankie shifts in his place, hand pausing on your shoulder, before squeezing it. “T-thank you. For tonight. For making a big deal but… not making a big deal.”

“Big deal not big deals are kind of my forte.”

Laughing, his thumb and index tracing over his lower lip, as you flick your eyes back to the brightness on the television—the high-pitched voices of the characters making you giggle, as the cartoon scene plays out.

“Wish we could do this all the time,” you whisper, fingers stroking along Luca’s hair—feeling him nuzzle further in the space between your calves and bent knees.

Frankie doesn’t move, or shift, but rather drags his fingers up and draws a different shape on your neck, forcing your eyes to move from the screen to his. And you see it, nestled there—a question, one his mouth opens to speak.

“What?” you ask.

“We could… do this all the time.”

Brows raising, you smile. “Oh? How would we do that?”

“Rainy.”

“Francisco.”

Snorting, continuing his drawing on your arm, he lets out a weighted exhale. “We could… maybe live in one place?”

“Oh?”

His hand slides over your shoulder, squeezing it as your heart races as he takes a breath, as more of his words hang in the air. It isn’t that you haven’t thought about it—that it hasn’t come up casually, a promise of asking you properly previously teased—but now it’s here, there, present.

Things crash into you as you run through the list. The image of waking up with him every morning, is slighted by the worries that he’d grow sick of you if you didn’t have your separate spaces. Would you disappoint him? Would he like the version of you he sees all the time—and not just part of it—

But, even still, the answer is so clearly there, sitting, teetering on the tip of your tongue as you begin to grin, smile. Almost about to answer when Luca mumbles in his sleep beside you, something incoherent before his eyes flip open and he makes a funny noise.

Frankie shifts, hand dropping from you as he calls out his name.

“I… Daddy, I don’t feel very well.”

“Shit,” you whisper as you throw your legs down from the sofa as Frankie moves to kneel at the same time as he whispers, “Mierda.”

The back of his hand presses to the boy’s forehead as Luca begins rubbing his stomach. “You feel sick?”

Luca nods, rubbing his eyes as Frankie helps lift him from his place between the sofa and your legs and makes him stand up.

“You think Daddy was right about all those sprinkles?”

Nodding again, Luca buries his head into Frankie’s neck and chest, little hands sliding around as Frankie looks at you and smiles, reassuringly. “He’ll be fine. But, I’m gonna put him in bed—do not press play without me, Rainy.”

Grinning, your lashes flutter as he lifts his son and stands. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Morales.”

“And, maybe we can finish the conversation too.”

Okay, you whisper—fingers pinching at the skin on the back of your arms as your brain begins to tally, to list, to think.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

an: have you seen the bonus graphics on the masterlist? if you have any moments you'd love to see from the series till now, let me know and i'll make them for after the epilogue (chapter 20)

[white-wolf-buckaroo]

She's got us now

A dad!Vander fic (with my og character, Luna, Vander's fifth adopted child)

Set before Act 1.1.

Masterlist: there you go

Disclaimer: english ain't my first language folks

The Last Drop was louder than anywhere Luna had ever been before. The nights were the worst—crowds of people shouting over music, chairs scraping against the floor, and the occasional crash of glass breaking. It was overwhelming at first. Her small hands often clutched Vander’s shirt as she hid behind him as he stood behind the counter, her wide eyes darting toward every unfamiliar noise.

“It’s alright, Lu,” he’d say, his big hand resting on her shoulder. “Nothing to be scared of.”

When he said it, she tried to believe him.

But it wasn’t just the noise. The other kids—Vi, Mylo, Claggor, and Powder—were a whirlwind of energy that made her head spin. Vander wouldn’t let them go out alone at night (yet, when they were older they could, he always said), so they hung around in the evening sitting on a table by the wall, or messing around a little bit. Not that anyone minded, really. Vi was the loudest, always climbing something or chasing Mylo through the bar. Mylo talked a mile a minute, sometimes teasing Powder and now also Luna in a way that made her unsure if he was joking or not. Claggor was quieter but still intimidating with how easily he kept up with the chaos, kind of like Vander in that way.

And then there was Powder. Powder was closer to her size and age, with a wide grin and a streak of curiosity that seemed boundless; she was undoubtedly excited at having someone younger around, as the older kids tended to baby her from time to time. She was the first to approach Luna.

“Do you like dolls?” Powder had asked one afternoon, holding up a patched-together figure with button eyes.

Luna blinked, unsure how to answer. “I… don’t have one.”

Powder’s eyes lit up. “I can make you one!”

The blue haired girl hovered around her, asking endless questions. “Do you like colours? I love to draw! What’s your favourite food? Are you scared of spiders? I’m not. Well, okay, maybe sometimes.”

It was a lot, but Powder’s excitement was easier to handle than Mylo’s teasing or Vi’s confident energy. Vi, on the other hand, took her time warming up to Luna.

“She’s so quiet,” Vi had whispered to Vander one evening, looking at Luna sitting at the table, swinging her legs idly as Powder braided her hair (insisting that she had to wear it like herself). Mylo and Claggor were bickering over a game of cards nearby, their voices blending into the general hum of the bar. “Is she scared of us?”

“She’s just getting used to everything,” Vander replied, while cleaning the inside of a mug. “Give her time.”

“So… she’s going to stay with us? Permanently?” Vi asked, her tone uncertain. She wasn’t really sure how she felt about it. Not that she minded having someone else around, but it was another change. Another person to get used to.

Vander glanced at her, his expression softening. “She doesn’t have anywhere to go or anyone else to take care of her.”

Vi frowned, crossing her arms. She leaned her arms on the counter, her face scrunching in thought. “It’s just… we don’t even know her. What if she doesn’t fit in?”

Vander chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “And what exactly does ‘fitting in’ look like around here, huh?” He gestured toward Mylo and Claggor, who were now arguing loudly over whether Claggor had cheated in their game. Powder, meanwhile, was carefully arranging Luna’s hair into a lopsided braid, ignoring the two boys excellently as she chatted about her favourite toys she wanted to show Luna later.

Vi’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Fair point.”

“Look,” Vander continued, his voice quieter now. “When I found you and Powder, it wasn’t any different. You already knew me, yes, but you were also scared and you had gone through a lot, just like her.”

Vi looked down, her expression softening as she remembered. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And now look at you,” Vander said with a grin, ruffling her hair. “You’re the one making this place feel like home for the others. You’ll do the same for her. Just give it time. She’s going to be one of us, just like you, Powder, and the boys.”

Vi huffed but didn’t protest. “Fine. But she’s not gonna cry all the time, is she?”

Vander chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’d be surprised. That kid’s tougher than she looks, I’m sure of it. She’ll be okay,” he said, almost to himself. His voice had turned low, filled with quiet determination, the kind that always made Vi believe he could do anything. “She’s got us now.”

Vi watched him for a moment, the way his gaze softened as he looked at Luna, the way he crossed his arms over his chest and let out a deep, thoughtful breath. He wasn’t just saying it—he really believed it.

And if Vander believed it, maybe Vi could too.

Vi glanced over at Luna as well, watching her laugh quietly at something Powder had said, her small hands clutching the edge of the table as if she was still anchoring herself to this new world. Maybe Vander was right. Maybe she just needed time.

So, Vi tried in her own way. She offered Luna the better seat when they ate dinner and slowed down when explaining the rules of the games they played to include her.

“Tag’s easy,” Vi said one day, crouching down to Luna’s level. “If you don’t wanna play, that’s fine too.”

Luna hesitated but nodded. Vi grinned, grabbing her hand to pull her into the game.

“You just gotta run fast, okay?” Luna nodded. “Hide so that they don’t find you. If they don’t, you win!”

“But what if you never find me?” she asked, eyes wide showing her frighten.

“We will, don’t worry about that,” Vi laughed a bit, crouching down again to her level to look her into the eyes when she noticed Luna still didn’t seem at ease. “Hey, I promise. I’ll find you. Always. And if not me, then Vander, okay?”

That seemed to do the trick; it certainly did, when Luna would end up winning a lot of times because she would hide in the smallest of places. She would always wait for Vi or one of the others to find her in order leave her hiding spot, though, always making sure they found her.

Claggor was the first to win her over completely. Unlike Mylo’s teasing or Powder’s chatter, Claggor was steady, with a calmness that made him approachable even when Luna was feeling shy or overwhelmed. He was the one who helped Luna feel less lost in the chaos of the Last Drop.

The first time she followed him around the Last Drop, it wasn’t because he’d asked her to—it was because he was working on fixing something at one of the tables, and she was curious. She hovered nearby, not saying anything, just watching as he tightened a loose screw on a wobbly chair leg.

“You want to help?” he asked after a while, glancing up at her with a small smile.

Luna froze, startled. “I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He handed her a screwdriver, holding her small hand in his for a moment to guide it into position. “Now turn it, like this. Slowly.”

She followed his instructions, her brow furrowing in concentration as she twisted the screwdriver. When the screw was snug in its place, she glanced up at him, uncertain.

“Perfect,” Claggor said, grinning. “Good job, Lu.”

From then on, she seemed to follow him around whenever he worked on repairs. He never complained, even when she slowed him down by asking too many questions or accidentally dropping tools. When she accidentally tipped over his toolbox, scattering screws and nails across the floor, she was afraid he’d be mad, and immediately scrambled to pick everything up, but he was calm about it.

“It’s okay,” Claggor said, crouching down beside her to help. “Happens to me all the time.”

“Really?” she asked, her wide eyes sceptical.

“Sure,” he said with a wink. “Once, I spilled everything right in the middle of the bar when it was full. Vander nearly tripped over me.”

That made her giggle, and Claggor grinned, satisfied.

When they weren’t fixing things, Claggor had a way of looking out for her without making a big deal out of it. If she was struggling to reach something on the counter, he’d quietly grab it for her. If Mylo’s teasing got a little too much, Claggor would step in with a simple “Knock it off, Mylo” that usually did the trick.

And when she was too nervous to speak up during one of their mealtimes, it was Claggor who noticed and slid the bread basket closer to her with an encouraging nod.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said softly. “Just take what you want. Nobody’s gonna mind.”

Even Mylo softened after a while. Though he still teased her (like most older brothers did to their younger sisters), his jokes became less sharp and more playful. One night, when they were all sitting at the table for dinner, Mylo leaned back in his chair, tossing a pickle from his plate to hers.

“Trade you,” he said.

“For what?” Luna asked cautiously, looking down at the pickle as though it might bite her.

“Nothing. I just don’t like pickles.” He grinned and added, “And you look like you do.”

She wrinkled her nose but took the pickle anyway, nibbling at the edge. Mylo smirked, satisfied, and went back to his meal. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it made her giggle—the first time she’d done so around him.

He remembered his first weeks after Vander had taken him in; he hadn’t been used to having a roof, a bed, food on the table… He had been unsure about everything at first, masking it with roughness and sharp bites whenever someone spoke up to him about it. And although he had grown into a teaser and he thought it was funny to annoy others from time to time, he also wanted to help Luna feel more at ease. He didn’t stop teasing her completely, but the edge in his voice softened. He’d say things like, “Careful, squirt, don’t trip over your own feet,” when she hesitated on the stairs, only to add, “Here, hold the rail like this,” as he showed her how to climb them more confidently.

When she joined the group to watch him and Claggor play cards, he scooted over to give her a better view of the game, though he kept up a running commentary that made her giggle.

“See, Lu, Claggor’s terrible at this. Don’t ever take advice from him about cards,” Mylo said, leaning close as though sharing a great secret.

“Hey!” Claggor protested.

“It’s true,” Mylo shot back, grinning.

“Don’t listen to him Lu, he cheats all the time!”

“I do not!”

“Yes you do!”

Luna only giggled.

One night, as the bar quieted down and they all sat around in the warm, dim light, Mylo noticed her watching him and Powder play a game with a set of battered dice.

“Wanna play?” he asked suddenly, holding up the dice.

Luna blinked. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll teach you.” He scooted over to make room for her on the bench, motioning for her to sit beside him. “Okay, so here’s how it works...” For the first few rounds, Luna struggled to keep up, biting her lip in concentration as she tried to understand the rules. Mylo teased her lightly when she made mistakes, but he always followed it up with a quick explanation or a playful grin to show he wasn’t serious.

“See? You’re getting it,” he said after she won her first round. “You might even be better than Powder soon.” Powder protested, glaring at him. “What? Just saying.”

Luna smiled, her confidence growing. It kind of broke the ice. By the end of her first week, she started to feel less like an outsider and more like she belonged, giggling and smiling more often.

It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t always easy, but every little moment helped her feel a bit more at home. The way Powder had smiled at her the first time she handed her a piece of bread. How Mylo had tried to teach her how to throw a rock just right in the alley, despite her clumsy attempts. Claggor’s quiet approval when she helped wash the dishes, and even the rare chuckles from Vi when she managed to get something just right in the makeshift kitchen.

But more than anything, it was Vander’s presence that made her feel like she was becoming part of something.

Every night, when the bar quieted down, and the sounds of the busy day faded into a quiet hum, Vander would make time for the kids. Late in the evening, when the others would be settling into their cots, murmuring amongst themselves or falling asleep with their heads buried under old blankets, Luna always waited for the moment when Vander would sit beside her bed, asking her about her day.

It was something she had come to look forward to, the time when the world outside faded away, and she could focus on something—someone—who made her feel like she wasn’t alone in this strange new world.

Luna hugged her blanket tight against her chest, the edges worn and soft. It was a gift from Powder, who had insisted she take it when Luna had no blankets of her own one of the first nights she had spent with them.

“They’re loud,” Luna said quietly, her voice unsure, her eyes still darting over to where the others were gathering nearby, talking and laughing in their own chaotic way. “But… they’re nice.”

Vander’s gaze softened as he watched her, his expression full of quiet understanding. He leaned a little closer, his large frame casting a comforting shadow over her bed. “They are,” he said with a small smile. “They’re your family now, Lu. You’ll see. They’ve got your back.”

Family.

The word seemed so big, so final. Luna didn’t fully understand it. She thought of the people she had met before, the ones who had taken her in for a night or two, fed her scraps, and then sent her away when their patience ran out. But there was something different about Vander’s words. They felt warm, like the sun on a cool day. Not demanding, not overwhelming, but steady.

Luna tucked herself deeper into the blanket Powder had given her, the edges soft against her skin. She glanced over at the others, who were talking about something she didn’t fully understand, but they weren’t laughing at her, or ignoring her. Powder was saying something about a machine she wanted to make with some metal scraps Claggor had given her, her voice animated as she waved her hands explaining it excitedly while Mylo told her to shut up and let him sleep.

Vander’s voice, calm and reassuring, pulled her back to the present. “We’re your family now,” he repeated, his hand gently brushing her hair back from her face. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, not anymore.”

The word didn’t seem as strange anymore. Family.

It felt safe. It felt like belonging. It felt right.