#orange sofa piping

[legohlas]

Living Room - Transitional Living Room

Mid-sized transitional formal and open concept medium tone wood floor and brown floor living room photo with brown walls, no fireplace and no tv

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Chapter 22

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: there might be some spelling errors here and there which I’m sorry about—I’ll try and remember to check through in the morning <3

word count: 7,866

-Part 21- -Part 23-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

More than once, you find your feet leading you in the direction of Bas’ house, but you always turn before you can reach his street. 

A few days ago you’d thought it would take a fortnight for the transition between autumn and winter to truly become apparent. You were wrong. 

There’s no way you could mistake it for anything else, with the way breath now huffs from chapped, rosey mouths like ancient, angry beasts prowling across an early morning moor; how now when you step outside and leave the warmth of the heating enchantments the cold nips at your throat, splashing ice into your lungs, encasing your arched ears in snow-kissed winds; how even without much sense left in your hands you can feel as your blood recoils from the temperature, scrambling back to be closer inside your body and abandoning your limbs for the sake of comfort. Useless body. If you were instead one of the massive bears kept in the Winter Court with thick coats and dense, padded bodies this would be much more bearable. 

As it is, you have to settle for keeping a brisk pace and wrapping yourself in an uncomfortable amount of layers. Layers that wrinkle too easily beneath one another and store sweat in their fibres. It’s always a relief to be once again indoors so you can shed the many skins. Especially when so much of the cosier cloaks are inlined with fur. You try not to let it bother you but as soon as that particular smell of leather creeps in, or meat with a little too much preserving salt…

Winter’s gotten a little easier. You can appreciate some of its beauty now it’s less likely to kill you. Its glittering exquisite. 

“What about this?” Elain gestures to a folded quilt that’s laid out amongst other similar items: bedsheets, pillowcases, towels, flannels, cloths. The quilt is a patchwork of small squares about the size of your open palm, each one different in pattern but similar in colour—pinks, pale pinks, whites, creams, oranges, pale oranges, a glitter of egg-yolk yellow. Around the hem hangs a slight frill made up of white lace. On its underside shows the padding designed for comfort, perfect for maintaining heat and being a cozy blanket to nestle under. 

An image passes through your mind then of all four of your crammed into that tiny bed, stuffed beneath a blanket like this in the depths of winter. Fingers so cold they felt like ice, cold enough to wake you from your sleep if a bare foot grazed your calf. Nesta and Feyre would usually be on the outside during the colder months, rarely taking place in the cozy, warm centre. You and Elain ever the middle children. 

A second image forms soon after, except instead of being set in an alternate past seems to fit more with a branch of the future: all four of you stuffed on the long sofa in the River House’s living room, the fire crackling behind its muffler but Nesta still on the furthest side. Some of you would be reading, Nyx might be cuddled beneath the quilt, close to Feyre’s chest, and maybe you might be stitching something together or sewing a pattern onto the sleeve of Elain’s top. Nyx would probably be briefly fascinated by the lace frill. Then if it was interesting enough he might try to eat it. 

You zone back in when you realise Elain’s looking to you for an answer. You wince, wanting to pull back into yourself and hide in your skeleton, sit on one of your own ribs, arms hung over an upper one. “I really… It’s lovely, but the bedroom I have is fine. We don’t need to find replacement stuff.” 

Elain seems a little crestfallen but quickly blinks it away, already turning her head to scour for something else that might take your interest. “Are you sure? It looks so warm,” Feyre pipes up, inspecting the little patterns of the squares. “I can imagine you all wrapped up in this, tucked away into a chair with a book heavy enough to break someone’s foot.” 

“I’m sure,” you assure her. “Really, the bedroom in your house is more than enough. I’m not sure I even wear half the clothes in the wardrobe—I’m fine.” 

After the news had been announced, tears had been shed, and you’d all spent the night on that sofa too afraid to let go of one another, Nesta had been the one to suggest fixing up the House of Wind again. It had been patched up after the initial explosion, but Nesta had suggested making it somewhere nice, reasoning all of the furniture had been destroyed anyway, so your room would be in need of some redecorating anyway. ‘Besides,’ Nesta had pointed out the following morning, ‘It’s mine. I can do what I like with it.’ And spend Rhys’ money while doing it, had gone unsaid, but after Nyx’s birth at least some of their aggression seemed to have boiled off. 

“This just seems like too much,” you admit while walking at Feyre’s side, Nesta strolling along the far side of the street while Elain’s already begun appraising a new set of pale green pillowcases. “You don’t have long,” Feyre murmurs in reply, her voice straining toward the end, “six months will fly by.” 

“I don’t mind,” you whisper absently. “My room’s fine as it is. We don’t need to redecorate the entire House of Wind.” 

Feyre falls silent, feet tapping in time together along the icy cobbles. Then her arm is tentatively slipping beneath your own, gently linking at the elbow, careful not to cause any aches in your flesh. You squeeze her faintly, bodies pressing closer in the cold, arms locked to try and keep up warmth while walking through the city. 

You glance up at the clock tower constructed at one end of the main square. It reads midday. Elain will be leaving for the human lands in a little under an hour and none of you have yet had lunch. Feyre follows your gaze, reading the time. “She won’t be gone for long, remember?” Feyre assures quietly. “She’ll be back before night.” 

You blink, turning to face your younger sister, “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking…” You flush, averting your eyes as you pull your arm from Feyre’s, “I’m not that clingy.” It comes out sounding more defensive than you’d thought it would, the tug of your arm rougher than you’d anticipated, but you speed your pace regardless, crossing the street to instead join Nesta. She’s looking into the window of a large bookshop, her sharp eyes picking out titles even through the warped and rippling glass panes. 

Nesta reads even more than you do, which is saying something. You’re not sure you could even read a romance book anymore. Not without a piercing sense of loss pinned through your heart. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Nesta muses, pulling from your thoughts, standing straighter as if she’s considering entering the shop, “of having a meal up at the House of Wind. Would you come?” You blink, looking over to her inquisitively, “Just…a meal?” 

“I was thinking of bringing Emerie and Gwyn to it, too. None of you have met one another.” Nesta turns back to the window, though she doesn’t seem to be looking at the books anymore. “Elain and Feyre would be there, too.” 

“For sometime near solecist?” 

“That could work.” 

You pull a part of your lower lip into your mouth, nipping at the interior. “Have you thought of a present for Feyre this year?” You ask, still being without a gift. It’s still about two months away, but…time has a habit of slipping through your fingers. Silverish eyes slide sidewards to you, and you glance at her questioningly. Nesta looks back into the window, “I think the plan is to all do something together. Elain seems to think that’s what Feyre wants.”

“Do you think she does?” 

“Probably,” Nesta replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Won’t that ruin the surprise?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know what she wants so we don’t do something she won’t enjoy?” 

You purse your lips. “Elain can ask.” 

Nesta seems to decide she’s done with the bookshop, turning her body to move on ahead and you follow quietly. “So, about the meal?” She reminds, and you swallow but manage a short nod of your head. “It sounds nice.” Your lips part, throat flexing in preparation to add on, I’d like to meet them, but something stops you and then the moment has passed. Nesta seems satisfied enough with your answer. 

Had she also mentioned Elain and Feyre intentionally when bringing up the dinner? 

You worry your lower lip. It’s been nice spending time with them again. Being on the sofa. Feeling bones press together. Hair sliding over shoulders. But has it been too much for them? Feyre has a husband and a baby and a court. Nesta has Cassian and her own life. Elain…is who you’d usually spend time with, but she’s leaving to visit Lucien. 

Bas is leaving too, soon. 

Maybe you should be returning to the House of Wind on your own instead of making them take you there and pad the way. You’re not ready to go back. Maybe you should just lock yourself up in the Prison. But that’s a stupid thought, one that’s not going to help you. Why try and make things worse for yourself? 

Your stomach grumbles and you flush, putting your hand over it in attempts to quiet the noise. 

It’s about time for lunch, anyway. 

————

“You haven’t been up to the House since, right?” 

You startle, spinning around as your hand recoils from the door handle, chest rising and falling so rapidly that saliva gets caught in your throat and you have to cough into the crook of your arm. At least you didn’t eat too much over supper, or you might have been worried about being sick.

Azriel stands silently in the hallway a little distance away, his eyes vaguely alarmed at your abrupt reaction. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me.” 

“It’s fine,” you excuse, coughing once more before lowering your arm, going to straighten your skirts before a rush of something shy flutters through your chest and your hands instead join at your front. “You’re just…very quiet.” 

Azriel hums, and you shift on your feet. You’ve been spending so much of your free time with your sisters that you haven’t really seen anyone but them over the past two days. Well, aside from Madja, who you’re still seeing every morning at ten o’clock, much to your relief. You lick your lips, finding them chapped and dry. “So…was there something you wanted?” 

Azriel nods his head once. “Not exactly. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to readjust yourself to the dimensions of the House, since Nesta’s told me you’re redecorating.” You flush, eyes dipping away, once again shifting on your feet. “Well, it’s more her idea…” you hedge, “since…you know, it’s hers now…?” 

“I know. But you’ll be wanting new furniture,” he reasons. “The walls had to be realigned so your room will be wider once it’s complete.” 

“Once it’s complete?” 

He nods his head. “You blew it up, remember?”

The flush deepens and you take a subconscious step back towards your room. You hadn’t meant to wreck the House, even if it was only your room that was really ruined. “I just meant…you mentioned walls needing to be realigned, so I was wondering whether they’ve yet been…” 

Azriel nods his head. “They have.” 

A beat passes. “So, are you coming?” 

You look up, surprised. “Hm? Where?”

His eyes narrow. “To the House. Is your head okay?” 

“Fine.” Your brows furrow. “Fine.” 

“No headaches?” He pushes, hazel eyes scanning swiftly over your body in a painfully analytic fashion. “No bouts of forgetfulness? Brain fog?” 

“No. No, I’m fine. None of that,” you assure, glancing down to the hardwood floor, a small part of you still stumbling at his attention. But it’s all good and fine noticing a problem once it’s obvious. “Besides,” you add, “I’m sure Madja would have picked that out by now…” Right? Madja’s been nothing but dependant as company. Competent and kind, so gentle with your skin and flesh and mind. 

Azriel seems to disagree, his head tilting slightly and you wonder if it’s a movement he’s showing intentionally or whether it’s simply something he’s learned to do when around other people after having every reaction trained out of him. “You’re only seeing her for about twenty minutes each day. It’s easy to miss some things.” 

“Yes, but isn’t she…? It’s Madja. Isn’t she supposed to be…I don’t know, one of the best healers in Velaris?” Isn’t she? Arrogance aside, wouldn’t it make sense Rhys would only want someone he could trust around during Feyre’s birthing? Madja must have proven herself to be reliable hundreds of times to be trusted enough to work so high up. Azriel nods his head, confirming your inner thoughts, “Probably in all of the Night Court.” 

“So, she would know if something was wrong.”

“There’s no harm in double checking.” 

You swallow, eyes awkwardly scanning him and the hallway, too nervous to look at him properly. “Well,” you say, once more clearing your throat, “I think I’m fine.” 

Azriel nods his head. “Shall we go?” 

You brows furrow deeply. “Where?” 

“To the House of Wind,” he says, stepping forward as if to reach for you, “Did you forget already?”

Your nostrils flare, lips curving at their edges. “I’m messing with you, Azriel.” 

His hand pauses in mid air, then it retracts and he stands straighter again, a look of faint displeasure held between his brows, “You shouldn’t joke like that.” Tension coils in your chest, and you look away from him, lips pursing, “life’s dismal enough as it is. I’ll joke about what I want to.” Azriel sighs, taking a step back to where he’d originally been standing, reinstating that cold distance between you that has your heart stretching thin. 

“Joke about what you like, but keep that humour away from your sisters. They’ll be going through a lot, right now.” 

You look at him then, arms lightly folded across your chest. “Will they?” You ask, tension coiling tighter. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be finding it the most difficult right now.” Azriel’s chest expands, then he’s blowing out a harsh breath, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know you could have said it better.” 

Quiet hangs in the air, then your throat is rolling, fight disintegrating when he makes no move to respond, shame at your snappiness creeping to your surface; disappointment he didn’t attempt to amend the exchange. Just one sentence would have been okay. You’re past pretending like you’d demand a lot from him. A few words and forgiveness would fall from your lips in a desperate spill, hungry for his care. 

Your lips press together. “Shall we go, then?” 

Azriel had flown you up—he hadn’t wanted you to winnow. You hadn’t thought much of the House since you’d been staying in Feyre’s home, but now you’re back and the smell is wrapping around you and it feels like you never left. It’s after a family dinner, you’re not yet obviously ill, warmth from Bas’ palms lingers on your hips and you’re still on good terms, Mor’s offered to take you out into Velaris and you never wrote back to Eris. You never told Azriel how you felt, and you still speak regularly in the library, your heart fluttering every time your eyes would meet, and you still think you’re in with a chance of keeping his attention. 

They hadn’t felt good at the time—they hadn’t felt enough—but you’d take them back in a heartbeat if you could. 

The two of you walk in silence down the hallways that lead to your old room, but when you reach for the handle you almost pause, able to feel the weight of Azriel’s attention on you and for a truly awful moment you worry they’re all inside, your room already done up, money already wasted on you, and you’ll have to pretend some kind of gratitude for the debt. But you cast the thought away, because that’s ridiculous—you’d been out with your sisters just this morning. 

You’d been unfair to Feyre. Short-tempered. Intentionally choosing to keep misunderstanding her. And then you’d done the same with Nesta, pushing your emotions onto them. 

Maybe it would be better for you to return up here again, so you’re away from them. Isolated, so your foul moods don’t bleed onto them. So they can stay happy, and you can deteriorate without having to feel bad about your inner necrosis. So they don’t see the way you’ll fall apart over these last six months. 

The handle twists in your palm and the door swings open. 

Azriel was right about the walls—they’re further apart than they used to be, your room suddenly a few inches wider, enough to disorientate you. But that’s not it. 

Your hand falls away from the handle, breathing shallow and deathly as you step back into the room. A small bed has been pushed where the old one used to lie, a similar looking desk up against the wall, a wardrobe near the windows, all resembling their previous pieces but so clearly different. Emptier. 

Your stomach drops, and the ground falls out from beneath your feet. 

“Where-” Your throat strangles the words in your mouth. Warping them to a hoarse rasp. “Where are my things?” 

You hadn’t thought about it. You’d put it out of your mind. Made sure to lock it up tight in a box along with the rest of the mess because you’d fall apart time and time again if you could think about it. But if the furniture was obliterated, and the walls destroyed… 

“They were blown apart, too.” 

The far end of the room stretches, distancing itself further and further from you as the walls either side become narrower, the floor beneath your feet groaning as if it’ll give any second. All of it’s gone? Everything? Everything?

You walk over to the desk, fingers tracing the surface, lips stitched shut. A painting had once sat there…greens, and golds, and falling stars. A romance book sat in solitary on an upper shelf. A bookmark with silver thread. A pendant with a small map contained inside. 

Your feet carry you to the wardrobe. There’s no smile drawn into the dust on the mirror. No lipstick, nor nail polish. The jigsaw you never touched, still wrapped in its bow. All of it? All of it’s gone? 

Scared eyes turn to the bed, glancing once to the empty bedside before you’re faintly walking over, lowering to your knees to peer beneath the mattress. Staring into the empty space beneath. Dark and hollow. No box holding your golden solar system. No bags from a shopping trip with Mor. No comfy slippers, and that dress that you’d only worn once, in the shop. The one that had looked nice, and you’d never worn it, too ashamed of yourself. 

“Did the-” The words are sticky, drying your throat together, tongue stuck too the roof of your mouth. “My orrery…?” 

Your heart is pounding and there’s a delicate fire beneath your skin, a cool sweat glossing your flesh. A soft roaring around your ears. You can’t have lost all of it. 

“A couple of things made it,” Azriel says from the doorway. You turn to look at him, the air around him warping and spinning faintly. Shallow and shimmering. Azriel shifts, something about his expression changing that you can’t quite pick out. “Are you feeling alright? You look…” 

“I’m fine,” you whisper, staring at him because it seems too much effort to really move your eyes elsewhere, lids pinned to your brows. A couple of things made it. A couple of things survived. 

Azriel nods his head. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll get them.” He looks like he might says something else, hazel eyes flicking over you, but he keeps his mouth shut and turns, disappearing from the doorframe. 

In his absence a wave of dizziness overcomes you. It’s without nausea, but the room is shifting, your head unable to find a balance to keep your body upright and you end up settling lower to the ground, lying on your side, knees curled to your chest. The room is so empty without any of yourself in it. Is this what Bas’ home will look like once he’s gone? 

Is this what your room will look like, once you’re gone? 

You picture it, the raised bed with the thick duvets, the desk pushed up against the wall to lie beneath the window, the bathroom connected with its cool, pale tiles. The room you and your sisters spent an afternoon and evening contained in, chatting and drinking tea; the room Madja’s tried to heal you in; the room you found out you were going to die in. Will it stop being your room once you’re gone? Will Feyre repurpose it? Keep it as it is? 

A floorboard creaks in the hallway, but you just don’t have the energy to move. Choosing to instead curl tighter, allowing your eyes to close in order to try and contain the hot pressure that’s building behind them. You don’t want to cry. 

Can death come any quicker? 

Footsteps pause on the threshold, and shame tugs on your gut, wanting to scuttle away and hide beneath the dark hollow of the bed. To crawl away to some dark space and be out of everyone’s way, keeping to your own corner far from anyone else. Safe and alone in the darkness. Like a small spider lurking on the top shelf in a wardrobe, just trying to keep out of someone’s way. You could get so far if you had eight legs. If you were as small and nimble as a spider you could go anywhere. 

The mattress stretches as a weight is delivered to it, then a presence is gathering at your back. 

A few seconds pass, then he’s asking quietly, “What are you thinking about?” 

You take time evening your breaths before you answer. “Spiders.” 

“Is there one under there?” Azriel asks, still keeping to that soft, low voice. Your lips tremble, but you open your eyes enough to look into the darkness, peering about for any eight-legged creatures. You shake your head faintly. “What got you thinking about spiders?” He asks next, and you realise his voice is close enough he’s probably sitting behind you. On the floor with you. You try to shrug your shoulders, not wanting to answer, but the movement is stunted from lying on your side. 

“Do you mind them?” He asks. 

“No,” you reply, voice creaking through the quiet. They’d made you uncomfortable at first, when they’d started creeping into your house all those years ago. Spinning their webs on bookshelves and between table legs, down the hinges of doorframes, where the breeze brings in smaller bugs for them to catch. “They’re small.” 

“Even the big ones?” Azriel replies. 

“They don’t hurt anyone.” 

“They look creepy.” 

Your brow furrows, then you’re rolling over on the floor to face him. Sure enough he’s sat a little distance back, arms around his parted knees. “Are you scared of spiders?” 

Azriel’s eyes twinkle. “Not the small ones.” 

You blink, unsure what to make of that. “Then, the big ones?” He hums in a way that might be a yes. It’s hard to pick out what he means by that one, smooth noise. “Which ones?” You ask, watching him quietly. “I know there are large ones in the Summer Court jungles? Arachnids as big as your torso.” 

Azriel smiles. “Those are fine.” 

“But their venom can paralyse you,” you argue softly, brows furrowing. Small ones are fine, small ones can’t hurt you. But the larger ones, those can bite. Those ones can be dangerous. “They’re easy enough to avoid,” Azriel reasons. 

A look of concentration knits itself between your brows, and you push yourself up from the floor, shifting back to lean against the bed. “What court do they come from?” Azriel’s lips curve faintly—he’s not going to tell you. “The continent?” You ask, trying to work around it, but this time he shakes his head. “On Prythian?” He nods. Your eyes narrow, inclining your chin by a singular degree, “how big are they?” 

Azriel pauses, thinking. “Curled up…probably as large as that bed,” he answers, nodding to the bed you’re leaning against. “Splayed out…each joint in a leg was probably around your height.” Your eyes widen in fascination. Then they narrow again, suspicion rising in your mind, “is this creature magical?” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do, and he nods his head. Your mouth parts, “that’s cheating.” 

“How’s it cheating?” Your mouth opens again but you can’t give an answer, eyes darting about as you think. “You’ve done most of your learning while you’ve been here, haven’t you? We have books on the creatures here. I’m sure you know some of them.” 

“I don’t know of any spiders that big,” you reply with your brows furrowed, frustrated you don’t know the species he’s talking about. Azriel laughs and you avert your eyes, scowling into the floorboards. 

“She’s locked up in the Prison now, anyway,” he says casually, as if that makes it better. You look at him again, “‘she’?” 

He nods. “Can you guess?”

Your brow tightens again. “I don’t want to.” You pull your knees up to your chest, readjusting your skirts so they’re covering your ankles. Leaning your chin into the dip of your palm, a downward tug to your displeased lips. Azriel raises a brow, “I didn’t know you were a sore loser.” 

“We weren’t competing.” You mutter. 

“Are you really upset?” He asks, sounding perplexed. You sigh, shifting on the floor now the bed is beginning to dig into your spine. “No,” you mumble, “I’m used to it.” 

He smiles, eyes twinkling, “used to what?” 

You don’t smile back. “You.” 

Azriel’s features mellow out, light winking away in his eyes and you watch the warmth sift down and out from his expression. “You aren’t entitled to my affections, just because of your situation,” he says softly, but sternly. No leniency afforded to you. No padding or gentleness to muffle the hurt. An ashamed blush creeps up your neck, spreading through your cheeks as you lower your head. “I’m not talking about that,” you mumble. Gloved fingers wring together and you pull your legs tighter to your body, “I’m talking about how needlessly cold you were. How clearly you cared for Elain without thought for me.” 

“You needed a clear answer. I was helping.” 

“You used me,” you whisper. 

Across the floor, you can feel it as Azriel stiffens. Almost freezes. 

“You used me,” you repeat, this time looking at him, “you knew how I felt about you. There’s no way you couldn’t have, Azriel. You-”

“You kissed me back.” Hazel eyes pierce into you, the shadows at his back stirring as though raising from their sleep. “You-”

“I’m talking about before.” The whisper rushes out of you on a swift exhale, hurrying to get the words past your lips so he doesn’t remind you any further. You swallow, a familiar feeling of shame coating your skin. “When I would speak with you in the library. And you would only speak with me to learn more of Elain. You were using me.” Azriel’s brows narrow and your heartbeat quickens unpleasantly. “You know I was making sure she was okay,” he claims softly, “the Mother knows you were too preoccupied.” 

“Stop lying to me.” A hot pressure is building behind your eyes again, staring at him in this room with the walls that feel like they’re closing in. “I know you love Elain. I know that, so stop trying to pretend like I’m imagining it. You wanted to know more about her so you spoke with me to learn more. You must have known how lonely I was, how hard it was for all of us after being ripped from our home, from our lives, and shoved into a world we had never wanted to be a part of. It’s like you’re just trying to get me to hate you.” 

As soon as the words leave your lips you freeze, staring at him with widened eyes. 

“Is that-?” You cover your mouth, toes curling in your socks as you huddle your limbs together. “Is that why you were so cold afterwards? Was it so horrible to deal with? Was it really so disgusting to you that…?” 

Azriel says nothing and you feel at that moment like the earth might split open and swallow you whole, suctioning you down far below the ground for discovering such a horrible secret, snatching you away before you can tell anyone and sealing you a thousand times in jagged stone beneath cold, damp earth. 

————

Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving, knees pressing tight together as if to hide her body from him. He should lower his head to respect her dignity, look away to offer her privacy but that in itself would be yielding too much information. Doing anything other than watching her crumble would be exposing a part of himself and no matter how much she’s hurting, he cannot. He will not. 

Azriel doesn’t care if she hit the nail on the head. He hadn’t meant any of it. But had he really been expected to simply accept her tenderness for him? Even if he wasn’t the spymaster he’d be able to see how much she thinks of him, how she listens to him and hangs on his words as if they heal wounds. If she thinks she loves him, she should know how awful he is. 

————

You shake your head, still staring at him. Then you try to push yourself to your feet. 

You need air. Need fresh air, and to get out of a room as cramped as this one. But when you stand you spot the things he’d laid on the bed. The things that had survived the blast, and you freeze. 

On top of the bare mattress, weighing into the bed is a thickly bound volume. The spine reads: Prythian: An Anthology Of Discoveries, in golden lettering. Sitting small atop the book however, is a familiar silver band, its narrow edges smooth and shiny. It’s the ring Eris gifted you on that last day in Autumn. The one he’d told you would help keeping your magic in check. The one you’d left discarded then nearly killed Azriel by being unable to control yourself. 

“This…? This is all that made it?” Your fingers trace the title, and you consider for a moment raking your nails down its surface, scalping its smooth leather and ripping the pages from the spine. The silver is cold against your fingers, and you imagine casting the window wide and throwing it out to the winds. Throwing it far, far away, somewhere you’ll never have to see it again, where you’ll never be reminded of the poor choices you made that brought such an unbearable amount of shame into your life. 

You can feel it begin to crush into you again, and your knees shake like they might buckle. Why is this all that lasted? 

“The book was enchanted, as many are nowadays.” Azriel’s voice is far off in your head, the world tipping beneath you. “The magic protecting it was ripped apart, but the book’s still intact. The ring seems to have its own magic warding it, though it’s been damaged.” 

“Is this-?” You turn to face him, arm banding across your stomach, able to feel as the shame and hurt squeezes you insides. “Is this your way of punishing me for what I did? By showing me this?” Azriel’s brow furrows, and he takes a step forward, “No.” You’re not sure you believe him. He takes another step forward, so he’s stood before you and you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought it would make you feel better. That you had something to keep.” 

“That reminds me of why you all hate me,” you say, hot tears spilling from your lashes, scalding your cheeks. “You can’t be expecting me to believe that you’re showing me these things because you’ve forgiven them. That you’ve so suddenly had a change of heart about what happened. Not this.” You sniff, trying to hide your face. “Not you.” 

Silence hangs in the air, stretched and painful until, “You think we hate you?” 

“I know you do,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

Scarred fingers collect around your wrists, and you try to cover yourself as he gently pulls your palms from your tear-stained face. “Look at me.” Look at me. 

Does he know what he’s doing? Or are you joining dots that have no business being joined? You open your eyes but look away, staring at the floor, at a section of wooden panelling that must have been redone when- “Look at me.” 

His shadows cooly gather beneath your chin, lifting your head but you stubbornly refuse, instead casting your gaze to the right where the door is. Just anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, eyes that will make your heart splinter. You look at the threshold, the handle of the door- 

Azriel’s wings open, and then you’re ensconced in night. 

His shadows gather between your feet, circling overhead so there’s nowhere for you to look anymore but him, everything else inked out to be bland and uninteresting. Only a very small amount of light is allowed through the darkness, like a dozen black veils of silk have been thrown over you to keep you together. Slowly your breaths begin to settle, transported away from the demanding present and instead somewhere else entirely, where time has been paused and you have no pressure of worry beating down on you. 

Your nostrils flare, but your breathing has become even. Chest slowly rising up and down, calmed and quietened. 

Your throat trembles, but you look at him. 

His hazel eyes are normal. No disgust or revulsion to be found. No ice, either. At first glance you might have called the look indifferent, but…calm. Quiet. 

Hands release your wrists, one lifting to the circle of your shoulder, but the other moves for your chest. You inhale softly as his fingers graze across the fabric of your top, his touch featherlight and careful. They pause, coming to a stop in a place you’re certain he’ll be able to feel the pounding of your heart. But he makes no remark on the wild rhythm, instead pressing the pads of his fingers down so they’re resting atop your breast. “You have a scar here, don’t you?” 

Something tugs from beneath your ribs, an alertness jerking awake beneath his touch. 

“It’s small, isn’t it? Barely there. Less than a scratch, but it’s scarred.” 

What? How does he…? 

His hand finds yours and he guides you a step closer to him, then lifts your palm to the side of his stomach, his ribs. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, but in the shared silence you have no need to strain your ears; you can hear him perfectly. “None of them hate you either.” 

“You’re lying,” you whisper. 

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing your palm flat to where that matching scar lies, embedded deep in his flesh. Where he’d stolen the arrow you had meant for yourself. 

Your head hangs in defeat, and your forehead meets his chest. His hand releases your shoulders, scarred fingers skimming the small hairs sprouting from the top of your nape. 

————

Night has fallen by the time you return to the River House. 

It’s dark and you wrap your arms tight over your chest, wind playing with your hair, kissing ice up your neck. At your side, Azriel seems unbothered by the descending winter, appearing as stoic as ever. 

Coming up the pathway that leads past the front lawn you can see the lights in the House are one, letting you see in to the living room and kitchen, each separated by the hallway that connects to the door before you. No one’s in the living room, but you can easily make out the figures of two of your sisters in the kitchen—Feyre and Elain. You wonder what they could be speaking about when Elain soundlessly slams her hand down on the table. 

You pause, and you know Azriel’s watching too. 

Elain’s teeth flash in the faelight and your brows narrow, pulse spiking—they look like they’re arguing. You hurry a step forward, hand falling to the handle but Azriel places his palm atop your shoulder, pausing you. You look back at him. “We should give them space. Let them sort it out on their own.” 

You consider, glancing between him and the front door. Teeth nip at the interior of your lip—you’ve not seen Elain like that in a long time. She’s not one to become easily agitated. “No,” you say, “they’re my sisters. I want to know what’s wrong.” 

“It looks private. You should wait-” 

But you turn the handle, giving him a strange look, “They’re my sisters.” 

As soon as the door opens, Elain’s voice rings through the halls, bouncing off the walls with crystal clarity, “I want to know why I had to hear it through Lucien, Feyre. Who, I might add, didn’t even hear it from one of you.” 

Quiet settles, tense and taut and you halt, blinking. What have you just walked in on? 

With as little noise as possible you push the cloak from your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway. Elain’s voice carries on, unaware of the new listeners. “Are you going to explain it?” She asks, voice softened from its previous cut, still bearing a nasty edge. “I didn’t want to worry you,” comes Feyre’s quietened reply. “I didn’t mean to hide it, Elain, but the timing was never right, and you’re both…” 

“We’re both what?” Elain asks sternly, her voice tight. “Untrustworthy because we aren’t as tightly knit with others in your circle?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Feyre replies, with soft steel. “That’s got nothing to do with it.” 

“Then tell me why you didn’t think to mention it.” 

Silence falls, and you feel guilt gather in your chest for eavesdropping. You turn to glance at Azriel but he seems to have vanished into shadow at some point. Maybe he actually had intended to give them privacy, but you’re in too deep now. Instead of hiding you straighten your skirts, quietly stepping further along the hallway until you reach the kitchen, peeking your head around the doorway, “is everything okay?” 

Cocoa coloured irises flick to you and Feyre turns in the kitchen, spotting you in the hallway. “Fine,” Feyre says—too quickly. You look over to Elain, but she’s watching Feyre instead, coca eyes simmering. You swallow, and step decisively into the room, steadying your voice, “What’s wrong?” Because something’s clearly amiss. 

A tense silence passes and you can feel your insides trembling, as if the quiet is a living, breathing creature, gently but increasingly firmly pushing against you, weighing on your shoulders, pulling on your back, an invisibly current slowly trying to drag you from the room. You stand still. 

Feyre’s shoulders sag in a way you haven’t seen before, her can lowering in a way that casts heavy shadow beneath her eyes and into the downturned corners of her mouth. “We’d thought to keep you out of it,” she says, much too softly for High Lady. “You’re both…” But she trails off, landing her face in her hands and rubbing along the narrow lengths of her curved brows. Her hands fall to her sides and she leans back against the table, arms moving to fold over her chest. “I know what it’s like, to be kept out of something…” She looks at both of you in turn, blue-grey eyes anguished and distraught, showing a turmoil she’s been battling with for quite some time. And what she’s said is true—she knows what that’s like. How she almost died without knowing the circumstances of her own child. She knows better than anyone what it means. 

So what could have made her decide…? 

You release the tension of your stance, settling back against the wall since this seems like something important. 

“You may have seen us to be more on edge than usual…” Feyre confesses, casting a glance to Elain. Your older sister’s expression doesn’t give, but acknowledgement passes through her eyes and Feyre continues. “Nesta’s been practicing with Ataraxia more frequently, despite how little we know about its nature; Amren’s been trying her efforts at furthering her understanding of The Old Language; then the trip Nesta and Cassian went on to the Day Court…to visit Helion’s libraries.” She swallows thickly, shadows accentuating the roll of her throat. “Helion, Spell-Cleaver.” 

“Nesta mentioned a binding spell,” you now recall from that supper all that time ago. Amren had bitten her off. Nesta had Ataraxia out on the table when you’d gone to visit her. What Eris had been talking about during your visit to Autumn. It must have something to do with why he was surprised you weren’t learning to fight. 

But why would you need to?

“We…” Feyre starts but swallows her own words. Besides her, Elain shifts on her feet, her attention casting skittishly around the dimly lit kitchen, only small yellow lights lighting the large room. Your younger sister sighs harshly, rubbing her face once before looking at you fully, hands again to her sides. “We think the Prison is collapsing.” 

Her words settle into the quiet of the kitchen and seem to disappear in the external world while they ring endlessly within your mind, repeating in a space away from the linear passage of time and instead growing louder and louder with every hurried repeat. We think the Prison is collapsing. 

What are you supposed to say to that? 

You can feel your eyes stretch, throat turning dry from breathing through your mouth, lips open while you stare. 

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, throat closing up on itself. Why would the Prison be collapsing? Why now? Why?

“When Nesta fought Lanthys,” Feyre begins solemnly, “perhaps even when she first retrieved the harp…whether it was Ataraxia, one of the Dread Trove, or Lanthys exploiting a worn fibre of the spell’s fabrics…maybe a combination of the three…we don’t know for certain.” 

“You don’t know why the Prison is breaking?” Elain asks, staring at Feyre. 

“We know the wards are weakened,” she corrects, as if savouring the small grace that they seem to still be holding. But for how much longer? “We think it’s in relation to a magical object imbued with Cauldron-made power being in close proximity to such an ancient antiquity…that their magic might have abraded the spells of the Prison… But no. We don’t know for certain.” 

The walls tilt, shadows stretching and you’re thankful you’re leaning against the wall. Feyre meets your gaze with a look you could call grieving. “Please let’s discuss this further in the morning. I’m sorry it was kept…that I helped keep it from you—both of you—but for a conversation like this…” Feyre looks to Elain, a bit of that strength being forced to her surface. “We can speak in the morning.” 

Elain watches Feyre silently, and for a few moments you think you might see anger in her eyes, but it’s turned calm and quiet. “I imagine it’s difficult, in some respects,” Elain says, “to play the role of High Lady.” 

You can’t tell whether it’s meant as consolation or a jab, but Elain’s already departed from the room, leaving just you and Feyre. 

“How long have you known?” You ask in the quiet. Feyre shifts but doesn’t look away from you, “Long enough that we’re running out of options.” 

You nod your head, more than just fatigue now weighing on your lids. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” 

————

It’s strange how you find yourself meandering the opposite way from your bedroom when you reach the top of the stairs. Seeking out a room you’ve never once tried to approach without explicit permission beforehand. But the whole night had been strange, and your head is swimming slightly, paddling in the shallow part of a clear river. 

Your hand lifts, but at the last second, and for no discernible reason, you change your mind, opening the door quietly without knocking. 

Azriel is sat at his desk, a low light atop the surface, a lampshade tinting the colour a pale yellow. Ink scratches over parchment, and you pause on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. You could understand the pleasure of spying, if it means seeing people like this. 

He looks up after a moment, seemingly finished with his task as he sets the paper aside and lowers his quill. 

“It was Blue Annis, wasn’t it?” You speak before he has a chance to. “The spider you were telling me about.” 

“Yes.” Azriel inclines his head. “It was.”

Something big enough, cruel enough, powerful enough to strike a chord of unease into Azriel. And the container holding her and countless others is fraying? 

You lean a little more of your weight into the doorframe. “How long do you think is left before the wards are sparse enough for one of them to slip through?” 

“Probably another month,” Azriel replies. His expression doesn’t falter as he adds, “one might’ve already managed.” 

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, fear twisting in your stomach. He must be able to smell it on you. Azriel leans back into his chair, “We’re checking each cell to make sure. So far everything’s been where it should, but it’s a slow process. By the time we happen across an empty one…” He raises a brow as if to say: Who knows how far it’ll have gotten?

A shudder spider-walks down your spine. “Are they all as scary as she is? As Blue Annis?” 

“You’ll work yourself up into a panic like that,” Azriel tells you, his face remaining serious. “You’re already imagining the worst possible creature you can think of, aren’t you?” 

“Is she less scary than I’m imagining?” You ask dryly, forcing a wry curve of your lips. 

Azriel’s eyes seem to twinkle, but maybe it’s the light. 

“What’s she like?” You force yourself to ask, voice lowered beneath the night. But Azriel shakes his head, “Ask me another time.” 

His lips curve, but the light in his eyes has winked out. “You don’t want her to be the last thing on your mind before night.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[inkdrinkerworld]

jack of all trades

wc: 3.7k

pairing: handyman!james x teacher!reader [though can be read as any reader]

cw: fluff, life mishaps, handyman!james, mention of a break in, family dynamics [healthy], mention of food

You were fucked. You should’ve just called a plumber from the beginning.

Now your pipes were all wrinkled and your sink wasn’t draining.

Your heart was in your throat as you pulled out your phone and called your brother, Michael.

“Do you know any plumbers? My sink’s pipe is fucked,” you send him a picture and he chuckles down the line. Your brother is a mechanic, but he's got friends in many places.

Places you hope include wherever they hire plumbers.

“Yeah, I’ll call someone. Make sure you don’t use it again, dummy.” you nod, chewing at your cuticle.

“Thanks,” your voice shakes and you know your brother is frowning.

Life had been fucking you with no prep for the last couple months. Someone had broken into your house almost five weeks ago, stolen a couple small pieces of jewellery and fucked with your locks.

You’d had to change the locks, your front door and you’d taken to sleeping in the living room with a three inch knife under your pillow.

That had put you out of money for groceries and your brother had taken over doing it for you till you could again.

Now you can’t wash your dishes and your anxiety is all over the place.

“Stop it, go get ice cream or something. I’ll come over with him if he can swing it, okay?”

“You're the best,” you say earnestly and he chuckles, “I’ll buy shit to make the buns you like as payment.”

Your brother doesn’t deny himself the delicacy- it had taken a while for you to get back into doing things that made you happy and he was also a sucker for them.

“I’ll text you what he says, be safe. Love you.”

You return the sentiment and head out, double checking that you’d locked the gate and the front door.

You’d gotten a pint of orange creamsicle, and a pint of caramel biscuit and cream before getting the stuff to make the buns for your brother.

As you set them all down on your counter your phone pings off.

‘He can come tomorrow morning at 9, I’ll come with him. He’s a good guy though, don’t worry.’

You send your brother a thumbs up and then he sends you a photo of the man you suppose is coming to fix your pipes. He’s good looking, his hair is long in the photo, tied back in a low bun but there’s curls on his forehead. Another thing you notice is how massive he is. He’s broad and muscular but in the photo you’re looking at he’s got a warm smile on his face that shows off a dimple.

He looks friendly enough. Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad.

You try to sleep in your bed, you don’t want your brother to notice that you’re still on the sofa in the morning, but being so far from the door makes your heart clench and you find yourself dragging your blanket out to the sofa that you’re sure by now has your body’s impression.

“Last night,” you say to yourself as you cuddle your pillow and tuck your blankets under your chin.

Your alarm has you groaning. 6:30 is a nice time, but not so nice when you don’t actually have to go into the preschool to teach, but for parent meetings at 11. Rubbing your eyes, you sit up, legs already moving to the kitchen to set the kettle on.

You go through your morning routine and only feel alive when you have a cup of tea and a bite of the last of sourdough toast you’d made last week. Your phone rings and you already know it’s your brother, “Yes I’m awake, dork.” he might be older than you by four years but you’re really close so the teasing is nice.

“Open the door then, and make sure you have on your glasses.” you flip him off over the phone but walk across the floor, glasses on, to unlock the door.

“Where’s your key?” you ask as you open the door, finding your brother holding two brown paper bags and the man in the photo standing next to him in grimy coveralls.

“I hooked it on the look of my pants, James was being prudish about touching me.”

“I wasn’t,” the beefy man starts, jingling his toolkits as an answer. His voice is nice, deep, cherry and his drawl is a little slow, but still very pleasant.

“Come in,” you step to the side and open the door wider. “Don’t worry about him, he just likes people touching him.” your brother scowls but doesn’t deny it.

“Don’t laugh when you see it, this one already did. I know it’s bad.” you say nervously as James sets down his stuff.

“S’fine, can’t be much worse than some of the other stuff I’ve seen.”

“Come eat, I got you that breakfast cake thing you like.” your brother sets the box before you, sliding over your cup of tea and a bottle of orange juice.

“Did you eat?” you eye him as you sit on the island.

“Shanice made eggs and toast.” you love your future sister-in-law, but the mention of her in the kitchen has enough merit to make your stomach roll in discomfort and your body to produce a gag.

“There’s chicken salad in the fridge and the bread’s there too,” you turn to James, “Do you want anything to eat, James? There’s vegan stuff in the fridge too if you don’t eat meat.”

Your brother rolls his eyes, “He could eat an entire chicken if he really wanted to.” You’re positive there’s a small blush on James’ face. He’s even prettier in person and you’re really trying not to stare.

His hair is tied back like it was in the photo, inky curly spirals slipping out around his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes are a shade of brown that reminds you of sand- dark but flecked with lighter hues; he’s captivating.

He’s almost as wide as your fridge and his arms are huge, but he looks soft, even with all the corded muscles. You will your eyes not to linger on his hands.

Your brother makes himself a triple sandwich and takes one of your iced teas.

“I’m alright,” he eyes your cup of tea, “I could do with a cuppa though.” you nod and set the kettle on.

“One sugar or two?” He holds up a single finger before opening the cupboards. He hisses and you suppose that’s better than the laugh that bursts from your brother.

“S’not that bad,” you can tell he’s being extra nice when he sees the embarrassed look on your face, “I’ll have to change all the pipes though. Whoever installed these ones used really thin PVC so under the heat it crumpled.” James stands and accepts the tea from the dainty mug without a complaint.

“Will it be super expensive?” you ask, and your brother flicks your forehead. “What? You know I can’t afford many more swings right now.” You only feel a twinge of embarrassed heat licking at your neck as you look between James and Michael.

“You’re such an idiot, I’ll go half with you.” He says and you nod, giving him your best smile but your brother draws the line when you try to hug him.

“It won’t be, but I can’t do it today. The better pipes have to be ordered in, but they only take like a day to get here.” James explains and you nod.

“That’s fine, I’ve got most of my stuff already cooked so there won’t be much dishwashing.” James finishes the tea and pulls out a pen and paper from his bag. “Here’s my number, you can text me in like two days about it if I don’t call Michael first.”

You nod again, thanking him as he gathers all his stuff and moves for the door. Your brother waves him away and then turns to you, frowning.

“You still sleeping on the sofa?” It’s then that you realise you hadn’t put your blanket or your pillow away and scowl.

“I can’t sleep in the bed, my mind just runs wild.” you say as you finish your tea and cake. “I’ve been trying though.”

The door shuts and you realise James has probably heard what you’ve said. Your mouth can’t seem to not run away from you when he’s around.

You brush the slight shame away with the semi-reassuring thought that ‘at least he doesn’t know why a grown woman can’t sleep in her own bed,’ it doesn’t last long, but it mellows the initial sting.

Michael ruffles your hair and you shrug, “It’ll just take some time,” he says softly, “Want me to get a security system?” You shake your head at that.

“You’re already going half and half with me on this, and you paid for my groceries for like three weeks. I’ll be okay.”

Your brother doesn’t look convinced, but he can’t argue with you because his phone rings.

“Work, I gotta go, but think about it okay? Shanice won’t mind either,” you nod but you both know you won’t be thinking about anything.

“Have a good day at work, I’ll bake those buns the second the sink’s all good.”

-

You’re coming back from work the next day when your phone rings, an unknown number. You frown and then realise it might be James.

“Hello?”

“Hi, angel. This is James,” he says, like you’ve forgotten his name over the last twenty four hours.

“Hi James, is everything okay?” you ask, shoving a couple folders into your bag from the passenger seat of your car.

“Yeah, was calling about the pipes. I’ve just picked them up and I’m near-by. Would you mind at all if I came to install them today?”

You stick the key in the ignition, “I wouldn’t mind, but I’m about twenty minutes from my house, would you wait?”

You really hope he can, you want this problem resolved as soon as possible.

“I can, angel. Don’t sweat it,” he says before he hangs up. You do a happy shimmy in your seat before pulling out of the school’s parking lot.

Next, you call Michael.

“James is coming over to fix the pipes today, just in case you know, I go missing or something.”

Your brother laughs, “He’s a sweetheart. Maybe stop listening to your crime podcasts, you’re getting even more morbid.”

“Oh whatever, I’ll stop by tomorrow with the buns.”

“Make sure you get some sleep,”

“Yeah yeah, I’m going now.”

James is in his car when you pull up, a bronco that looks very well kept. “Sorry for the wait,” you say as you unlock your door.

“S’fine, had enough time to have a late lunch.”

You check your watch, “It’s almost four James, that’s more like an early dinner.”

The man lifts his shoulder and drops it with a smile, “It’s been one of those days.”

“Do you want a cup of tea or iced tea?” you ask as you open your fridge. “I should warn you though, they’re addictive.”

“What flavour iced tea do you have?” you smile, James might be someone else you get hooked on them.

“Peach, hibiscus and I think I see one last cucumber melon.”

“Which is your favourite?”

“Peach! It’s not really that sweet though, but if you like it super sweet maybe hibiscus would be better.”

James smiles at the way you ramble as he opens up his toolkit and then the pipes.

“I’ll take the peach angel,” you pass him the glass bottle after tipping it upside down. James takes a long sip and sighs, “That’s good.” you nod and then move to take out a bowl of rice and chicken.

“Do you need me to get anything? To help?” you ask and James shakes his head.

“Not right now,” you think about going to eat before asking,

“Can I watch? Just to know what you’re doing?” then you back track as James doesn’t say anything.

“Not because I don’t trust you to do it well, I just like knowing. Like with my door, I learned how to put it up when I had to change it,” you realise you’re rambling when James smiles and his dimple is visible through his stubble.

“You can watch angel, you can hand me the tools I’ll need.”

You and James make a good team- you’d been nervous at first and then when James was so close you could smell his coconutty cologne you felt your head go a little light but almost two hours later, your pipes were changed.

“Moment of truth is if the water goes down,” you say as you stand, knees cracking in the process.

James nods, “You’re not a bad assistant, if you ever change professions I’ll put in a good word for you.”

You beam at that before opening up the tap and letting the water flow. Not even a drop of it pools in the sink and your heart feels like a feather floating away in the breeze.

“You did it!” you turn to James with a pleased smile and he blushes. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you exclaim and he chuckles, already packing up his toolkit.

“You’re welcome angel, Michael already paid by the way.”

You shake your head at your brother’s actions, but you can’t find it in you to be upset, not when your sink is fixed. “Can I entice you to have dinner then? I’ll feel bad if you just go,” you tack on when James doesn’t answer. “I’ve got pizza or taco bowls.” you sing-song and that breaks him.

“What kind of pizza?”

It’s how James ends up on your sofa, overalls hanging off his hips, revealing a dark red compression shirt as he holds his plate.

Your blanket is still on the sofa, but you shove it to the armchair.

“Wanna watch anything specific? I’m going through Christmas movies right now,” James’ eyes are wide at your confession.

“It’s the middle of August,” you nod and bite your bar-b-que chicken pizza.

“I’m making a short list of Christmas movies for this Christmas. Last three years in a row I did one.”

James grins, “So I take it you like the season.”

You nod, “If you ask Michael, he’d tell you I was obsessed with it,” you shrug, setting down the slice of pizza.

“When we were kids, I used to go crazy about it. Write letters to Santa with our address and mail it, play Christmas songs all through the month and I was a little excessive with the decorations- especially when I started working and could buy the ones I wanted. It just always feels like a good time- eternal joy and hope and all that jazz I guess.”

James looks around your house now and finds a few trinkets in the space and for a moment he can imagine it decked out for Christmas. “I can see it,” he groans as he takes a bite. “That’s delicious, angel.”

Your face gets hot under the compliment and you give James a small smile.

“What are you watching now?” he asks, taking another bite.

“The Holiday,” you search for the remote and find the movie. “It makes the shortlist every year, but it’s so good.”

James and you watch the remaining forty five minutes, and he nudges your shoulder during the sad parts so you don’t let the tears in your eyes fall.

“Do you think people rent that cottage?” He asks you and you frown.

“I dunno, but if it’s for rent it’ll be so nice! It’s so cosy looking.”

James doesn’t point out that your house looks just as cosy. It reminds him of the houses you see in magazines- not the boring ones that’s all one colour and minimalistic, but the ones that seem to be alive with colour and things.

He’s sure they all serve a purpose- the small statues in one corner near your window, the coasters that look like flowers, it all seems to complement you and your home and James thinks to himself, ‘this is what a home should be.’

He stretches as he stands and you do as well, reaching for his plate that he doesn’t give. Instead he takes your own and walks to the kitchen.

“You’re a guest, guests don’t do the dishes.” you try to get your plate back but it’s no use, James is already washing them and stacking them in the draining board.

“Thanks for dinner angel,” he picks up his toolkit and the bucket of parts that need to be tossed out.

“You’re welcome, thanks for fixing my pipes.”

James waves it off, “I’d say we should do this again sometime, but changing your pipes so frequently isn’t ideal.”

It isn’t till after you hear the innuendo in his words. You do laugh a little in the moment, so James counts it as a win. Your laugh reminds him of that fairy in the show his niece loves- a sweet tinkering, bell-like sound that makes him smile.

“It was nice though. You’re good company.”

You walk James to the door, “Make sure and lock up,” he says kindly and you nod.

You notice that you don’t hear his boots don’t move till he hears the locks click and your heart flutters stupidly at the action.

You can’t like him already, you barely know him. A voice in the back of your head says, “But he’s already so dreamy,” you’re very inclined to agree.

-

You’d thought that would’ve been the last time you saw James too, but three weeks later, he’s at your brother’s house for his summer party and you’re fucked all over again.

He’s not a bad sight to be greeted with, arms exposed in his black tank top and his thighs. They’re thick and you can see the outline of muscle on them, even from far away. There’s a couple smattering of tattoos that peak from the hem of his shorts and you have to stop yourself from drooling.

He’s laughing at something Shanice is telling him, and he looks even more gorgeous.

It should be illegal, you think to yourself, for the man to look that effortlessly beautiful.

“You made it!” Michael says, handing you the drink in his hand before gesturing for you to follow him.

“You said if I didn’t come you’d have called me non-stop. I love you, but that’s annoying.” Michael leads you over to his fiance and James. You hug Shanice and wave politely at James.

Conversation is easy, and James hopes he’s being discrete as his gaze falls to you a little longer than necessary. You catch him once, and the look in his eyes confuses you just a little.

You don’t think badly of yourself, but you’re just in a pair of jean shorts and the top of your bikini- a pretty pink colour, after you’d read an article about lifeguards having a hard time spotting people in pools and the ocean if they had on blues and greens- is exposed by your lack of shirt.

In any case, you didn’t think it was cause for his stares to linger and look so… primal if that was even the right word.

Michael says, “James, do you know any good alarm systems?” as you sip your peach iced tea and vodka. You elbow your brother as James nods.

“There’s a few out there that I’d recommend, why?”

“Don’t,” you murmur to Michael who ignores you entirely.

Your brother doesn’t hesitate as he says, “Someone broke into her house a couple weeks ago and she hasn’t been able to sleep in her room since.”

“Yeah, just talk about me like I’m invisible,” you mutter and James feels anger and fury for you fester in his chest. It blooms rapidly and takes him by surprise.

“You’re not invisible, you’re just a hard head.” your brother says, James is inclined to agree as well- especially after the portion of the conversation he had overheard that first day you met.

“I can stop by the hardware tomorrow if you want, should have some of the ones I usually recommend.”

Your brother smirks and you feel shame and something you can’t yet name balloon your belly.

“Thank you, James,” you say as you finish off your vodka iced tea, already feeling for another one.

As the food comes out, you help yourself; ensuring to avoid James’ gaze because over the last couple weeks he’s seemed to come to know a lot of the bad things about your life. You pile watermelon and pineapple on one side of your plate before picking some fries and a bar-b-que chicken breast. Your hand reaches for a lemonade when a bigger one grabs it.

“I got it angel,” James’ own plate is full too. More meat than fruit but it’s fuel either way so it doesn’t bother you. “Where’re you sitting?”

You point to the seat near the pool.

“You don’t have to be so nice, James. Michael’s mouth is just too big for his own good.”

James rolls his eyes, “I’m not being nice because of him,” he says, taking the seat beside you and handing over your lemonade after cracking the seal. “Or because I fixed your pipes, or anything else.”

You frown as you chomp on a piece of watermelon. “You’re not?”

James shakes his head, digging into his food.

You squint at him and James chuckles, “No, you should feel safe in your house.”

You don’t say anything much after that, overwhelmed by his care- even if you’re stopping yourself from reading too far into it.

“You’re real sweet, James.” you say after a while, spearing a look at him to find his eyes already on you; that same kind of hungry look in his eyes like earlier.

“Yeah?” he hums and for a moment you want him to kiss you. You want to feel the press and the heat of his lips on yours, then you catch the thought. You hardly know him. But you want him and him coming over to install the security system might not go as smoothly as the plumbing had gone. You find you wouldn’t mind if James does something other than install the alarm system.

“Yeah.”

[star2fishmeg]

ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ

[3.3k]

Pairing: Song Mingi x afab!reader

Summary: mingi and y/n discover that you can still relight candles once the flame flickers out...even at sweaty crummy fratty parties

Warnings: 18+ smut, university!au, fratboy!Mingi, angst, comfort, inaccurate frat description probs, exes to lovers, happy end, drugs (weed), alcohol, mingi and reader are in their 20s, making out, grinding, thigh riding, swearing

Authors Note: I remembered I never posted this fic from Oct '23 so here's the last mingi fic for a while. Ngl if one half of this is better than the other it's bc the first half was written last year. This is a work of fiction, the activities involved are fictional and none of what the boys are doing is real or based on real events.

Request: none!

♫ party monster - the weeknd

It wasn’t her first time attending one of the boys’ parties, she’d been going since they joined the university. It was never any different though, the same music, the same games, rarely any new faces but when you’ve got alcohol in your system you never notice anyway. She completely understood why people loved the parties though, after a week of uni it was the one place for some people to escape to an entirely different world, each room had its vibe and you just gravitated to yours. Or chameleon through them all, which is what she did with her friends because they liked to make the most of a potentially messy night.

Getting into the parties was the hard part, they were picky due to their seniors mentoring. You had to be directly invited, and luckily, she was. Growing up with Yunho and Mingi wasn’t so bad after all, they were the ones to thank for the inclusion, but she got on with the others just as well.

Y/n sat outside in one of the plastic garden chairs, also known as Yeosang’s smoke circle. Yeosang was serenity in human form, his personality was on the quieter side, and he’d recently dyed his hair a neon green after losing a bet but looks could be deceiving, he had a notorious streak for coming out with the most outrageous sentences and shots targeted at Wooyoung. Despite his company, she hadn’t taken a drag of anything. It’s not that y/n disliked the vibe, she very much cherished it, despite the face of thunder she donned at that moment, swirling the booze in her cup. Hand rested under chin, elbow on her knee while this girl she – and the others – had never seen before in her life complained about the noise and smell protruding from the house. The girl being oblivious to the side-eyes, and the sweet aroma of weed and suffocating fumes of cigarettes indicated that none of them were listening to anything she was rambling on about. Yeosang took a heavy drag from his joint, giving y/n a pained look.

“If you hate it so much, fucking leave.” She spat, throwing the rest of her drink over her before walking inside, listening to the circle giggle and the girl yell out ‘bitch!’.

Sliding the back door open and stepping in, her senses were violently hit by the living room’s blaring music, which she liked to call the club zone. It’s where the speakers were located, sofas moved to the sides to create a dance floor and where you’d find Wooyoung and Mingi bouncing around in the ambient lighting. That room moved in slow motion, and very much did for y/n when she weaved her way through it to the kitchen, which was quieter, with an orange lowlight and the island littered with cups and various bottles and pleasantly, a Yunho blissfully pouring himself another cup of beer with rosy cheeks.

“Hey, n/n!” he piped, taking a sip from his cup before leaning his hip against the counter, “You okay?”

She nodded with a small smile, standing next to him, “Refilling. Threw mine over sourpuss over there.” She pointed out the kitchen window, to the girl who had moved from Yeosang to another group of people, presumably still complaining but now about the fact y/n had thrown cider over her. Yunho chuckled, it being contagious until both were releasing tipsy giggles while sipping fresh drinks. Yunho was tall, reaching over six feet and loomed over her, his eyes almost puppy-like and soft.

“Never seen her before, and neither I nor Mingi invited her, and going by Yeo’s face, he didn’t.” He joked, watching the rest of the people outside.

“Nah, Yeo didn’t. He wanted me to get rid of her. You think San or Woo did? Joong’s definitely out of the picture, I’ve seen him actively avoid her. Speaking of, where is Joong?”

Yunho pointed to the games room, which you could just about see from the kitchen window. It was more like an old garage they’d turned into a games room with a singular window. From where they stood, Jongho’s figure moved past it.

“In there with Jongho. Mr. I-won’t-drink-tonight pre’d too hard and got roped into beer pong from the beginning. Jongho’s being relentless, it’s nice seeing him have fun.”

“Yeah, and fucking hilarious seeing Joong on the ropes. Thank God it’s Sunday he’ll be hungover on.”

In what was supposed to be a quick refill turned into shots with Yunho and because of that decision, y/n found herself being twirled by him on the ‘dance floor’. The living room was always hot, sweaty, drunk bodies bumping and grinding into each other, music so loud her ears just blocked it into a silence, and it was just her in the moment, in another headspace with whatever drink flowing in her system. Her friends were long gone, which was fine, they’d been in that house before, they knew most of the people there and had their ‘if lost go here’ areas. Besides, Yunho wouldn’t let anything happen to y/n, they had a solid friendship, a siblingship at most.

Eyes bored into the back of her head, she felt the presence too well, it was too familiar. Mingi, slouched on one of the sofas with his legs spread and eyes squinting a primal gaze, watching her every move. His hands loosely sat on his thighs, as if he was giving the memo that he was not anyone’s seat, not that he ever sat down enough for girls to drape themselves over him. But this time he sat to watch.

Yunho leant into her ear, “I’m gonna spin us, I can feel daggers into my soul right now.” And he did casually, twirling her again to switch places. Y/n’s eyes briefly fell into Mingi’s trap, a couple of seconds feeling like an eternity again when falling into his eyes. She missed it. Missed the butterflies of drowning in someone, getting lost peacefully, and having someone feel so passionate about her.

“Yunho, what do I do? He’s getting up, it’s been so long-“ she stammered, eyes widening upon catching a glance of Mingi weaving through the crowd, ignoring everyone who tried taking his attention with the gaze of a predator hunting its prey. Yunho giggled, slipping away.

For a split second, she was alone, watching the room sway around her and a white noise fill her ears, body numb as the world fell into slow motion. The way he moved with his confidence, chest out and eyesight on her, no smile. Cheap disco lights doing him too much justice, the blue haze bouncing off his cheekbones, a soft glint in his eyes and sparkle bouncing off the chain that sat sound on his collarbone. Y/n’s eyes flickered his stature, up and down, from his t-shirt that wrapped snug around his chest down to his jeans that hung off his hips in a way that shouldn’t have flipped her stomach the way it did. She swallowed, a thumping in her chest and head still in a slow pace until her hips were firmly gripped in large palms, hot breath in her space and his eyes softening as they caught hers. As if by default, she placed her hands on his chest – intimate but cautious and prepared to reject him – and his lips found their way to her ear.

“You still light up the room.” His voice was deeper than the last time he’d whispered his sins in her ears. Not a nibble, not a kiss, no unasked-for contact. Just like back then. Just two bodies swaying in a rhythm in comfort.

“Were you jealous?”

“…maybe. Haven’t seen you in a while, thought you were avoiding me. Then I see you cosied up with my best friend, what man wouldn’t be?”

“And why would I avoid you?” Her questions lingered in the thick air. Tingles ran through her nerves as Mingi’s thumbs traced small circles over the fabric of her shorts, his favourite denim shorts that sent him back to adolescent afternoons in the summer, where they drank cheap beer at family barbecues. One hand slid itself over the curve of her spine until it drew itself away and cupped her jaw gently, holding her like his precious treasure, like she was his again. Nuzzling into his palm, she looped one finger under his necklace, toying with it until their eyes met once again. Mingi’s breath hitched, air knocked from his lungs under the familiarity of the gesture.

“Come, I want you to myself tonight.” The rumble of his voice vibrated her fingertips, flushing heat down her body and hitting her pussy all over again. His voice was too sexy to think straight, the determination that ran through his eyes bringing back a reason why she loved him in the first place. Y/n nodded, taking his hand on her cheek into her own and letting the man guide her through the bodies and towards the staircase.

People go through phases as they grow older, but the way Mingi’s room still had his favourite music producer’s posters stuck over his walls gave his space a warmth to it. It did smell like Lynx Africa, it still seemed to have curtains drawn shut and although they sat against the headboard on unmade grey sheets, it all still screamed Mingi. Their shoes lay scattered on the floor, the music from downstairs muffled in the silence as their thighs pressed together and hands awkwardly played with their clothing.

Mingi’s eyes softly gazed down at her features, at her eyelashes she always complained about, down her nose bridge to her pouted lips he’d first kissed at her best friend’s birthday when they were sixteen.

Her breath rattled, voice deeper in the silence, “I missed you, y’know.” His gaze remained on her face, as he’d never seen anything as beautiful since last seeing her. Y/n’s cheeks flushed, unbeknownst under the lowlight but regardless her chest swelled, like a hole inside her started patching itself together suddenly.

Y/n’s head hesitantly turned to look up at him, taken aback when her eyes met his so soon, noses barely touching. She licked her lips, “Me too. My friends talked so much shit for ages, but I had nothing bad to say about you,” she chuckled with a slight smirk, “I think they were just rooting for us deep down and hurting more than we were.”

“Oh yeah? How so?” he murmured, shifting slightly to face her more, shoulder leaning on the headboard.

She shifted with him, facing him too but still with a closeness that they could hear even a whisper from each other. Her hand slid to his, her fingers tracing over his chunky rings, “We were sixteen-seventeen. At the time we didn’t even know which university we wanted to go to, we didn’t know anything.” Her heart pulsed in her chest, if it weren’t for the volume downstairs she was sure he would hear it. Mingi’s throat felt dry, a restless feeling in his legs as the soft touches of her fingers on his skin lit the fireworks in his stomach.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her body into his side while she cosied up onto his chest, his hand finding home on her hip. She slipped her hand into his, intertwining their fingers. It felt wrong, so wrong to be cuddled up with an ex-boyfriend, but at the same time, the comfort of having heartbeats fall in sync spoke more words than she ever could.

“I don’t regret dating you,” she whispered, taking in a whiff of his cologne and she smiled, even after all those years, he never changed. “Sometimes I wish we hadn’t called it off, I really liked you.”

His grip pulled her tighter into his body, “I know. I hate my younger self. You were the best girlfriend anyone could’ve asked for, so attentive and thoughtful, you were full of so much love. And I made you fucking cry, and then people wouldn’t look at me and my friends got involved when they shouldn’t have. And we never spoke again.” The words tumbled from his mouth and breathing became shaky. The exact scene of the moment once again replayed in his head, the exact moment he saw her eyes gloss over and her lip tremor on a Friday afternoon in mid-November when they were seventeen. Now, it was him whose eyes watered, his free hand gently holding her cheek as she relaxed into his palm. God, it felt so wrong, it’d been so long and here they were, acting as if no time had passed at all.

“Min…”

“I cried that night. Cried like a baby to my mum about what I did. I’ve regretted it ever since…” He leant in, drawing their faces closer, lips ghosting. Y/n’s tummy flipped, tongue darting to moisten her lips. His eyes flickered to her lips, her eyes boring into his, waiting for his decision. Her hand (the one not gripping his), hooked a finger around his chain roughly, pulling him close and closing the ever-long space between them. Goosebumps ran along her skin in a shockwave, the kiss finally setting his inner fireworks exploding beautiful colours within him. Slow, and sweet. But also short, they pulled back with time.

“We were stupid,” she exhaled, his hand moved to cup the back of her neck, “c’mere.” Their lips melted into one another’s like putty, teeth chattering but hands finding their ways to keep the other close. Y/n’s hands balled his t-shirt into fists, Mingi’s fingers tugging the roots on her hair and pulling her body onto his lap, thighs straddling his own while their tongues lapped, and saliva leaked down the corners of their mouths. The taste of cheap alcohol wasn’t enough to repulse, the raw taste of each other made up all the night they lay awake, hopelessly waiting for a goodnight text that would never arrive.

Pulling back with a string of saliva, they panted, giggling ever so slightly. Mingi’s hands fell to her thighs, tracing shapes on the bare skin while hers squeezed his shoulders, fingertips dipping into the ripples of his muscles. She yelped, his hands squeezed her thighs and lips dove straight into her neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses up to her ear and down to the collarbone, finger sliding the strap of her tank top off her shoulder. Despite biting her lip, a soft moan slipped from her throat, his teeth nipping ever so slightly at the skin.

“No marks-“

“-I know, baby. Only in places you can hide them.” His voice vibrated on the column of her neck, heat pooling straight to her cunt and throbbing. Baby. Baby. That came from his mouth for her. He pulled away, opening his mouth slightly only for her to take his jaw into her palms and push him back into the headboard, slipping her tongue hard into his mouth and knocking the air from his lungs. Somewhere between a growl and a moan rumbled from his throat, hands holding a bruising grip on her hips as she made an experimental roll of her hips into his dick.

Shit.

Mingi bit her bottom lip, not hard enough for blood but enough to convey his attempt for dominance. God forbid y/n make him wither to pieces, that’s easy defeat. She rolled her hips again, feeling his cock grow hard in his jeans. Fuck his own body for betraying him.

Drawing back ever so slightly, pressing their foreheads together with hot, tangled breaths and hazy eyes, she giggled at his expression: a lost puppy whining for affection, big, beautiful eyes all glossy.

Her body adjusted to sit on his thigh, never breaking their eye contact as her lips tugged into a smirk. Her finger traced along his jaw slowly, with a featherweight to it, to his chin until disconnected entirely to place her hand over his crotch, palming his painfully solid cock.

He threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut and mouth threatening to let a whimper slip with every grope.

“Mmm, feels nice, doesn’t it?” she teased, grinding down on his thigh, the friction igniting an intoxicating sensation between her legs, “But you did make me cry. So, I think you owe me.”  She pulled her hand off him, clutching his shoulders again to swing her leg over and off him. Fumbling with the button of her shorts, y/n hooked her fingers around the waist, wiggling the item of clothing down her legs, panties with them.

“You’re a pretty thing.” He muttered ears tinted pink and the throbbing of his cock almost becoming unbearable. She slung her leg over his thigh again, slowly lowering her cunt onto his jeans, hands firm on his broad shoulders and scrunching his t-shirt. Mingi’s hands held her hips with a soft touch, feeling the bare skin of her thighs as she rocked lazily, lulling her head back when the warm fabric caressed her clit, the attention clearing her mind. With a dark glaze coating his eyes, his lips met her neck with short, hot breaths and sloppy kisses leaving spit along her skin in their wake. “Doin’ s’well.”

Her stomach fluttered when he flexed his thigh, her pussy dragging along his jeans and arousal leaving dark patches along the fabric. Her breathing shuddered the more she rolled her hips, moving from a slow pace to a faster one, her stomach twisted and turned at the pleasure filling her senses, Mingi’s kissing and nipping along her skin only guiding the build-up in arousal.

“Mingi…” she moaned, tilting her head to allow him more access.

“God you’re so fucking hot when you say my name,” he smirked into her neck, squeezing her thighs.

“Mingi, Mingi,” she whimpered his name like a mantra, feeling her core throb as she ground her hips at a sloppier pace, “Mingi!”

“That’s it, baby, pretty pussy’s doin’ s’well.”

“M’gonna cum-“

“-cum, make a mess, y/n. Show me how I make you feel.” Gripping his jaw with her hand, she forced him to look her in the eyes and watch her whine with every rock of her hips, his chest hammering at the way her moans slipped through her lips, like a song he’d play on repeat. Never did he expect to be back with her, let alone sit on his bed, tangled in each other like nothing ever happened. Like they were still in love.

Y/n was shocked that she’d given in to a man, let alone bask in the sensation of her pussy clenching around nothing but seeing him get so worked up over her soaking his clothes. He looked so hot with pink cheeks, frustrated at her bare cunt in front of him, one he couldn’t rut his cock into.

“Fuck! I’m so close, Min.” her grip on his jaw tightened, crashing their lips, and emitting a low but desperate moan from the boy. He bounced his leg slightly, goosebumps running along her skin. He flexed his thigh again, grinning wide like he was enjoying it more than she was, when she cried out, releasing his jaw, and dropping her head into his shoulder, the coil in her stomach winding tighter until her legs trembled. His thumbs rubbed circles over her hips, helping her ride out her orgasm, relishing in having the honour of having her mess treacle over his jeans.

“So fucking hot,” he kissed her hair, looping his arms around her waist and pulling her limp body into his chest, laying back on his bed, “did s’well.” Y/n hummed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Despite the smell of sex and sweat coaxing their skins, his cologne still allowed her muscles to relax in comfortable silence, just the sound of their panting in the room. They say that the further you are, the closer you become—right person, wrong time, all that. Y/n and Mingi were just that as they lay on the bed, of his ratty frat house with his friends and a collective of almost strangers below them in their romantic tragedies (or comedies). Feeling his fingers trace delicate heart patterns on her back, she smiled and placed a warm, gentle kiss on his cheek before catching his gentle gaze. A look only a man who was in love could give.

[Masterlist]

[Requests are CLOSED]

2024 © STAR2FISHMEG All rights reserved - do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost any of my works. Please let me know if you notice that any of these have been done to my work.

Banners & dividers belong to @/cafekitsune

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Ran over here as soon as i could!

Imagine Tan with his baby girl (4 years) and shes playing with his hair, putting clips and bows and ties in his hair or making tiny braids? Mum an Lem are trying not to laugh out loud when they see them, Lem asks his niece if she wants make-up which she finds a such a great idea! Mum has to stop Lemon. Tan trying his best not to upset his baby girl. And so on and so forth...

Have fun with it🍊❤️🫶🏻

this is the cutest!!! I forever love dad tan!! and with all dad tan stuff, mandy is his daughter (it’s like mandarin, another baby orange) thank you for requesting, hope you like it 💌

BOWS AND BRAIDS.

dad tangerine x fem!reader — fluff

word count. 532

Lemon and Tangerine often acted like they were twelve - the everlasting phase of wanting to annoy each other, joining them into adulthood. They were the others' biggest windup, and now Lemon was having the fun poking at Tan, knowing there was nothing he could do to retaliate. 

Uncle Lem had popped by to see you all - to spend time with his family during the week off. All gathered in the living room: you on the sofa beside Lemon, Mandy, your daughter, sitting on the coffee table with Tangerine cross-legged on the floor facing her. 

Mandy had her tiny hands in Tan's hair, placing accessories and ties in his curls - cutesy pink and purple clips attached in clumps around the front of his face, messily placed bows at the back of his head and knotted half-braids starting midway through his hair. It was admirable, really.

"Don't daddy look pretty," Lemon teases, crouching beside the coffee table to get closer to Mandy. "He'd make a pretty girl, won't he?"

"No," she shakes her head, shoving her finger into Tan's moustache. "He has a hairy face."

You resist the temptation to laugh, instead leaning closer, resting your elbow on your knee to cover your mouth. 

Lemon snickers before continuing, watching the displeased expression grow on his brother's face. "That's right. You should shave it off, Mands. Make him all pretty looking."

Your eyes widen. "No, no, absolutely not. We're not doing that."

"Boo, mummy. Mandy boo her," Lemon eggs your daughter on, lovingly brushing over her face.

"Why can't we shave him, mama?" Mandy asks, turning around to look at you, her face sweet and innocent. 

"It makes him look pretty. You know how it doesn't make him a pretty girl? Well, it's the same thing. He's not a pretty boy without it," you tease, looking over at Tan. Your words are harsh, but nothing like the soft, loving expression on your face. 

"Do I not get a say?" Tangerine adds, looking between you all with lightly furrowed brows. 

"No. You're a mannequin. Mannequins can't talk," Lemon pipes in, immediately dismissing his twin. "How about some make-up instead, Mand? That'll make him pretty."

"Yeah," she smiles, her grin wide and genuine. "Mama has some," she adds, climbing off the coffee table. 

"What a great idea," Lemon encourages, standing up to follow after his niece.

You look over to Tan, noticing the 'help me' face he is giving you - silently asking you to stop it.

"I think daddy's had enough for now, no? He looks so pretty, and you did such a good job," you pick your daughter up, placing her on your lap - kissing her cheek. 

"Mands," Tangerine calls, dragging out her name. "I just had the best idea," he looks between you and Lem knowingly, a small smile forming. "We should give Uncle Lem a makeover, too. Wouldn't that be fun?" 

She gasps, her face lit up in excitement, grinning as she climbs off your lap. Tangerine stands, following his daughter. 

"I'll help you, poppet. We'll get all your mum's make-up, yeah?" he chuckles, hitting his brother on the way out. "He's gonna look so pretty when we're done."

[thetriplets3]

https://www.tumblr.com/thetriplets3/744008605000417280/send-requests-for-matt-and-chris

#10 matt 🥹

❝𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞❞

this jumps back and forth from third to first person i didn’t specify when but it just makes sense in my head writing it this way sorry if that bugs you

ps. white cat is you, orange cat is matt

i huff as i yank my hoodie off and chuck it at the end of the sofa for what felt like the 100th time in the last hour, nearly smacking chris with it, leaving me in my tank top.

“for fucks sake” i grumble, too focused on how warm i am to think anyone’s paying attention.

“easy now. watch were you’re throwing things you’re gonna take my eye out” chris overexaggerated.

“it’s a sauna in here i feel like i’m gonna combust”

chris chuckles and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the movie that took ages for us all to agree on watching. chris and nick were far too engrossed in the movie to care about the antics going on in the corner of the sofa. little did you know matt has had his eye on you all night watching as you fuss with your hoodie, being too distracted to pay attention to the movie. when you all sat down to start the movie matt kept a slight distance between you two sensing something was bothering you, unsure if it was something he did or if you were just overwhelmed and couldn’t get comfortable. either way he didn’t want to make it worse for you. seeing how much you’ve been fidgeting in the last hour finally made him pipe up.

“sweetheart is something bothering you? you haven’t been able to sit still for the past hour. please tell me so i can help you” matt asked just loud enough for you to hear but not loud enough for his brothers to hear, not wanting their yelling for him to shut up to make you more uncomfortable than you already are.

“can’t get comfortable” i mutter.

“is the hoodie not comfy? you can have mine if you want”.

“s’okay i’m just annoyed i’m warm with it on but after a while i’m cold without it then i get too warm if i put it back on” i exasperate. “i can’t decide if i’m hot or cold”

without a word matt reaches towards me and places the back of his hand on my forehead. i look up at his hand before looking at him inquisitively.

“yeah you’re hot” he says with a stupid grin on his face and a little chuckle.

“i already knew that” i quip. “i’m warm? what does that mean? do you think i’m sick?” i start rattling off questions, dreading the thought of being sick.

“i actually have no idea how to tell by your forehead. my mom used to do that to us figured i’d give it a shot”

“well i’m still hot and cold and it’s really starting to piss me off if i can’t get comfortable” i huff.

matt holds his finger up to me letting me know he’ll be back. seconds later he returns with a ringed it wet rag he ran under cold.

“scooch over i’m coming in”

i make room for him to lie down before placing half my body onto of his with my head on his chest. his hands delicately gather my hair and brush it over my shoulder, clearing my neck. he places a kiss to my head before placing the cool cloth on my neck letting it rest there for a while before gently rubbing it across my bare back, cooling me down. when i got cold he pulled a fuzzy blanket lover top of us, hugging me closer to him as his one blanket covered hand rubbed across my back keeping me warm. he kept this up for the rest of the movie, cool cloth and blanket for whatever you were feeling.

“thank you matt. i love you” i whisper, giving him a squeeze.

taglist: @antisocialties @iluvmatt @dwntwn-strnlo @fake-coolbeans @opheliaofficial07 @angelcake-222 @oneirophobic @strniolo @lollibumblebee @ssturniolo @20nugs @strniolo @luvsturniolo

[mytheoristavenue]

GOTG Rocket x Reader 🍋 - Heatwaves

Summary: Long from home, the ship's air conditioner breaks, resulting in hallucination-inducing heat. Your obvious crush on Rocket doesn't make things any better.

Warnings: Inspired by a series of TMNT fics I did a while back, sexual innuendo, dirty talk, degradation, praise, illness from excessive heat, daydreaming/hallucinating, suggestive situations, sexual tension, judgment impaired by arousal, fem!reader, non specified species!reader, humanoid/anthro!reader, takes place between vol. 2 and infinity war

You were so dizzy, melting into the sofa, sprawled out with no regard for anyone else's comfort. Your head rested against Mantis's leg, while your legs invaded Drax's bubble, not that he minded. His people didn't really understand the concepts of personal space anyhow. You were all in this boat though, Gamora splayed out on the floor as it was the coolest surface in the ship. With this heat, all there was to do to bear it was strip down to the littlest clothing possible before becoming indecent and napping to make the time pass quicker.

"C'mon, you guys, cheer up," Peter forced a cheerful tone from the cockpit. "Rocket said he should be finished with the repairs on the AC tomorrow."

"Thank God," you groaned, pinching the fabric of your tanktop to unstick it from your chest. "I can't take this shit anymore."

"Yeah, I'm so sweaty, it feels like I showered in my clothes." Mantis agreed from above you, doing the same and wiggling all over to have her shirt sit right.

"But you didn't," Drax gave her a lead-poisoned stare. "I have been watching you for hours and you haven't moved, let alone gone to shower." The empath's head very slowly turned towards him, her glare and pursed lips screaming that she was done with his nonsense.

"Ya know," the captain called again. "If you're hot, just think how Rocket feels. It's probably way hotter down there in the boiler, plus he's covered in fur."

"I am Groot." The sapling said, raising his head off Gamora's chest as she nodded, agreeing with him.

"I don't care that fur is like insulation, if you're hot, he's hot. And I don't see any of you trying to help him, so stop whining." Peter's light reprimand, admittedly had pulled on your heartstrings a bit. It was awfully nice of Rocket to fix the AC all by himself, even if he was the only one with the know-how to do it.

"He's right," you sighed, begrudgingly tearing yourself off the sofa, your exposed skin having stuck to it. Finally separated from the mound of leather and flesh, you stumbled over to the kitchenette and threw open the fridge before grabbing a few bottles of water. "Rocket might need some help, I'll go check on him."

-----

You had never been in this part of the ship before, slinking through halls and around protruding pipes and fixtures. It was much hotter down here, closer to the water heating systems. You had to halt for a moment, pressing your hand to the wall for stability as you hunched a bit. If you were already feeling faint, you couldn't imagine how Rocket was feeling. For all you knew, he could have passed out and nobody would have known.

Suddenly you began to make out a distant, distorted racket that echoed and reverberated against every surface. It sounded almost...melodic? Following as it became louder, it led you to a warm light that streamed out from beyond a closed door. You halted for a moment, now being able to separate the noise, which you now recognized as a voice, singing lazily. Rocket never sang in front of people and you almost felt perverted as you listened to his rendition of Silver's 'Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang'. "Now that it's said and we both understand," he softly crooned, voice carrying to far reaches. "Let's say our goodbyes before it gets out of hand."

Inhaling sharply, you finally found it in you to grip the door handle and let yourself in. Orange light flooded out of the small room and the music became as clear as it was going to get, loud enough to conceal the sound of the door opening. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

Everyone had always been able to tell you were sweet on Rocket, and you'd never done much to hide the fact but seeing him now, bathed in marigold neon, laid flat on his back up underneath a large fixture...shirtless- it was too much for you. His fur was slicked against his chest from sweat and his jumpsuit was tied loosely on his hips, revealing much more of him than you ever could have been prepared to see. Adding to that his admittedly lovely, gruff singing voice, the scene was a recipe for an upset tummy.

Deciding you couldn't handle this, you silently tried to back out of the room, eyes trained on him like a deer in headlights. You may have gotten away with it, had one of the water bottles not fallen from the crook of your elbow, alerting him to your presence. Instantly, he rolled out from under the machine, set down his tools, and sat up, staring at you. "(Y/N), what are you doing down here?"

Now that you could see his face, you were in even worse shape. The white stripes on his cheeks were smeared with grease, whiskers crumpled, and fur unkempt. He looked incredibly rugged- more so than usual. "Hello? Knowwhere to (Y/N)?" he croaked again and waved a hand in front of him, voice hoarse from unrestricted use. "You okay?"

At last, you shook out of your trance, flustered to hell and back, and eagerly swooped down to grab the bottle. "Y-Yeah, I'm great! You're just really hot!" Rocket stared at you for a second, waiting for you to correct yourself before owning the compliment and mocking you for it. Obviously, you didn't take the hint, so that was his cue.

"Well thanks, dollface," he smirked, standing up and sauntering over to the doorway, taking the dropped bottle from you before popping off the cap and chugging it. About halfway through, he stopped with a deep, relieved sigh. "I always thought I was pretty hot but it's still nice to hear it from someone else." That's when your stomach dropped, realizing what you'd said. Time to backtrack.

"Oh my God, no!" you gasped, once again dropping what you were holding to slap your hands to your face. "I don't think you're hot!" Rocket looked at you quizzically, hand on hip. "I-I mean I do think you're attractive, b-but not in a weird way! More like a friend way!"

"Uh-huh," he teased, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe. "Friend attraction's the best kind, ya know? And don't sweat it, Quill says I'm hot all the time."

"Rocket, please..." you finally gave in, physically crumbling. "I meant like- you're probably getting hot down here and I wanted to bring you something to drink."

"I know, dollface, I'm just yankin' your chain." he laughed, pushing off the wall and walking back farther into the room to sit on a bucket. "I needed a break anyway, thanks princess."

"Princess...?"

"What?"

"N-Nothing!" You finally let out a sigh of relief, following a bit closer and sitting on the floor. "So how's it coming?" you asked, uncapping your own bottle after passing him the last one.

"Well, I've identified the problem, but I don't got the right parts to fix it. Good news is, I think I was able to work up a temporary replacement that should at least get us back to Knowwhere. I know if we can just get home, I can get a brand new part for cheap-" You weren't sure when, but at some point, you'd stopped listening, mind and eyes wandering.

" Ah, fuck, (Y/N), easy! Yeah, j-just like that, keep movin' just like that for me princess..."

"Are you even listening?" Rocket's annoyed tone brought you out of your daydream. You must have zoned out without realizing it, how embarrassing. "Jeez, you're hopeless, ya know that?" He chided, standing up and grabbing a rag to wipe his hands on.

"Sorry..." you slumped shamefully before trailing him as he got back into position. "H-Hey, is there anything I can do to help you out?"

"Hmm," he paused, laying back down on the creeper, ready to roll back under the unit. "I guess you can keep me company, hand me tools," he proposed, disappearing under the machine. Suddenly his voice dropped an octave, words echoed against metallic surfaces that made you freeze. "I know my girl is very good with my tools."

You squeaked at his sudden turn in demeanor, falling on your behind and scrambling away from him. "W-What?!"

Rocket rolled back out, propping up on an elbow, eyeing you with concern. "What, what'd I say?" he asked frantically. "What's up with you?"

"Y-You said-" you stammered, not even comfortable with repeating what you heard. "Y-You said...I'm g-good with your tools!"

He looked at you like you were the biggest moron he'd ever met. "Well, yeah?" he chastised. "You help me in my shop all the time, so I know you know which ones are which. You're good at knowing which ones to hand me." Your chest heaved as he once again returned to his position, reaching his hand out. His small fingers curled, a sign for you to hand something over. "Gimme that ratchet." Quickly, you placed it in his hand, before clicking open the socket set.

"What size socket?"

"Twelve millimeter." He answered, settling the tool on his stomach to use both hands for whatever he was doing. Scanning the set, you plucked out the shallow twelve millimeter piece and set it on his chest, waiting for him to grab it. He did and growled in dismay, giving it back.

"No, princess," he corrected, gasping through clenched teeth. "Need it deep."

"You...w-what?" you carefully asked, feeling incredibly dizzy and unable to discern truth from hallucination.

"I need the deep twelve millimeter, not the shallow one." Rocket scolded, giving a frustrated sigh as he listened to you scramble for the correct piece, profusely apologizing all the while. Finally, you found the right one, presenting it to him just in time for him to roll out from under the fixture again. "Okay, dollface," he titled his head, worried. "What's your deal?"

"Deal? There's no deal!" you played dumb, laughing nervously, hoping he'd just drop it. "I'm fine, really!"

You went rigid, watching him silently creep closer to you, unsure if this was real or not. Finally, he placed a paw against your cheek and whispered in close: "You're burnin' up, baby."

"Rocket, I don't feel good." you stated abruptly. "I-I think something's wrong with me."

"I'll say," he cooed, dragging his knuckles down the side of your face. "How about you let me change that, hmm?" The world around you began to blur, and all you could make out were his words. You understood that his hands were on you, but you couldn't say where; you couldn't feel it, you couldn't even see clearly. "Yeah, baby just lay down, lemme do all the work." He soothed seductively. "Let daddy take care of you, 'kay, (Y/N)?"

That last word, it was your name, right? He kept repeating it, like a broken record, and suddenly all the gruffness left his voice. You listened as intently as you could, hearing it morph from lustful to monotone, and then increasingly more worried- desperate even. "(Y/N)!" There it was again.

Slowly, as his voice became more clear, the cloudiness in your vision dissipated and your senses began to return. Your cheek burned against hot metal, and you could feel patting on your face. A figure hovered over you, close enough to breathe on you. "Goddamnit, (Y/N), wake up!"

"R-Rocket...?" you stuttered, recognizing the figure. "What's going on...?"

"Nevermind that," he hushed. "Lay back down," Suddenly, he turned away from you, yelling out the door, presumably to the oncoming footsteps stampeding down the hall. "In here!" Your eyelids began to get heavy as the world began to fall away again. The last thing you remember was being lifted into the air by a second, hulking figure, then nothing.

-----

You awoke in your bunk, arctic air breezing by your face. What had happened, how did you get here? Where was Rocket? Your fingers twitched, sore from lack of use and the tips of them caught the sensation of something foreign. Multiple fibers connected to one source, soft in mass but wirey when you singled one out. Letting your hand travel up the organism, you froze, realizing you'd answered one of your questions. Glancing down, you found Rocket, curled in a ball at your side. That was odd, you did share a room, but Rocket never slept in your bunk.

Your movements must have roused him as he stirred under your touch, slowly unfurling himself and stretching out. "You're up," he noted, smiling a bit. "You'll be happy to know the AC is fixed."

Now that you took notice of it, the room was cooler, cold even. "Wow," you yawned, smiling back sleepily. "How long was I out for?"

"About eight hours," he copied, yawning as a reaction to seeing you do the same. You halted a moment, confused.

"Wait, I thought you said it'd take you another day to fix it?" you rubbed sleep from your eye waiting for his explaination.

"Nothin' an all nighter couldn't fix." He laughed exhaustedly, curling back up into your side. You'd usually question his sudden cuddliness, but it made your bed that much cozier. "Honestly, your little heatstroke..." his voice softened a bit. "It scared me a little. I was worried about ya."

"Heatstroke..." you repeated. "That makes so much sense," At least now you had an explanation for all those hallucinations from earlier. Though you were glad to be well again, Rocket's attention was nice, even if it was all in your head. "That explains me hearing and seeing things that weren't there down in the boiler. Sorry for acting so weird.." you confessed sheepishly.

"Don't be sorry," he chuckled cockily, eyes peacefully resting. "We'll definitely be having a lengthy, private conversation about all that after I catch up on some sleep." Your stomach dropped at that, imagining all the terrible outcomes that could result from said conversation. "And for the record, dollface, I do think you're very good at handling my tools, ya know," he smirked, nuzzling your ear. "When you follow directions."

Your stomach did flips as your head began to feel heavy again. "I-I must still be hallucinating...I swear I just heard you say-"

"Did I fuckin' stutter?"

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 12 Clowns

Warning: Threat of breaking and entering, mention of FNAF (I know some people are tired of the game series, it's still super popular, I'm sorry), mild description of violence and gore, mild body horror

Yes, it's Art the Clown from Terrifier. Only reason Reader lives is that Nikto ruins his fun.

You sit on the couch, watching Halloween as Sputnik lays her head on your lap, blinking big pleading eyes at you to feed her some popcorn. You huff, giving her a scratch behind the ear when the doorbell rings.

“Hup,” you grunt, gently pushing Sputnik’s head off your lap to grab the candy bowl off the high table. Making your way over to the door, you can’t help but smile as you open it.

“Trick or treat!” the gathered kids cheer, holding up plastic pumpkins and pillowcases.

“What do we have here?” you gasp, grabbing some candy for each kid, “A pirate, a witch and--”

“I’m Freddy!” the smallest kid pipes up, wearing a top hat and bear ears.

“Oh!” you gasp, as if startled, “Well excuse me, Mister Fazbear.” You give the kids their candy and send them off with a wave. Chuckling, you return to the sofa after putting the candy bowl back on the table. You settle into the couch and return your attention to the movie, never noticing the shadow that moves to the back door.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nikto had planned to surprise you by knocking on the front door. They’d even practiced saying ‘trick or treat’ with an accent, all to make you smile and laugh in delight. However, all of those plans stopped when they saw a strange man in a black and white clown suit skulking around the house. They pause and watch as the clown tiptoes cartoonishly into the backyard, pausing to shush at no one behind him. Without a thought, Nikto pulls out the sniper rifle they had brought home to tuck into the safe and raised the scope to their eye.

The clown makes a show of trying to decide what to do at the backdoor, rocking back and forth as if thinking, before snaping and raising a finger in the air before rummaging through the bloody sack he was dragging around. Nikto narrows his eye before it widens as the clown carelessly throws a decapitated head to the side, one that Nikto recognizes as the neighbor that constantly bothers you in an attempt to make you leave them. He pulls out an air pump, a piece of rebar, and some a tied kerchief rope before seeming to pull out what he planned to use. A bloody kitchen knife.

Nikto focuses on the man’s head and pulls the trigger, no thought in his head other than protecting you. The silencer works as the man’s head explodes with a pop. However, instead of falling over dead, the man’s body raises his hands and grabs at the air that was once occupied by his head. The body flails around, reaching blindly for something before grabbing the jack-o-lantern you had made before they left. He places it on his neck and nods with it. Nikto blinks, trying to make sense of what the hell was happening, as the clown seems to huff and put his hands on his hips. The clown eventually drops his fist against his palm, before clawing at the pumpkin that he made into his head.

Instead of the orange guts of the pumpkin Nikto knows should be coming out, red blood spurts out with each claw at the pumpkin. The fruit is slowly torn apart, eventually revealing the exact same head that Nikto just blew off. The clown shakes his head, dislodging the remainder of pumpkin from his head before looking up at the tree Nikto is currently in. The clown frowns and puts his fists on his hips, going so far as to shake his fist at Nikto before huffing and stomping out of the backyard. Not before regathering the items he pulled out of his bag, thankfully, but Nikto remains vigilant. They follow the clown until he disappears down the street. Clenching and unclenching their fist in time, Nikto eventually turns to the door to your home and enters, his plan gone in favor of focusing on your safety. They relax upon seeing you cuddling on the couch with Sputnik, the two of you focused on the television until Nikto enters the room. Sputnik perks up and lets out a gleeful laugh, catching your attention. When you see them, your face lights up at their arrival, and Nikto relaxes a little.

“Andre! Welcome home,” you chirp, beaming up at them. They nod and walk over to the couch, settling beside you and not flinching when you move in for a cuddle. You start to ramble about what’s occurred while they’ve been gone, and Nikto is only able to half focus on your words. They can’t relax too much, in case that clown reappears and tries to hurt you. They’d rather suffer through more torture than see you hurt.

[taciturntraveller]

Equal Footing

In the months after her interrogation test, Maria comes to terms with her thoughts and feelings - and lays down her boundaries for her future with someone in particular.

(A/N: I was VERY nitpicky with this one. I constantly worried about how it was written, especially given that it involves the opinions of canon characters more, which I'm always a perfectionist about. But I think I'm happy with what I have, and I hope it's enjoyable)

Word Count: 7,448

Warnings: Canon typical violence, mentions of past trauma, pining idiots, Author has never been in a physical fight (and doesn't plan to)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2020 - Verdansk, Kastovia

October

The city is bathed in the sharp orange of the sunset, as if the fire of war has taken on physical form before their very eyes. In the distance, storm clouds begin to loom, threatening to coat the area in what will probably be a decent layer of snow. As per usual, gunfire echoes off the hard concrete buildings, vehicles drive between pre-planned waypoints, and a transport plane glides overhead, carrying more troops for the fight.

Atop one of the many skyscrapers, Sergeant Garrick and Corporal Fairford gaze out over the raised edge, the former holding a large sniper rifle and the latter clenching onto binoculars. Maria is not unaccustomed to helping out this way - she’s done it before with Ghost - but it’s still not quite up her street. She would much rather be focused on her usual duties.

Still, some situations require multiple skill sets. As she peers towards a building still under construction, she tracks Price and Soap making their way up the floors, guns trained on every doorway and corridor that they lay eyes on. Through one of the windows, she can see an unknown figure crouching behind a sofa, looking towards the door that leads into the apartment.

“X-Ray in the room to your right,” Maria notes over the radio as Price and Soap emerge from a staircase and follow the hallway towards the window.

“Copy,” Price mutters, slowing his pace and pointing his gun at the room, “Clear shot, Garrick?”

“Affirm,” Gaz answers easily. The crack of the sniper rifle pierces through the ambience, and Maria watches as it breaks cleanly through the glass and rips through the head of the enemy soldier, causing him to slump lifeless to the ground. “X-Ray down, clear to move.”

“Rog.” With that, their two teammates continue forward. At the staircase, Maria watches as Soap seems to hesitate, glancing towards where he assumes they are. His expression is almost trepid, but he quickly steels himself and moves after Price.

A light tug pulls at her chest. Things have been… awkward, since the whole interrogation fiasco. She knows he’s regretful of the entire thing, and realistically she ought to think about moving past it, but there’s a part of her that can’t. A part of her that still feels the chill of the revolver pressed against her temple. A part of her that still sees bullet holes in the heads of two people she values. 

She does trust them. She does. But all of this has turned out to be far more than she ever expected.

“You should talk to him,” Gaz pipes up from next to her, cutting off her train of thought. Maria looks over at him and blinks.

“Who?” She asks, as if she doesn’t know exactly who he’s talking about.

“You know.”

Maria lets out a huff of air, putting her binoculars back up to her eyes again, “There’s really not much to talk about.”

“Maria, as far as you were concerned, he basically died in front of you,” he points out carefully. He briefly interrupts himself to fire at another figure that had started making their way up the staircase after Price and Soap, dropping them quickly, before he continues, “That’s not really something you just get over.”

But it’s not just that, she thinks, frowning to herself. It’s the fact that over the last couple of months, she’s started to find herself thinking about Soap more often. The way he carries himself, the fire in his words, his concern and compassion for civilians. For her, things may be starting to lean into something that is most definitely not professional, and not only does that carry potential consequences - both career-based and emotional - but she doesn’t even know if he’s really after the same things she is.

These feelings she has are dangerous, in more ways than one.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she admits finally, “It was all done for a reason, and I can’t even really argue with it. I don’t want to sound like I’m… whining.”

Gaz snorts, shaking his head and looking back at her with a smirk. “You told Price where to shove it. That’s not whining, that’s sticking up for yourself.” His expression then changes to one of reassurance, “Soap’s not gonna think any less of you. Talk it out with him, figure out where you both stand.”

Maria’s grip on the binoculars loosens slightly as she takes in his words. He does have a point - since they’ll probably be working together for the foreseeable future, they ought to hash this out sooner rather than later. It compromises future missions, if nothing else. The silent treatment she’s been giving Soap may be comforting in the moment, but in the long run, it’s going to end up as more of an inconvenience.

Okay, maybe she’ll talk to him. And maybe through discussing the interrogation, she can get a read on how he feels about other matters.

“Plus it means I don’t have to keep watching you two make heart eyes at each other from a distance,” Gaz adds, his grin widening as he gazes down the scope.

Maria’s eyes immediately widen, and she sputters in indignation, “We do not make heart eyes at each other.”

“Whatever you say.”

She groans quietly to herself. Once again, her feelings have been nailed by one of her new teammates. At this rate, she’ll have to stop talking to all of them altogether. Except she hasn’t even said anything out loud about how she feels and Gaz has still figured her out. Surrounding herself with fully trained SAS soldiers may not have been the wisest move she’s ever made.

The sniper rifle cracks again as Gaz finds his next mark - a soldier waiting in the room above where Price and Soap are investigating. Maria lets the echo spread throughout the city, until it eventually dissipates.

“You’re all annoyingly perceptive,” she mutters.

Gaz gives her a chuckle, “Part of our charm.”

—

It’s rare that they get any peaceful moments in the hunt for Zakhaev, but there are those in the Coalition who make a point to never miss an opportunity. Without seeking any permission, a small band of operatives has carved out a space between the buildings that make up their temporary headquarters, and now they’re treating themselves to a - supposedly - friendly game of football. Without a referee, the players are working with an honour system, which is working out. Mostly.

Maria sits atop an empty oil drum nearby, expression narrowed slightly as she fills out some paperwork. It’s definitely one of the less glamorous aspects of her job, but it needs to be done. Taunting shouts and the occasional thud of a foot against the ball offer some background noise, and she does glance up every so often to see how things are going in the game.

And, of course, to discreetly eye up one man in particular.

Apparently Soap has played the role of goalkeeper before, because he’s remarkably good at it. He’s quick on his feet, and not afraid to stand against the taller operatives who might underestimate him. Time and time again, his hand meets the ball and promptly sends it careening away from the goal, sometimes resulting in a heated insult - which he has no problem returning.

Every time he leaps for the ball, she sees the muscles in his arms tense, becoming more pronounced.

She imagines them wrapped around her waist, holding her securely, safely, pressing himself close-

Maria balks at her train of thought, her cheeks heating up, and she practically buries herself in her paperwork. This is embarrassing. He’s a teammate, for crying out loud. Not to mention he outranks her, which would be a whole mess in itself. She can’t imagine Price would approve of such a thing, even if his morals have usually been quite flippant.

It’s unprofessional. And yet…

Gaz’s words from earlier in the month still ring in her mind. He’s not going to think any less of you. She does need to talk to him, does need to clear the air between them. Besides, if he doesn’t reciprocate what she’s feeling, that’s fine. They can go back to being teammates, no harm no foul. They’re both adults. They’re perfectly capable of that.

And if he does reciprocate them… well, they can cross that bridge if they get to it.

Filling out the last detail of her paperwork, Maria stares at the sheet of paper for a few moments, glancing between it and Soap, who still seems fully invested in the game. He’s busy enjoying himself right now, she doesn’t have to interrupt right away. She can hand this in, wait until some inevitable chaos happens to halt things, and then catch him when it’s just the two of them. Easy enough.

Mind made up, she rises to her feet, and starts to move off towards the main building. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Soap’s head turn, and suddenly they’re holding each other’s gazes. She freezes for a moment, a hint of uncertainty in her chest, and quickly looks away, hastening her step.

But she barely makes it halfway before a much harder thud sounds behind her, and a chorus of laughter ripples among the operatives. Immediately, Maria’s head whips around…

… to find Soap flat on the ground, with the ball bouncing past him casually and rolling into the goal.

She can’t help the mix of concern and amusement that bubbles up within her, and she finds her feet carrying her back towards him. Soap, to his credit, manages to not look too embarrassed, rubbing the side of his head and blinking a few times to clear his focus. When she gets closer, he looks up at her, and offers an endearing smile.

“So this is what I have to do to get yer attention,” he jokes. The corner of Maria’s mouth twitches, and she shakes her head good-naturedly.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” she chastises him gently, offering him a hand to help him up. He takes it, heaving himself to his feet… and doesn’t quite let go yet. She finds herself relishing the contact again, as she had last time, enjoying how their hands fit together. But she forces herself to focus, remembering the situation. “Any pain? Dizziness or nausea?”

Soap immediately turns sheepish, a cautious look in his eyes, as if approaching a wild animal. “If I say yes, can we talk?”

It’s a perfect opportunity. They can talk in the medical bay, have the privacy they need, and figure things out. They can finally get this over with, decide where they stand. She thinks about it for a moment.

She thinks about it for too long.

A flash of white. A deafening bang. Blood that wasn’t there in reality but constantly infects her mind, pouring out of the gashing hole in the side of his head. His body going limp. His eyes going dull.

Internally, she panics.

“No,” she answers, her voice managing to sound even despite the emotions warring in her chest.

Soap visibly deflates, his hand releasing hers. Maria regrets her emotional response almost immediately. He nods slowly though, accepting her answer, and offers a casual shrug.

“‘M fine,” he mumbles, “No bother. I’ll get checked out if I feel anythin’ later.”

Maria steels herself, and nods back to him, turning on her heels and moving away before he can catch sight of her cheeks burning again. The game settles back into an easy rhythm behind her, but the noises are no longer enough of a distraction for the turmoil in her head. She pushes down the desire to gag that’s formed in the back of her throat.

Once again, it has all gone back to the interrogation. Her feelings for him are matched by the all too easy horror of the idea of losing him for good. In this business, it’s all but guaranteed. She can like him as much as she wants, but the threat of their line of work hangs over them like a storm cloud.

So she’s definitely not going to be able to talk to him anytime soon. So much for easy.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

November

Maria’s back lands on the training mat with a smack, and she grunts softly in irritation. Fortunately it’s not a hard blow, since it’s only a sparring match and not an actual fight. She is, however, completely pinned by the hulking figure above her - Ghost has forgone his usual skull mask, to prevent himself from cracking her head apparently, and is instead sporting one of his much less intimidating balaclavas. His lack of threatening aesthetics doesn’t change the fact that he’s winning.

The Lieutenant’s only indicator of emotion is his eyes, and she’s gotten used to reading them in the time that she’s known him. Right now, they’re narrowed slightly, but not in an angry way. He’s focused, but not aggressive. Certainly not intending harm. This is supposed to be a teaching moment.

At least they don’t have much of an audience. The Coalition’s ‘gym’ is definitely defined in the loosest sense of the word - equipment is random, clearly obtained on short notice, and placed haphazardly around the room, with a few operatives currently making use of it. For now, at least, things are relatively quiet, and she has no witnesses to her informal demise.

With one arm lightly pressed against her throat, Ghost stares her down.

“Now, how are you gettin’ out of this?” He asks plainly.

Maria considers her situation for a moment, recalling what she’s already been taught previously. She doesn’t go out of her way to get into close quarters combat, but it never hurts to have some knowledge of it. Pressing her lips together in determination, she raises her legs and pushes her knees into his chest, aiming to flip him over the top of her.

Except that doesn’t work, because he’s a lot heavier than she anticipates, and he barely budges at her movement. To his credit, Ghost doesn’t dismiss the choice.

“That’ll work in some cases,” he notes, “but not for guys like me. You’re gonna have to get creative.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Maria lowers her legs again, and gives him a once over with her gaze. Instead, she raises her arm to point two fingers close to his eyes, as if making the motion to poke them. Ghost’s eyes crinkle a little - a marker that he’s smirking.

“Not bad. But don’t forget, your enemy is usually armed. You can use their weapons against them.”

Oh, that’s a point. Any soldier typically carries a melee weapon, and Ghost in particular is never short of a knife. She’s pretty sure he has at least ten on his person at any one time. Maria removes her hand from in front of his face, reaches down to his waistline, and pulls a blade from its sheath, twirling it in her hand to manoeuvre it next to his neck, the point close to the edge of the mask but not touching it. Ghost nods curtly.

“Good,” he remarks, releasing his hold on her and pushing himself to his feet, taking his knife back in the process. With a soft sigh, relieved for a brief reprieve, she follows him up, tucking small strands of her hair behind her ears and straightening out her back.

Over Ghost’s shoulder, she spots a familiar figure, jogging leisurely on a treadmill at the other end of the room. She blinks in surprise, not remembering seeing Soap come in, and finds herself focused on him for a moment. He can’t have been here long, since he looks like he’s barely breaking a sweat. Or maybe he’s just that good.

Goddamnit, she’s thinking about him again.

Her train of thought is promptly punched off the rails as Ghost lunges forward, grabbing her shoulder and twirling her around, wrapping his arm around her neck and restraining her against him. Immediately, Maria panics, grasping at his arm and struggling in his grip.

Sharpness in her neck, the heaviness of her limbs, the world going dark-

“Pay attention,” he growls into her ear, and she latches onto his words, pulling herself out of the memory, “You get distracted, you’re dead.”

With a huff of frustration, she lifts her elbow to make the motion of slamming it into his nose, not quite making contact, but admittedly getting a little closer than she normally would. A clear sign of her lack of concentration. Ghost answers by releasing her and shoving his hands against her back, knocking her back down onto the mat.

This is going about as well as she expected.

Maria presses her hands to the ground, pushing herself up onto her rear, as Ghost moves towards her with his arms folded and his eyes now fully narrowed. All business. No bullshit.

“You need to talk to him.” It’s not a suggestion.

She tilts her head back in mild annoyance, squinting up at him. “Not you too,” she sighs, “I’m getting enough of this from Gaz-”

“No,” he interrupts her firmly, “You need to talk to him, because he’s been yappin’ at me about you for months.”

Like the trope of fiction she remembers from her childhood, she envisions the sound of a record scratch as her thoughts screech to a halt. She stares up at him, wide-eyed and bewildered. Soap has been… talking about her? To Ghost? … For months? It’s only been a couple of months since the interrogation. The way Ghost is saying it implies that Soap has been discussing her for longer than that.

What in the world has he been saying?

“In what way?” Maria asks cautiously, her mind going in a certain direction but not quite ready to acknowledge it yet.

Ghost rolls his eyes in response, “Same way you keep lookin’ at him. That idiot’s head over heels for you, and you’re not hidin’ yourself any better. If you two keep draggin’ this out, dancin’ around each other like bloody school children, I’m gonna knock your heads together myself.”

Maria scowls at him for the notion… but finds her eyes drifting back to Soap. His gaze is meeting hers again, but this time he quickly looks away, focusing on the small screen of his treadmill. A knot ties itself in her chest. If she keeps pushing him away, eventually he’ll stop trying, and she doesn’t really want that. She wants to get to know him more, see where things can go…

… but every time she thinks about talking to him properly… that image in her mind…

She turns away herself, to avoid looking at either Soap or Ghost, willing herself to stay calm. Her head shakes slightly. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Ghost,” she admits quietly, “I can’t stop seeing him…”

Ghost remains silent for a moment, his head tilting slightly in consideration. He glances behind him briefly, before turning back to her and lowering himself to one knee.

“Nobody can tell you nothin’ bad’s gonna happen,” he tells her, “That’s the kind of business we’re in. These things do happen.” His expression narrows then, “But that doesn’t mean you have no control at all. You can have what you want - if you’re willing to take a risk.”

Maria sits with his words for a moment. The part of her mind that was panicking begins to settle. Yes, their line of work is dangerous, but it’s not like they’re completely inexperienced and defenceless. The interrogation was fake, and while there was always the possibility, she hasn’t really remembered to put much faith in Soap’s abilities.

He’s trained, and so is she. He’s strong, and so is she. He knows what he’s doing, and so does she. 

A part of her begins to hope.

And then, once again, she is rudely interrupted by Ghost grabbing hold of her and throwing her over his shoulder, gripping her waist tightly.

It’s going to be a long afternoon.

—

This late at night, the medical bay is much quieter than normal, with only a few personnel going about their business, checking supplies and clearing out patients with minor injuries to keep the beds open for any future chaotic messes. For another and most definitely not final time, the bane of Maria’s existence is paperwork. Trying to get supplies sent into a warzone is quite difficult, as it turns out, but she’ll be damned if she isn’t going to try her hardest.

As the other medical staff filter out, the overhead fluorescent lights flicker and eventually turn off, until she’s left alone in the corner with a desk lamp as her only company. Her eyes start to settle with the reduced lighting, and she finds the warm-coloured bulb much more comforting than the earlier harshness above her. Now, silence envelops her, interrupted only by the soft scratchings of her pen.

Since her sparring session with Ghost, she’s had a little time to think about his words. Overthinking has gotten her into trouble previously though, and putting things off has allowed the doubts, the flashes, to creep in once again. This constant rollercoaster of thoughts and emotions is starting to tire her out, leading to restless nights and failing concentration.

Eventually, something will have to give. Whether it’s the conversation, or her own body.

Movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention, and she’s startled to see the form of Soap shuffling towards her. Maria blinks as she takes in his appearance - even in the low light, she can see that his face is lightly dusted with black powder, and there are several cuts across his left arm, with blood starting to trickle down the skin. As he moves, she can see little pinpricks of glinting reflected light coming from some of the wounds. Shrapnel.

He regards her for a moment, looking embarrassed, and offers a light shrug. “Got the timin’ wrong,” he mumbles.

Worry immediately needles at her chest, already silently admonishing him for his carelessness. It must have translated to her eyes, because Soap looks down at the floor in response. Maria presses her lips together, regaining her calm, and motions with her head towards another chair nearby.

“Sit,” she tells him as she shifts to grab hold of necessary equipment - tweezers for the shrapnel, a tray to dispose of them in, wipes to clean the wounds, and bandages to protect them. Whilst she gathers what she needs, she hears the scraping of chair legs against the floor, and the soft thud as Soap seats himself.

Turning back to him, she carefully lifts his arm towards her, and sets about removing the embedded pieces of metal. The silence between them feels heavy, interrupted only by the soft tink as each small fragment lands in the tray beside her. Eventually, Soap takes a breath, and speaks.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

Yes, the part of her that thinks she loves him begs.

No, the part of her that only sees his dead body screams.

Hushing both of them, Maria inhales deeply herself, and glances up at him as she works. “What do you want to talk about?” she says softly.

Soap takes another moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts, before he answers her question. “About how I’ve been feelin’. And… about how I think you’ve been feelin’.”

Maria goes quiet, lest her mind explode out through her lips. She wants to handle this carefully, because there are so many things that she’s been thinking over the last couple of months, and she’s half worried about scaring him off with all that she’s feeling right now. The last bit of metal is carefully extracted from his arm, discarded with one final tink, and she places the tweezers down to reach for the wipes.

“What we did was…” Soap starts, his gaze shifting as he tries to put the right words together, “... a lot. Price can talk all day about how it was necessary, but puttin’ it all on you like that wasn’t right. It hasn’t felt right since we did it, and I know why now-”

“It’s not about the interrogation, Soap.” Maria cuts him off, sounding a little firmer than she intended, but still going forward with it. She leans back in her chair, squeezing one of the wipes in her hand, a familiar sting starting to form in the corners of her eyes. Looking him dead in the eyes, she finally explains herself:

“I am a medic. I’m your medic. I was asked here to help you all out. To make sure you all made it home at the end of the day. And within the first few months of being here with you, I was made to believe I failed. I had to watch two of you die, knowing there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it. And yes, I know that’s the nature of war, I’m not stupid. But helping you is my job, and I failed. I was supposed to look after you, and I failed. And now every time I look at you, all I can see is…”

She shakes her head, looking away from him, unable to keep her gaze on the eyes that have steadily developed a mixed look of worry and awe. The wipe in her hand is clenched hard enough to start dripping water onto the floor, and she slams it down onto the desk in a moment of overwhelm. She links her hands together, shifting her fingers in a practised pattern to try and calm herself. 

“I’ve… been thinking about you a lot,” she admits. There. It’s finally out in the open.

In front of her, she hears light shuffling. Maria swallows thickly, not yet wanting to hope. She wants those hands of his to seek out hers, relishing the memory of how secure his hold feels on her, craving a deep sense of safety and protection, and a reminder that he still exists, to counter her anxious mind.

“Has anyone told you, you’re incredible?” 

His statement comes as a surprise, and her entire thought process pauses as she looks back up at him again. Soap’s looking at her now with admiration… and something else.

“You put our lives on yer shoulders the second ye got here,” he continues, “You barely knew us, and ye knew about the stuff we did, and ye didn’t bat an eyelid. You looked at us and ye decided we were worth savin’. You throw yerself into Hell along with us, and ye turn around and pull us out of it. Yer one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.” 

He looks at her for a moment, as if he’s considering something. 

“Strong…”

One of his hands moves to gently grasp at her chin.

“... and smart…”

His gaze drops down to her lips, a silent proposal hanging between the two of them.

“... and beautiful.”

With a slow yet fluid motion, he presses his own lips against hers, and she melts immediately. The images that have haunted her for months are gone in that moment, replaced with the certainty of what’s in front of her. The physical feeling of just being up against him is like a high, discarding any worry of future disasters. There are no hypotheticals now. His existence is enough.

Maria deepens the kiss, and Soap answers in kind, both of them clearly starved for connection. Her arms reach up to wrap around the back of his neck, as if she could possibly pull him any closer. He hums in appreciation, his right arm snaking around her waist in response. 

God, why did she put this off for so long again?

Unexpectedly, his other hand finds the inside of her thigh… and starts to slowly trail further up.

She’s suddenly hit with realisation. There is one more thing that she needs to talk about with him. One thing that might end up pushing him away.

With regret, Maria breaks off the kiss, panting softly to get her breath back. “Soap…” she coaxes his attention.

His look of confusion tugs at her chest. “What’s wrong?” he asks… and then his expression turns saddened, his eyes glancing away. “You don’t…”

“It’s not that,” she assures him quickly, “I do feel that way. I do want this. But… it needs to happen in a particular way for me.” Her gaze crosses his gear, finding the rank markings that proudly declare how hard he’s worked, and simultaneously give her a reminder of the real world. She brings her hand up to his cheek, running her fingers across the light stubble. 

“We have to accept that there’s a power dynamic in play here, Soap. You’re a Sergeant, I’m a Corporal. It’s not really proper.”

Soap shakes his head dismissively, his right hand finding her hip and squeezing gently. “Price isn’t gonna care-”

“It’s not about Price,” Maria tells him, “This is about me. I want us to be on equal terms. I want to be on the same level as you, with nothing standing between us. It’s not about us getting into trouble - it’s about us being able to respect each other equally. That’s important to me.”

Understanding shines in his eyes, and he nods slowly, but she can tell that a part of him doesn’t quite get where she’s going. So she bites the bullet.

“I do want to be something more with you… but I’d like to wait. Just until I make Sergeant like you. I understand if that’s not something you’re willing to do, I’m not going to force you into anything. But this is something I need if we’re going any further.”

Maria holds her breath as she watches Soap frown thoughtfully. She doubts that he expected her to draw a line like this, so this would be quite a surprise, but she knows she needs to lay down the line early, so that there’s no confusion between them. She wants to be honest, and not hold anything back. All she can do is wait to see what comes next.

“Can I think about it?” he asks after a moment.

“Of course,” she answers. “As long as you need.”

He nods again, and then gives her a cheeky smile. “Can I have another kiss?”

She laughs, and leans forward, pressing her lips against his, slow and gentle. She lets him deepen it again, just for a moment, then pulls away.

“Now let me finish with this.” She takes hold of a new, less squished wipe, and starts to treat the little scratches again.

The conversation has been had. The line has been drawn. From this point forward, she’ll just have to wait and see.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

December

“All call signs this net- Launch is terminated. Mission accomplished.”

Outside of the missile silo, Maria stands ready to enter as the Demon Dogs clear out the last lingering Al-Qatala operatives, the previously intense gunfire gradually slowing to the occasional pop. The day has been chaotic, but fortunately everything has gone well, and she’s just glad they didn’t have to deal with the launch of an actual nuke. Close by, Sergeant Griggs nods his head in acknowledgement of Price’s declaration, and grins at his fellow Marines.

“Copy, Actual,” he confirms into his radio, before calling out, “Demon Dogs! Let’s sweep and clear, see if we can’t find any strays!”

The Marines holler gleefully, gathering by the entrance and preparing to make their way inside. Whilst they’ll be looking for more Al-Qatala to eliminate, Maria has a slightly less intense, slightly more morbid task at hand. She reaches up to her chest and clasps her hand around her own radio.

“Watcher-1, this is Fairford. Moving to confirm the death of Zakhaev,” she declares.

“Copy, keep me updated,” Laswell responds quickly. Maria barely manages to take one step forward before Price is back on frequency with his own opinion.

“Zakhaev’s dead,” he states firmly, with an air of annoyance, “Fairford would be better off regrouping with us.”

Before Laswell can lecture him about the necessity of making sure their job is actually done, Maria quips back, “Nobody’s dead until I say they’re dead, Captain.”

In front of her, two Demon Dogs heave the main door open, and immediately the group swarms inside, guns and hackles raised for any kind of resistance. She follows close behind, squinting until her eyes adjust to the lower light level. The smell of jet fuel hits her hard, and she finds herself coughing lightly, sweeping her hand in front of her face to try and get some clear air. 

On the bright side, at least it’s an inactive nuke rather than a live one.

The displeasure of the smell is quickly replaced by the relief of seeing Farah and Alex up ahead, thankfully still in one piece after they had distracted Al-Qatala whilst Price had gone after the missile. Maria moves towards them, eyeing them for any kind of injury.

“You two okay?” She asks, knowing she needs to press on but still wanting to check on her allies.

Alex nods, a reassuring smile on his face. “All good here, Corporal.”

“We’re regrouping with Price at the coast,” Farah informs her, “MacTavish is inbound.”

Maria grips the edge of her vest absent-mindedly, but nods firmly, “Keep an eye on them for me.”

“Always do.”

The two move quickly out of the silo, disappearing out of her sight. She takes a deep breath, before facing back towards the inside and moving forward.

Ahead of her, the Demon Dogs check corners and call out to each other every so often, verifying that the areas they’re investigating are clear. Maria only hears one or two gunshots every so often, no doubt stragglers who were hoping to stay hidden. Accompanying her as she makes her way to the bottom of the main launch silo are two Sergeants, Davis and Valenzuela.

“No way this guy’s still alive,” Valenzuela mutters, clearly not addressing Maria herself, “He fell like, fifty feet.”

“Higher-ups just wanna cover their asses,” Davis answers back dismissively.

Maria doesn’t respond to their musings. Laswell’s reasoning for wanting the kill to be confirmed makes sense to her - Zakhaev has been terrorising Verdansk for almost a year now, and ensuring that its citizens can, eventually, return to their homes and sleep a little better at night is an obligation. That was what they were ultimately doing all of this for, after all.

Eventually, her attention moves from her companions to the absolute monstrosity that soon appears in front of her. The nuclear missile, though still faintly surrounded by smoke, stretches upwards for what seems like forever. A colossal metal cylinder, packed with enough power to level an entire city. Maria can’t help but stare up at it for a moment, contemplating the disaster that has been narrowly averted. 

She’s never seen destruction on that kind of scale. She hopes she never will.

“Doc?” A voice from behind her diverts her attention. Griggs appears next to her, surveying the room with a frown on his face. She shakes her head slightly to clear her mind, focus on her task… and then quickly realises exactly what he’s thinking.

So far, there is no sign of Victor Zakhaev’s body.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Valenzuela exclaims from behind her. Maria moves forward, circling the room for any signs that someone had been present. She stops momentarily, crouching down to inspect a small patch of red liquid that has pooled on the floor. Definitely blood, but after a further search, somehow there doesn’t seem to be a trail leading anywhere.

Instead of looking around her, she looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly. Is it possible that Zakhaev caught himself on the way down? It would’ve been difficult with an injury… but not impossible. She knows there are multiple floors between where they are and the opening of the silo at the top. 

She also knows that Price is going to despise this.

“Demon Dogs, I want a sweep of the whole silo,” Griggs orders into his radio, clearly just as displeased as the Captain will be later, “Zakhaev’s death is not confirmed. I repeat, Zakhaev’s death is not confirmed.”

From above her, Maria can hear the echoing footsteps of the Marines as they check the upper floors, looking for any signs of their missing target. For a moment, it seems like nobody has any kind of clues, until the radio crackles to life again.

“This is Raines, I might have something up here. Trail of blood.”

“Copy, moving to you,” Griggs answers, turning and stalking out of the room. Maria lets out a huff of frustration through her nose - it seems nothing is ever easy when it comes to the 141. She’s getting used to it, but that doesn’t mean she likes it. Her teammates are out on the coast dealing with another firefight. She needs to be out there making sure they stay in one piece, and here she is chasing a mystery. 

She needs to get the hell out of here. She needs to get back to her team. Her boys.

“Blood trail’s a dead end,” Griggs’ voice growls over the comms, “No sign of Zakhaev.”

Well, there’s nothing she can do here until someone figures out where the hell Zakhaev went. Maria reaches for her radio again, speaking quickly as she starts to march back towards the entrance, “Watcher-1, I have no kill confirmation. Zakhaev isn’t here.”

There’s a pause, presumably while all listening parties curse in frustration, before Laswell answers, “Understood, we’ll find him. For now, regroup with the 141 on the coast. I’ll call you if we hear anything else.”

“Copy.”

—

A few hours later, and her boys are back with her. But not without their fair share of usual chaos.

This time, the medical bay is bustling, with operatives being treated after what will hopefully be one of the final confrontations with Al-Qatala. Injuries vary, but from what Maria can tell, they haven’t had too many losses. In the moment, though, she has to focus on her own team.

Price is already irate about failing to kill Zakhaev, especially given how certain he’d been earlier. Despite being winged by a bullet across his left shoulder, he’s already in a deep discussion with Laswell, growling out demands as she sits across from him patiently, with naught but a single eyebrow raised. Clearly, she’s dealt with him longer than Maria has. Maria may need to get some tips from her.

Gaz is in the next bed over from him, thankfully in one piece. None of her teammates like being stuck in medical, though, and he’s no exception. Despite his seemingly calm demeanour, he keeps eyeing the entrance, making his desperation to make a run for it a little more obvious. She smiles to herself - perhaps she’s picking up some perceptiveness after all.

Ghost looms nearby, silently performing his usual antics of scaring the crap out of the Privates. He caught a knife wound to the side of his right arm, but he’s already stitched it up himself, much to Maria’s chagrin. As much as her attention is focused on one individual right now, she still would’ve preferred to get a look at it herself.

But her hands are full with Soap, who has ended up with a bullet wound to his lower abdomen. Thankfully it missed anything important, but the sight of him bleeding when she found him made her chest tighten in a very familiar way. Even in the face of war, it’s not something she will ever get used to. 

So now she’s here, finishing up the last of his stitches, and silently praying that next time he goes a little longer before he gets himself hurt.

Maria can feel Soap’s eyes on her as she works. She knows he’s not squeamish - in fact, he seems fascinated with how she works, the skills she has honed, and the quiet confidence she carries with them. This is where she performs her best, after all. No distractions, no extra requirements, no concerns about broadening her skillset. Just her bread and butter, as it were.

After she cuts the thread and carefully knots it off, Soap glances over to where the others are, as if checking on them, then looks back at her.

“I’ll wait,” he says suddenly.

Her eyes snap up to his, initially not comprehending what he’s saying… until the memory hits her. The conversation they’d had last month. The request she’d made. She stares at him for a moment, taking in the certainty that shines in his eyes. 

He’s taken the time to think about it. Something warm bubbles up in her chest.

“Are you sure?” She asks quietly, nervously, knowing the weight of what she’s asked. She has no idea when she’ll be made a Sergeant, and asking him to hold off that long is a big ask for anyone. She doesn’t want him to feel pressured into waiting.

But Soap nods firmly, giving her a smile. “Ye said this was something ye wanted, right?” At her confirming nod, he continues, “Well, if this is important to ye, then I’ll wait.”

Maria presses her lips together. She reaches down for his hand, holding it firmly in hers and rubbing gently at the skin with her thumb. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“It’s not like that. You know what you want. I know what I want too. I want to give us a go. If it takes us a little longer to get goin’, that’s fine.” He gives a light shrug and a smirk, “Gives me somethin’ to look forward to.”

With that, he holds her hand tighter, raising it to his lips and pressing a long, soft kiss to her knuckles. The warm feeling makes her feel like she might explode, in a mix of excitement, gratefulness, and complete adoration. The wait may be long, but the fact that he’s willing to do it is more than she could ever ask for. 

Maria smiles in kind, and after a glance of her own to the wider room, she leans forward and gives a peck to the space between his eyebrows.

“To tide you over,” she whispers as she leans back.

Soap’s grin widens. “Might need more than that to tide me over,” he suggests teasingly, “Should put me on a prescription. One a day.”

“Don’t push it,” she laughs.

Several thuds of footsteps signal that their shared moment is over, and Maria slowly - ruefully - releases the grip she has of him. The 141 gathers around Soap’s bed, all of them now looking determined and on task. Laswell takes charge, typing on her touchpad before showing them a map on the screen. She recognises it quickly. Urzikstan.

“Zakhaev is in the wind right now,” Laswell explains bitterly, “but we do have a lead on the new Al-Qatala leader. Khaled Al-Asad has returned to Urzikstan, and most of his soldiers are following suit.”

“Farah and her troops are working to figure out where exactly he’s holed up,” Price continues, “When she has something viable, she’ll let us know, and we’ll back her up. In the meantime, Laswell will keep digging to see if she can find out where Zakhaev has run off to.”

Laswell nods in confirmation, her eyes narrowed. “He can’t have gone too far with his injuries. He may still be in Verdansk. If we can find him, we can make sure he doesn’t get the chance to recover and make another attack.”

Soap gives a nod of his own, and then looks back at Maria, his expression softening slightly. “You alright clearin’ me to get back to work?” He asks, though it’s obvious from his tone that he’s not keen on the idea of refusal.

Maria makes a show of giving a light huff of exasperation. “I’d prefer you to take it easy. But as long as you don’t pull your stitches, I can agree with you getting back on your feet.” She answers, moving to stand up and stepping back towards the others.

“Then let’s get after it,” Price orders.

Together, the 141 stalk towards the entrance of the medical bay, already seemingly jumping from one task to the next. Even with a few months under her belt now, the amount of time they spend on mission is definitely going to take some getting used to for Maria. This year has been a significant turning point for her life, in more ways than one.

As she walks, she feels the edge of Soap’s little finger brush up against her own.

The corner of her mouth twitches… and she wraps hers around his in response.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist [Opt In/Out]: @socially-awkward-skeleton @imagoddamnonionmason

[moorishflower]

this is for @softest-punk because I remember I mentioned this idea before and you were interested and now it's being written :3

Lucifer is still on her sofa when she steps back out into the living room, and still out cold, which works just fine for Jo, because the only clothes she has that are clean are some leggings that she vaguely remembers wearing once and a vividly orange tank top that says 'Beefcake' across the front with armholes so large they show the sides of her tits, and she is not putting a bra back on for the bloody Devil. She doesn't owe them that much respect.

Mazikeen hasn't come back. She supposes that would've been a bit of a pipe dream, though. 'Turns out Lord Morpheus is a bit less of a wet sack than we thought, let me just take that fallen archangel off your hands for you, ta.'

She edges closer to the sofa. The Morningstar isn't moving, isn't even breathing. The only movement, in fact, is the sluggish drip of ichor from their wings. Her sofa is going to be ruined. There's probably magic that could clean it, but maybe it’s time to get a new one anyway.

She crouches down next to Lucifer's head. They still have their face turned into the arm of the sofa, a stray curl fallen perfectly in front of their eye. They really do look like a work of art, except for the bruises. Or maybe because of the bruises. It makes them look almost human.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asks. Lucifer doesn't answer. She'd half expected them to open one baleful eye at her for the audacity of asking, but no -- silent as the grave.

Well. First thing's first, putting down some wards. So much for sleeping until two.

Lucifer doesn't wake up when Jo starts hauling boxes around, looking for reagents and tomes and chalk, why is she always lacking bloody chalk, and they don't wake up when she starts inscribing spellwork over the lintels, and they don't make so much as a peep when the Tesco receipt that she'd scrawled a rune of protection on goes up in sparks, indicating that the spell's taken, at least. They don't move, and they don't breathe, and they don't sigh or fart or blink or any of the other things that she would expect from someone who's unconscious. They're just...there.

It's gone 4:30am by the time she's done, sweat beaded on her brow and dripping down her sides under her stupid tank top. The flat's warded, ha, to hell and back, and short of sitting by the front door with a knife there's not much else she can do. Magically, Lucifer is as protected as she can offer, and isn't that what she'd specified in the deal? Only as much as she can humanly offer?

She doesn't owe them anything beyond common hospitality.

What the fuck is common hospitality, though? She'd said the words without thinking because she's still a bit drunk and exhausted and she'd been covered in ectoplasm and piss-your-pants-scared, but now she has to actually think about what it means. Hospitality. Making whoever it is...comfortable? Feeding them. Sheltering them. She doesn't think she's responsible for clothing them, but...but probably she should make sure they don't...bleed out? On her sofa?

How does one doctor the Devil?

[bqrdercarnival]

⌒⌒﹕love, again.

( EN- ) jake x fem reader

playlist ;; orange flower // tfw // highway 1009

admin notes at the bottom

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶⠀୨୧⠀︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

“Fuck. We’re all out of gas.” Jake muttered under his breath, trying to start the engine up again. Sunoo walked over to him, a worried look on his face. “What’s wrong?” Jake looked up at Sunoo, sweat dripping off his forehead. “Out of gas. ”He stood up and walked past Sunoo to the sofas in the camper, taking a seat next to Jungwon, who was chatting away to y/n. Y/n noticed Jake’s presence and smiled at him. “Are you okay? You’re sweating like crazy.” Jake sighed and wiped the sweat off his face. “I'm fine.” He reached for the water bottle Jungwon was holding and chugged it down like there was no tomorrow. “I’m gonna go shower.” He said, standing up and heading for the back of the van, leaving Y/n and Jungwon to talk once again.

── .✦

The four of them gathered around the small dining table, chatting about the day and trying to keep a positive spirit since the van ran out of gas. Sunoo checked his phone from time to time to check for reception, but there was no sign of anything. “Let’s play something,” Jungwon suggested. “It’s so boring, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. My phone’s dead, and even if I charge it there won’t be any reception. The car’s basically dead too, so we won’t be able to drive anywhere either.” Y/n smiled. “Sure,” she said. “That sounds fun. What should we play?” “Ooh!” Sunoo piped up, his face lighting up. “Let’s spill secrets!” Jake looked at him, flabbergasted. “Hell no! That’s too risky for all of us, and you know that. How about a classic game of truth or dare? And if you back out of the question, you have to take a sip of your drink.” Jungwon looked at Jake, slightly side-eyeing him. “Seriously, you want to get us all drunk again?”Jake laughed. “C’mon, Jungwonnie. It will be fun! Just let loose a bit won't you?” Y/n smiled. “Alright,” her gaze flickering to each of her friends one by one, however lingering on Jake for a bit longer than it should have. “That would be nice.”

── .✦.

Time: 1:00 AM. The camper’s lights were still on, the four friends drunk and laughing about almost everything each other said.”Okay.. My turn to ask someone!” Sunoo said, slurring his words slightly as he spoke. “Y/n! T..Truth or dare!!” Y/n, who stayed sane and sober throughout the whole game until recently, hesitated for an unusually long time at Sunoo’s question. “Um.. dare?” She had picked truth for the entire game, and having nothing to hide answered all the questions in an instant.Sunoo laughed after hearing Y/n pick dare; this gave him a chance to mess up her perfect streak of well—staying sane.”Hah… I.. I dare you to..uh, kiss the person on your right!” Y/n stared at him, not believing what he had just said. “Um. what? No! I’m backing out.” She reached for her cup in front of her, only to see that it was empty. She reached for the bottle for liquor, only to find that empty too. Damn it, she had to do it now. There was no chance of her backing out now.

She looked to her right, and there sat a red-faced, beaming and drunk Jake.Y/n shifted her chair closer to him, grasping his face once he was in her reach. She then moved away suddenly, hesitation taking over her. “Ugh… come on, y/n,” she told herself. “They’re all drunk. It’s fine.” She leaned back in and touched her lips to his. It wasn’t perfect and it wasn’t anything she’d expected either. Y/n had always taken a liking towards Jake; however she never expected herself to even be this close to him, let alone kiss him. Y/n pulled away awkwardly, immediately turning away and shifting her chair back to its original position. “Okay,” she looked around the table. “My turn.” She pointed at Jungwon. “Jungwon! I dare you to uh.. Stand outside for five minutes!” Jungwon, who was also red-faced, looked at Y/n, a giddy look on his face. “Uhm.. sure..”

── .✦

Time: 2:30 AM. Everyone left to go sleep, y/n to her room, and everyone else to theirs. Y/n tossed and turned in her bed, unable to fall asleep. “Aurgh.. Fuck. My head hurts..” She stood up, throwing her blanket onto the floor. She walked over to her desk and picked up her ipod. People rarely used ipods these days,but y/n still liked it because she could download anything she wanted on it, and it didn't require wifi. She plugged her earbuds in and clicked on her playlist. As the music started to play, y/n sat there and gathered all her thoughts. She thought about how they were going to get out of the forest, how Sunoo, Jungwon and Jake were managing to sleep, and how she was going to manage to study once she got back home. She thought about her parents, her siblings, about life, school, and everything else. Once the song ended, y/n breathed out a sigh. She set her things back on her desk and walked back over to her bed, picked up her blanket and headed to sleep.

── .✦

The sun crept into the room, bathing y/n in golden glory. Her eyes slowly fluttered open, glancing at the clock on her bedside table as she woke up. Desperately needing the extra minutes, y/n pulled her blanket back over herself and went back to sleep.

Around an hour later, Y/n woke up and headed for the main area. When she stepped into the area, she was greeted by a smiling Sunoo, and Jungwon and Jake who were eating their breakfast. Y/n sat down at her seat, sandwiched between Jake and Jungwon. “Hi,” She said, grabbing a piece of toast. “Did you all sleep well?” “Yeah I did,” Sunoo said. “Not gonna lie, the alcohol kinda helped put me to sleep.” Jungwon smiled. “Me too.” Y/n looked over at Jake, who was munching away on a piece of bacon on toast, the sunlight rushing in through the windows and hitting him at just the right spot, making him look more dashing than he already was. Y/n caught herself staring for a little bit too long; she shook her head and turned her attention back to the plate in front of her. However, just as Y/n turned away, she caught Jake’s eye and he smiled. Shifting closer to y/n, he leaned his head in, lowering his voice into a whisper. “Lost in the moment, or were you purposely staring?” He moved away, shooting a wink towards y/n, leaving her stunned.

── .✦

Monday. Everyone’s most dreaded day of the week. Sunoo, Jungwon, Jake and y/n had finally managed to get back home after that road trip, and everything was back to normal. Sometimes, y/n found herself thinking about the events that happened on the weekend, in that camper van with her friends. How they laughed, how they tried new foods, and… Y/n let her thoughts stop there before she let herself think about him. About how she had always preferred him over her other friends. About how they'd always hang out during breaks. About how.. How she’d kissed him. It was just a dare, but it meant more to y/n than just a dare. She’d never thought that she’d be thinking about this; about how she could possibly have a slight crush on her best friend. That thought didn’t go too far before the bell rang, signalling that it was time for lunch.

Y/n sat at her usual table with her closest friends- Yuna, Chaewon, Sakura, Winter, Rei, and Gaeul. “Hey y/n,” Chaewon greeted her with a warm smile, passing y/n a slip of paper across the table. “This is for you, I spent all night last night writing it up. Happy birthday, bestie!” Y/n froze. How could she forget that today was her birthday? She smiled back at Chaewon, her face lighting up as she replied. “Thank you.” The table proceeded to talk about all sorts of different things; like how they were going to celebrate y/n’s birthday, the latest drama at school, teachers they hated, and everything else.

Just then, Sunoo’s voice came from the table next to them, calling y/n over. Y/n walked over to Sunoo’s table- consisting of Sunoo, Jungwon, Heeseung, Sunghoon, Jake, Jay and Ni-ki, and sat down, squashed between Sunoo and Jake. “What’s up?” Sunoo beamed at her, his smile lighting up the whole room. “Happy birthday, y/n.” Y/n returned his smile, laughing. “Thank you.” Jake placed his arm around y/n, hugging her with one arm. “Happy birthday to you. I couldn’t ask for a better best friend.”

── .✦

Sakura was the first to arrive at y/n’s house. Y/n had a lavish, large mansion that could fit the whole school if she wanted to. The moment Sakura saw y/n, she immediately rushed to her and gave her a big hug. “You look like a greek goddess,” she said, admiring y/n’s dress. “Awh, thank you! You look gorgeous yourself, Saku.” The two of them sat down on the sofa in the exquisitely decorated house, waiting for the others to arrive.

As the people started piling in, y/n was getting tired. She walked out to the patio, holding a cup of water. She was doing really well in regulating her drinking habits; she couldn’t let something like last time happen again. Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her, and she turned around to see Jake join her on the patio. “So,” he said, taking a seat next to her, “Sixteen, huh?” He smirked, making y/n smile. She hit his arm playfully, laughing as she did it. “Yeah. I guess I'm old now.” Jake laughed as well, matching her energy. “Yeah. guess you are.” Y/n took a sip from her cup, and stared at him, trying hard not to laugh. “You’re older though.” “Ugh, shut up.” Jake slapped her on the arm jokingly and the two of them stood up, looking out on the patio.

“You know,” Jake whispered, putting his arm around y/n’s shoulder, “I heard you talk that day.” Y/n turned to face him, confused. “What day?” Jake smirked. “Oh, you know, when you.. Kissed me.” Y/n felt her face heat up immediately, and she turned her head back around to try to hide it. “Oh.” Jake leaned in closer, his breath brushing against y/n’s skin. “I like you too, you idiot.” Y/n turned around to face him, shifting away. “How the fu- how did you even know I- Wha-? I haven’t even sorted anything out and you’re hitting me with this?” Jake laughed, sitting back down on the chair. “The truth is, I've always liked you. Since we were ten. I just never noticed it until now.” Y/n sat down next to him, taking one last sip from her cup. They sat there like that in silence for a while, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It had a sense of warmth, of understanding, and everything unspoken; things that couldn't be expressed in words, and everything in between. Y/n finally spoke up, breaking the silence. “I guess I could say the same for myself.” She turned her head to look at the dark brown-haired boy in front of her. “I’ve liked you too, Jake.”

“Since we were ten.”

── .✦

admin’s note. !!

for the Jake to my Sunghoon, christina. </3

please keep in mind that I have no experience at all in writing fics, and this is my first one. It’s not very good, but I will try to improve as time goes on and who knows, maybe I’ll do a rewrite. I spent quite a long time thinking of the plot, and when I did I decided to go for a classic friends-to-lovers trope.

to everyone who has read this, thank you.

— aeri xo

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #29: Conscience

Masterlist

content: immortal whumpee, captivity, stabbing

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

When his eyes fluttered open, Heather was right there. 

She was right on top of him. In her hand, she held a knife.

He was too stunned to even scream. But he really, really wanted to! Because why the fuck was she there? Oh God. He was so close to her. She was so close to him. His pulse went machine-gun fast. He could smell the orange blossom soap on her skin, the conditioner in her hair, the faint coffee scent of her sweater. He thought, for a moment, that he was dreaming, but this was too vivid to be a nightmare.

He swallowed. His throat was raw, arid and scratchy. He wanted to beg but he couldn't even bring himself to move. His limbs felt like they were wrapped in cellophane.

She pressed the knife lightly against his shirt. The point of the blade twisted against fabric.

His breathing slowed, the longer he stared at it. He was not in any danger, he realized, not any worse danger than before. If she was going to kill him, he didn’t mind dying again.

Well, then, this was a walk in the park! This was a slice of pie. Skittles and beer and vanilla ice cream. Life was going great. He was out of the basement. Everything was going to be okay.

He could even see sunshine! The curtains no longer covered the window. From his left, light spilled over the window ledge with reckless grace. The living room was much less dim and dreary. He could even see the blue sky, a merry robin-egg shade stretching over the snow. Jackie could get drunk on that sight.

She narrowed her eyes, as if just noticing he was awake. “You're quiet.”

He shook his head and left it at that. He felt much better, compared to last night. Sleeping in the basement was hard. He would wake up in bursts and starts, easily startled by a noise he’d imagined or a spider darting across the wall. This was his first deep rest in a while.

“I was checking if you were asleep,” she said.

Jackie nodded distantly, already thinking of other things.

Just then, the doorbell chimed. She cleared her throat and stood up, off the sofa, and walked around the corner. The door opened. He didn’t get up. Back then, he would have taken this opportunity for escape with eager arms, but escape was a distant pipe dream now. He was so much older, so much more exhausted. Shameful, to give in so easily, but…

Outside the window, a cardinal flitted across the snow. He closed his eyes and put his head back down. The sofa was so comfortable. Shameful, this docile sort of life, but he was happy.

The front door was not far from the living room. Jackie could hear the faint murmur of conversation. Nobody he knew, nobody he could recognize.

It was brief. Only a couple of words were exchanged, then the door was shut again.

There was the dull crunch of footsteps in the snow, and the lock clicked into place. He heard more footsteps, echoing against the wood floors. Outside, a bird tittered its song, piecing together a hesitant melody. Branches crackled in the cold.  

He heard a heavier thump, closer to him. Jackie started upright. There was a white box at the foot of the sofa. Kind of like the boxes bakeries used for cakes. It was heavy, judging from the sound, but not too big. Only about five inches tall, five inches wide. There was no label on it, no shipping company, not even an address.

Heather hadn’t put the knife down. Did the visitor notice? Did they not care? Her stare was boring holes into him. She stepped closer, until they were no more than a rat’s-tail apart, and he did nothing.

Before he could even register what had happened, he flinched. There was a blur of movement. A sharp motion. The ache in his chest flared up to a burst, and he clutched the wound on instinct. A spurt of blood dripped down the knife and across the curve of her hand. She had stabbed him. He could hear his pulse get weaker, feel its sad convulsions in his throat.

“A—ah. Shit.” He would never get used to the pain of dying, no matter how often it happened. He pressed a shaky hand to the knife’s handle. “Good morning t—to you too.”

Heather made a slight, small choking sound. Her hair hung down like torn rags around her face, brushing the edges of his jaw. She staggered, then… put her head down on his shoulder. Tears wetted his shirt. Their cold, salty sting bled through the fabric to his skin.

“Oh.” He cringed. This was not his idea of a good morning.

“Jesus…” She shuddered against the crook of his neck, against his chest.

“Yeah. It happens. Do you want a hug? Or… what’s in the box?”

"Morphine.”

Not all her drugs were homemade, then. “Do you want some morphine too?”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “Yes to both, please.”

He didn’t know how to administer morphine, or how to reach them with Heather leaning on his shoulder, so he settled for the hug. Around her waist, around the thick maroon fabric of her sweater.

He patted her back, a rhythmic motion below her shoulder blades. “There, there. It’s okay. Why are you sad?”

“I—“ Her voice hitched. “I stabbed you.”

“I’m fine. I’m immortal, remember? I’ll be okay.”

“It’s not that, it’s—I don’t know why I’m being so cruel to you, Jackie. I don’t know! I wish you would—” Another hitch. “But it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just scared.”

“Yeah…” He glanced down at the knife. His slow-dripping blood had an odd viscosity to it, and it was so dark that it nearly shone black. The blade was embedded so deep in him that it was barely visible, rimmed by the slightest glint of light. It was one of those kitchen knives. They usually came in a set. Three silver circles dotted the handle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even want to keep you here. I was going to kill you. But I don’t—what was I supposed to do? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I forgive you.”

“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re saying whatever you think will make me happy. You hate me. You should hate me.”

Such a picky girl. Take the forgiveness and leave, or else say nothing, because there was nothing he could say back. If he kept acting cute, she would hurt him regardless, and if he started spitting insults at her, she would probably bash his head into the wall. But it wasn’t his opinion she was searching for—no, he was a prop for her guilty conscience, and he’d have to play along.

“I love you, Heather.” He pressed up against the side of her face. “Don’t go.”

“You…” She let go of the knife. This shifting caused his wound to sting anew, but he made an effort not to wince. “You don’t love me. I hurt you.”

“I don’t care. Just… don’t leave me alone again. Please. It was horrible. I don’t want to go back.”

“I won’t.”

A prop, a perfect prop, never complaining or talking back. A doll, a sweet and shallow toy. Maybe that was what she wanted. Jackie probably couldn’t do that for her, but he could try.

The doorbell rang again.

She sat up straight almost instantly, tearing away from him. He felt a dizzy ache clog up his throat, as her heat left his skin. She scrambled off the sofa, conjured up yet another tissue. After impatiently rubbing at her eyes, she threw it on the coffee table. Off and around the corner she went.

There was a shrill sound—it was the door swinging open. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Hello, officer.”

Officer. 

Jackie froze like a deer. 

He clutched the knife still stuck between his ribs until his knuckles felt sore. If he screamed now—no, Heather would lock him alone again, and she’d kill the witnesses, whatever it took to silence him. He stared at the crumpled tissue instead. A torn, crushed, fragile thing. So immaterial in the glaring sunlight.

“Hello.” The voice was rough but reedy, husky but not deep. “I wanted to ask a few questions—“

“Questions?” Heather’s voice was calm, even confident. “Ask away, officer. Is something wrong?”

“There’s been a disappearance in this neighbourhood.” Jackie’s heart pounded like snares in a metal crusher. “Have you heard anything about Matthew Markham?”

Oh. Of course. The dead body. The unlucky guy who had annoyed Heather. Of course nobody was looking for Jackie. He swallowed the sinking feeling in his gut and continued to listen.

“No, I haven’t heard anything. My apologies.”

“That’s alright. We've been searching the area, you know how it goes. Would you mind if we talked inside your home?” There was a tiny creak—Jackie imagined him leaning forward, trying to push through the doorway.

“Do you have a warrant, officer?”

There was a curt, painfully obvious pause. “I'll return in two weeks or so. I appreciate your help.”

“Okay, officer. I hope you can find Matthew.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

The door closed. He wasn’t a dirty cop, then. Not some pig. What luck. Jackie wanted to kick the guy. If only he were a brute! The law was fair, but it was not always kind. If only he’d barged in, shoved Heather aside, and taken Jackie home…

Home? What home? The apartment was gone. Repossessed, returned to the landlords, rendered to dust and white-wash wood. This was his home now.

“Jackie!” Heather ran back into the room. All that confident composure had crumbled away. Panic warbled in her voice. “Fuck! What should I do?”

He sat up straighter. “Why are you asking me?”

“Who the fuck else should I ask? Matthew?” She began to pace beside the table, back and forth, tracing her steps over and over. She ran a tensed hand through her hair. “Shit, shit, this is bad.” She paused her pacing to glance at him. “Don’t just stare at me. You have a plan, right?”

“Not really. Sorry."

This was not the answer she wanted, but she finally stopped running laps across the living room. Instead, she stood against the wall opposite him, looking more haggard than ever. Jackie seriously doubted that this mysterious cop with a missing warrant could rescue him. If Heather thought he was in danger of being discovered, she wouldn’t simply give up and let him go. She’d stuff him in a closet, or hide him in her trunk, or lock him up somewhere equally uncomfortable. It was in his best interests to nudge her towards a plan that didn’t involve being shoved into small spaces.

“Heather. Do you trust me?”

She laughed without mirth, her head bent down, her ruffled hair falling over her eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “I get it. It doesn’t matter. More importantly—you have a lot of money, right? You’ve got a rich daddy who up and died or something. That’s why you can afford this house and all those drugs and still never go to work. That’s how you got all those nice chiffon scarves. Am I wrong?”

“You’re… uh, you’re right. I live off a trust fund. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Lucky guess.” Nobody who earned their own living had time to play with pharmaceutical drugs. ”Listen, if you’ve got the money, we could just leave. Go to Hawaii, maybe.”

“Leave… how? We can’t drive to Hawaii. Can’t take a plane, either. I don’t have your passport, it would look suspicious. Perhaps we could go to…”

“Kentucky?”

“No. I was thinking of somewhere temporary, like…”

“A hotel?”

“A hotel!” She clapped her hands together. “You sly devil. That’s perfect. They won’t suspect a thing.”

Sly devil. That was a new one. Sounded coy. Very suave. Better nickname than subject, anyhow. “When are we leaving, then?”

“I’d say… three days to pack, then we can leave right away.”

And he hoped, crossed his heart and hoped, that this would not backfire. Just one nice thing. Just one streak of luck. Lord knew he needed a break. He just needed this to go right. Just one good day.

“By the way,” she said, gesturing to his chest, “you’ve got a little something…” 

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” He wrenched the knife from his heart. His blood soaked the front of his shirt and smudged on his hands. For a minute, he could not feel his pulse—how odd. He did not have a heartbeat at all.

Heather took the knife from his hands. Although she hesitated, as if she wanted to speak, she left the room quietly.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation

@creppersfunpalooza

[thatoneterrariaplayers-vault]

Dangerous Moons - Chapter 4 - Sipping Through the Void

The stars out in space look stunning, far better than any view on the planets, here they shine in full, nothing to obstruct their glow. Likewise, natural oddities like mountains and rivers can never actually be made by people, we are unable to match the sheer beauty of that which the planet originally created. The same can also be said about the natural beauty of people, no artificial intelligence or surgery can match that of someone who is naturally beautiful. Why is this important you ask? Evelyn… is stunning and I’m just here casually lying between her arms as if I didn’t just bawl my eyes out hours prior. The embrace is warm and comfortable, warmth felt only near the I worm my way out of the bed making sure not to disturb the resting Evelyn.

It’s time to take a walk around this ship of hers. It’s not large by any means, I mean realistically how much space can one or two people take up? I reckon the ship itself is a small freighter ship modified and adapted to her needs. The cargo hold itself contains very little except the corner that has been made into some sort of tool station. Moving on from there I find the kitchen, like the rental apartment back on Parlin, it has the bare essentials, refrigeration and dehydration systems, cooking equipment, a couple of pieces of cutlery, plates, cups and some source of water. The artificial gravity is enough to keep everything grounded but still floaty enough not to enjoy outer space. Despite being a industrial ship it has a homely feel, soft lights that illuminate rooms gently. Further down the hall is what appears to be a lounge, a circular-shaped red leather sofa is sunken into the floor, and the slight seam reveals that the centre will rise to form a table. Against a wall lies a bar with many exotic boozes and liqueurs locked on a shelf. The entire room has been decorated with digital posters displaying ancient films, actors and much more. There is another door in this room that is sealed off. A small dirty window is on the window and peering in reveals an array of weapons. “What are you up to there Violet?” Evelyn taps my shoulder, causing me to turn around with a jolt. “Hey, Evelyn. I didn’t hear you sneak up behind me. I promise I’m not looking to cause trouble here.” I’m afraid she sees my exploration around as invasive, it probably is, seeing as I am wandering around her ship. “You’re so cute when you get flustered.” Evelyn teases, “I see you have decided to check out my ship. Anything interesting you want to see.” My cheeks go piping red, embarrassment plastered across my body. “Oh, you are as red as a beet. It’s so adorable.” Evelyn grabs my hand, “Come sit, let me prepare you a drink. I’m only pulling your leg.” Evelyn guides my body to the couch and hits a button that brings up the table in the centre of the couch pit. She then waltzs over to her bar and takes out some cocktail components. “What do you like love? Something, bitter, sweet, sour… perhaps something fruity!” Evelyn begins masterfully crafting the drinks. I’m no bartender so watching her work is like trying to understand a foreign language. A few minutes go by and she presents me with the drink she made. A take on an old drink called a tequila sunrise. Served in a Collins glass from who knows when two layers of colour forming a beautiful gradient, a red pomegranate grenadine base and an orange float that appears to be a bubbling layer teeming with freshness. The cup is rimmed with sugar, some lemon zest and a orange peel. “Tequila is supposed to be difficult to get out here so far from the earth, especially after its collapse. We still make this stuff in some space colonies but vintages like my stock are the real deal. It might have cost me a fortune to buy that barrel but it was worth every credit, nothing matches the authentic stuff, consider yourself lucky to have tried the genuine spirit.” I take a sip of the drink and my body lights up with activity, the somewhat spicy spirit is contrasted by a zesty fruit Evelyn said was a ‘crude recreation of an orange’. My usual drink is just some beer or whiskey that is piss cheap and ‘unauthentic’ according to Eve. However this drink has changed my outlook entirely on my standards for drinking. Evelyn catches me zoning off as i stare at the drink and glass in my hands. “So someone has not had any good drinks in her lifetime I see?” Evelyn teases. “Oh uh, no, not really. Never really had the funds or will for it. Just drank to take some pain off while resting.” “Oh right, yeah, running away and being broke go hand in hand don’t they.” Evelyn then goes quiet, “Say. What made you run away in the first place?” “Oh its a long story. Maybe I can tell it to you over more occasions like these but for now, I can tell you the start to it.” “Do tell, we have plenty of time.” Evelyn urges me on with intrigue.

‘It started when-’ Over the next few system hours I would retell the story of my home-world, the ravages of the Syndicate government and my eventual capture. Evelyn is hooked onto every word, her face tells me all I need to know about what she is feeling. The finishing of the drinks interrupts the story, just as I was about to reach my capture at the station. “Your eyes are puffy. Come closer” Evelyn asks me to do. I had not even realised it at the time how emotional the air had become. Her eyes are also swelling up with tears, though she is holding them back to appear strong, an ever persistent persona of hers. Pulling her in I embrace her in a hug.

Time passes slowly, even though we only sat for a couple of minutes it felt like an eternity. The sombre silence is disrupted when Evelyn slips away. “Sorry, just, I need to stand up for a second.” her words catch me off guard. “I don’t blame you, if you want to abandon me I really would not blame you.” Silence stenches the air, momentarily but loud. “So. What’s your plan?” the question I’ve always been afraid of. The idea that I need to bring about revenge for those that lost their lives but part of me has been afraid to confront even the mere thought of revenge. “I'm not sure yet, I mean how can I even think of doing such when only recently have I found any form of stability.” my answer dissatisfies even me. Evelyn leans over the couch, her back arched and hands held together, “So are you just content with living this life? Knowing the people who did this are still out there, sipping on fancy drinks paid in the blood of innocents.” “No, I’m not exactly eager to return to my captors anytime soon either. The things they have done are evil, vile and unredeemable but they are also a galactic superpower, last time I checked, we are just two people, the resistance maybe a couple thousand. The Syndicate? Hundreds of thousands, if not a few million. Of course I’m fucking scared, I could barely take on a small group of them, how could I take on entire armies of them.” This flurry of feelings, it feels like its sweeping me off my feet and lifting me to the ceiling. Floating away into space does not sound like a terrible idea right now but something. No, someone grounds me. Evelyn’s warm body wraps around mine and she cradles my head against her body. Glancing upwards her eyes only show concern for me but I can't help but feel like a burden on her. If there is ever a person to bring back hope into my world, it’s her. I however, am not sure if I possess the strength to carry that hopeful torch to its rightful destination.

Authors note: Thanks to my best friend who was up (at 3 am) to proof read for me. You're a real one thanks! <3

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Dear Nemo, so nice to see you back! for the meme game, can you make one for Jacob and Dottie as a ship? I miss seeing them on my dash.

Hello Hello Duckling! So nice to see you in my inbox! I was so happy to see your ask! (and sorry for taking so long in answering! I appreciate your patience! I hope you don't mind but I took the chance to make this meme for Jacob and Dottie a bit farther ahead in their story than what I usually draw/write.)

✨JOTTIE (JacobxDorothea)🎩

MOODBOARD

PLAYLIST:

"Temple of Thought" - Poets of The Fall

"Amaranthine" - Amaranthe

"My Love Will Never Die" - Claire Wyndham

"Dancing on Broken Glass" - Poets of The Fall

"Jealous Gods" - Poets of The Fall

"War" - Poets of the Fall

QUOTES

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.”

― Alfred Tennyson

“I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone”

― J. R. R. Tolkien

“You make me thank god for every mistake I ever made, Because each one led me down the path that brought me to you.” ― Pablo Neruda

“I choose to love you in silence… For in silence I find no rejection, I choose to love you in loneliness… For in loneliness no one owns you but me, I choose to adore you from a distance… For distance will shield me from pain, I choose to kiss you in the wind… For the wind is gentler than my lips, I choose to hold you in my dreams… For in my dreams, you have no end.” ― Rumi

THEIR AESTHETIC:

A walk along the Thames in the dead of the night with the stars as their companions and protectors; an impromptu dance on cobblestone and the beating of their hearts as the sole music that gives them rhythm; a sweet song he hums with his low voice; a glance that alone speaks of years spent together, of hardship fought and conquered, of peace finally found; low laughter shared at a memory of the family they created; a morning spent in bed, cuddling and laughing together; the perfume of orange blossom and smoked pipe; a stack of letters neatly preserved if a little worn out for all the times they had been read; a violin playing and a voice singing the song of their hearts, just for his ears alone; warm tea sipped together in front of the fireplace; a soft blanket shared together; falling asleep on a worn-out sofa in each other's arms, the only place where they feel safe enough to let go of all worries; hearing the beating of his heart, strong and steady, just as he is; hearing her breathing while asleep, safe and sound in his arms.

[omegawhiskers]

Dynamite 15/11/23

He's Got a Bicycle!

Full Gear is just days away, so let's get into the final Dynamite before the big PPV.

The opening match between Jon Moxley/Wheeler Yuta vs. Orange Cassidy/Hook was not a match I wanted to see. I'm not saying it was a bad match, but it 's like watching a trailer that shows too much. Let the wrestlers meet in the ring the night of the PPV. I will say, I did like Moxley eating the orange punch and not falling down. But, it does reinforce my predication that Cassidy is retaining.

Swerve Strickland and Adam Hangman came face-to-face, but they couldn't lay hands on each other. If so, they would get suspended until 2024 and the match at Full Gear would be called off. Hangman’s promo was bloody great. This is the best I've seen from Hangman since his downward spiral story. Page attacking Prince Nana was the cherry on top to this awesome segment.

Skye Blue and Red Velvet had a decent match, but it had some sloppy moments. I'm glad that Blue got the win as this sets up the three-way TSB Championship match to be an exciting bout.

Samoa Joe had a fun squash match with Jon Cruz. When Cruz leapt from the top rope, Joe moved out of the way and Cruz gave Joe a hilarious confused look mid flight. It's still uncertain at this point if MJF will choose Joe as his partner. The closing segment of the show had The Bullet Club Gold beat down Max with no one coming to his aid, so I suspect Joe will end up being his partner out of desperation.

The Young Bucks have gone full heel. In a great match, Nick Jackson ended up kicking both Komander and Penta El Zero Miedo in the balls as Matt Jackson distracted the ref. Lexy Nair interviewed the Bucks when Kenny Omega came along to chastise his Elite buddies. Matt told Kenny that they had no beef with him, and that's it's with Chris Jericho. Matt would then shove Jericho from behind ensuing in a brawl. Matt and Nick were kind of floating for a while, so I'm glad to see they're back as heels and involved in a story.

Like A Dragon Gaiden Street Fight delivered a dumb, but fun match. The highlight was Kota Ibushi riding a bike with a pipe in hand as he smacked his opponents only to end up getting clotheslined off the bike by Brain Cage. I've seen wrestlers selling some dumb shit, but Jericho selling a DDT onto a leather sofa was fucking hilarious for all the wrong reasons. Another highlight was Paul Wright getting slammed by Will Hobbs onto a car windshield. The goofy tone combined with some dangerous spots was jarring. I will forever watch Ibushi on a bike, but I can't say there's much else to take away here.

This was a decent episode of Dynamite. Even with the bad, I still found some good. I didn't think we needed to see two squash matches tough. There have been far too many as of late. We also need to know more about this Continental Classic Tournament. I mean, what does the winner get? Full Gear is shaping up to a great PPV. I do hope we come out of it with some storylines closed and a clear direction going forward.

[puddlejumpingwriter]

"The Nine Lives of Kylo"

~ A Reylo Holiday Textfic ~

Author's Note: Here's the first of the new chapters. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, thank you for reading!

~~~

PART VI

~~~

Rey sleeps well Tuesday night, feeling warm and safe in Ben’s guest room and occasionally having a cat curl up beside her. She doesn’t have to be at work until the late afternoon, so she decides to indulge and sleep in—at least until her phone vibrates.

~~~

It’s the only solution that seems plausible to Rey. She’ll give the excuse that Finn can’t meet her fake boyfriend because Ben’s working, and Finn will be too busy with his own boyfriend’s coming out to care Rey’s alone for the night.

~~~

Ben’s at the station, covering the morning shift. It was a quiet night, so he managed to catch up on a few hours of sleep in a bunk. Amazingly, he’s not tired, and he knows it’s because of what’s waiting for him at home.

~~~

Ben notices the clock on his phone. It’s still early, and he’s running out of ways to say no to her.

But he has one idea she may be willing to accept.

~~~

Ben has a number of things in mind he’d like to do with Rey, but he chooses the one he’s confident will be of interest to her.

~~~

Ben counts down the minutes until he can see Rey again, but a message from a friend distracts him from thoughts about his new roommate.

~~~

Ben suddenly realizes what his friend’s talking about—a secret Poe keeps from practically everyone.

~~~

One downed power line, and Ben’s home later than planned.

He doesn’t see Rey when he opens the front door, but the light fixture he planned to install is now lit up above the foyer.

“Perfect place to hang mistletoe,” Ben’s depraved mind thinks, as his hand finds the small plant in his pocket.

“You’re home!” Rey says from the top of the stairs. 

Ben watches her bright red sweater and skinny black jeans cling to her body as Rey hurries down the steps. There’s a smile on her face that warms Ben’s heart, and apparently Rey likes to hug when she’s happy.

It’s surprisingly natural for his arms to curl around her. Perhaps he squeezes just a little too tightly for just a little too long, but Rey doesn’t seem to mind. She waits a minute before pulling away, and Ben reluctantly lets her go.

Rey takes a step back, her cheeks a bit rosier than expected given the temperature inside. 

“If you’d been here sooner, I would’ve made you lunch,” she comments.

“I already ate,” Ben replies. “Besides we have limited cooking options around here with the stove not connected.”

“Oh—about that,” Rey says, “I hooked up the stove today.”

Ben’s eyebrow lifts. “You did?”

“I told you, Kylo doesn’t need much,” she says, pointing to the orange cat sleeping on the sofa in the living room. “And I guess I can’t stop myself from keeping busy.”

“Hence the working light above us.”

Rey beams at him. “You noticed!”

“Of course, I noticed,” he says. “That wiring has been giving me a heck of time.”

“Your fingers were probably too big for it,” she replies. Rey reaches for his hand and places her palm against his, illustrating the size difference. “See?”

His eyes linger on their joined hands before returning to her eyes. Once her gaze meets his, her cheeks turn a shade redder, and she pulls away from him.

Ben instantly regrets the separation, but he doesn’t reach for her. She isn’t his…yet.

“Any other repairs I should know about?” he asks, trying to end the awkward silence.

“The lights are working in the laundry room now, but there was nothing I could do about the pipes in the back.”

Ben knows what she’s talking about. There’s exposed wall near his bedroom where he’s trying to replace some older plumbing.

“That’s an ongoing project,” he admits. “I have it rigged so my shower works, but I have to be careful until I can get a plumber in here.”

“So that’s why you have wrenches all over the place back there?”

“Yeah. It’s functional but temporary.”

“That’s fair. I’ll leave that project for you then,” she says with another grin.

“Do you want to go grab coffee or something?” Ben asks.

Rey’s smile falters. “Sorry, but I can’t. I have to be at work soon.”

“Right,” he replies, as his eyes turn toward the window. The sky’s already turning dark, and he can’t hold back a question. “How late are you working tonight?”

“I’m covering the full evening shift,” she says. “I’ll close up the shop at ten.”

“You’re going to be on your own?”

“People are taking time off for the holidays, but I don’t mind. I’ve handled the shop on my own dozens of times.”

There’s a weight in his stomach that Ben can’t ignore. “Do you mind if I go with you?”

“Why?” Rey asks, a crease appearing on her forehead.

Thinking quickly, Ben offers the first excuse that comes to mind. “I littered the town with signs about Kylo the other night. I should probably take them down, and it might be easier to start near the store and work backwards.”

“Oh right,” Rey replies. “That makes sense.”

Ben doesn’t add that he plans to be at the store at 10:00 to make sure she gets to her car safely.

~~~

By Thursday, Ben’s friends want an update on his living arrangement.

~~~

The frigid air can’t drive the smile from Rey’s lips. She’s too amused by the overwhelmed look on Ben’s face.

“You’ve never picked out a tree before, have you?” she asks him.

“I’ve set them up before,” he answers. “Usually with my dad or uncles while mom or nonna supervised, but I’ve never chosen a tree before.”

The seriousness in his eyes strikes Rey, and she realizes Ben may need help with this.

“There’s no pressure here,” she tells him, placing a gloved hand on his arm. “You can’t pick the wrong tree.”

“Then how do you find the right one?”

“It probably varies from person to person, but I follow a very scientific approach.”

“Which is?” Ben asks.

Rey pulls him toward a tree. “First, I check to make sure the tree is Christmasy enough.”

He chuckles, and some of the stress leaves his face. “Is Christmasy an actual word?”

“Of course,” she answers. “It means filled with Christmas spirit.”

“Right,” he replies, before gesturing to the tree. “So is this one ‘Christmasy’ enough?”

“What do you think?”

“I guess so,” Ben says. “It looks tall enough, and I think the branches could hold lights and ornaments. But is that enough?”

“There are other tests.”

“As important as the Christmasy test?”

Rey laughs, before removing a glove. “There’s also the freshness test.”

Her fingers feel the needles of the tree, and Ben’s fingers follow her example.

“They don’t feel dry,” he comments. “Seems like there’s still some life to them. And the color—they’re a nice Christmasy green.”

“That’s my favorite part,” Rey says, her gaze fixed on Ben.

“What?” he asks, still focused on the tree.

“The green,” Rey replies. “I spent part of my childhood in a house out in the desert. Nothing grew. I remember being transferred to another house and finally seeing plants….I thought they were beautiful.”

Ben’s eyes turn toward her, and Rey can see something there. Worry, maybe? Need? Interest?

She’s seen the same look in his eyes before, but she isn’t sure how to read it. 

He’s a handsome, sweet firefighter who dates models. He can’t want her.

And even if he does, Ben doesn’t want commitment. Maybe he wants a quick fling with Rey, but he said he wasn’t interested in marriage or anything like that.

Ben wouldn’t want to build a home with her.

Rey quickly looks back to the tree, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes any longer.

“We should plant it,” Ben says, and Rey feels her brow furrow.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“After Christmas—when we’re ready to take the tree down—we should plant it in the backyard,” he explains.

“But you’re going to sell the house, aren’t you? Is there really a point in keeping the tree?”

“I don’t know,” Ben replies. “I’ve been thinking about keeping the house lately.”

“Really?”

“Kylo seems to like the place,” he says, and Rey turns back to look at him in time to see those devastating dimples. “So what other tree tests are there?” Ben asks.

“Just the last one—the lean test.”

“Which is?”

“You look directly at the tree, then lean to the left, then to the right, and then come back to the middle,” Rey says. “If the tree still feels right from all angles, you’ve found the one.”

“Okay,” Ben replies, a hint of doubt in his voice.

“Don’t discount it until you’ve tried it,” Rey says, before they both turn toward the tree.

Ben seems willing to try it, but he starts by leaning to the right first, while Rey leans toward the left.

Their bodies collide, and Rey tries to overcorrect. 

Ben’s hands are suddenly on her waist, catching her before she can stumble.

“I think I’ve found the one,” he whispers, looking at her rather than the tree.

Rey’s breath catches. It would be so easy to kiss him. She already knows how good his lips feel.

But she also knows she’d fall for this man…and it would hurt too much if he asked to keep their relationship casual. 

Rey pulls back from him, and Ben lets go. “We should have them ring the tree up for us—if this tree’s your choice,” she says.

“Yeah, it is,” he replies. “I plan to take good care of it.”

Rey can only nod as they make their way back to Ben’s truck.

~~~

Ben needs to figure out how to do this right.

It feels so good to be near Rey and to touch her, but he doesn’t want to push her too far—not when it seems like she may bolt at any second.

He can take his time with this. She’s worth it, and Ben’s going to make her see how much he cares for her.

He’ll plant her a garden in the backyard if that would make her happy.

Ben just needs to find out what she wants, and he’ll give it to her.

And he’s going to start by making her feel like she’s part of his life.

“So what do you do for Christmas Eve?” Ben asks when they’re back in his truck.

“My brother and I usually hang out together,” she replies.

“Any interest in Nonna Padme’s annual Christmas Eve party?”

“I imagine that’s just for your family, isn’t it?”

“No,” he replies. “Nonna’s invited fifty people before.”

“Oh,” Rey says, not sounding sold.

“Your brother would be welcome to join us too,” Ben adds, before remembering the reason for their first kiss. “It may help with the whole fake dating story.”

“But then you’d have to pretend I’m your girlfriend that night.”

“I think I could manage,” he says.

“I’m not sure my brother will be happy to meet you by Christmas Eve.”

“What?” Ben says, not understanding. “Oh no, did you tell him what happened earlier this week? Does he think I’m an asshole?”

Ben’s worried. He doesn’t want Rey’s only family member hating him already.

“No,” Rey says. “He doesn’t know about that. All he knows about this week is that I’m living with you now.”

“Oh,” he replies. “Is that what your brother’s upset about?”

Ben feels a sudden need to track this guy down and tell him that his intentions toward Rey are honorable—for the most part.

“No, he’s not upset with you yet, but I’m not sure how he’ll be after Saturday.”

“What’s Saturday?”

“My brother’s big pre-Christmas party,” Rey answers. “The one I told him I’d bring my fake boyfriend to. He may not be happy with you after you don’t show.”

“What? Why won’t I be there?”

“Do you actually want to be there? Pretending like we’re dating, and you acting like you’re happy I moved in with you.”

“I am happy you moved in with me.”

“To watch Kylo,” she corrects. “It’s not like we’re living and sleeping together.”

Ben wants to pull over and tell Rey he’d sleep with her whenever she wants him to.

But Ben keeps driving. He’s not sure how she’d respond to that—and he can’t screw this up. Rey means too much to him.

“I could go with you, though,” he offers. “I wouldn’t do anything to make you feel uncomfortable. Maybe I could just hold your hand all night?”

“And that wouldn’t bother you?”

“Not at all,” Ben answers honestly.

“But are you even free that night?” Rey asks.

“I’m not working Saturday,” he replies, thinking of who else could help cover any emergencies so he can make sure he has the entire night off.

But then he remembers Poe and the dinner he’s supposed to attend.

“Crap,” he says. “I promised Poe I’d help him that night.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “It may be a bit of a chaotic party this year anyway.”

“You could still come to Nonna Padme’s for Christmas Eve. It could be my way of apologizing to your brother.”

“We’ll see,” Rey replies. “But first we have to make it through today.”

“I thought we already did the hard part,” he says. “We picked out the tree.”

“Yes, but now we have to decorate it. How are your decorating skills?”

Christmas decorating was usually orchestrated by his mother in the Solo house, but Ben’s looking forward to sharing this activity just with Rey.

“I’ve been told I make a decent staircase,” he replies. “I think I can handle anything you want to put on the tree.”

“Is that a challenge?” she asks mischievously.

“Name it, and we’ll make it happen.”

~~~

Rey recommended shatterproof ornaments at the store, and her suggestion turns out to be for the best after the first ornament goes on the tree.

Kylo jumps up to swat the red bulb, and it’s bouncing on the floor the next second.

“Told you,” she says to Ben, as he returns to the living room with a bowl of popcorn in his hand.

“You were right about the ornaments, but do we really need this much popcorn to decorate the tree?” he asks.

“You have another bag in the microwave, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good—that should cover both our decorating and snacking needs.”

“Right,” he says, a dubious look in his eye.

“I know how to make garland. Now do you trust me or not?”

The microwave beeps in the kitchen behind them, and Ben doesn’t bother answering. He merely turns around.

Rey takes a moment to inspect their supplies. Looking at the bags strewn across the living room, her eyes land on something green on the floor. 

It’s a sprig of some kind of plant, and Rey picks it up, unable to help her curiosity.

With a closer look, she realizes it’s mistletoe.

Her mind jumps to the possibilities. This could give her an excuse to kiss him again without all the complications of a relationship.

He doesn’t want a real girlfriend, but maybe he’d at least be willing to kiss her like he did in the cafe under this plant.

While she hears Ben still working in the kitchen she moves to the front hall and grabs the step-stool she used yesterday.

In a matter of moments, the mistletoe hangs from the new light fixture.

Before Rey can second guess her decision, she hears Ben returning to the living room. She does the same, leaving the plant in place in case an opportunity arises.

~~~

They work on the tree until Rey decides it’s time for Christmas cookies. 

She wants Ben to have the full holiday experience—the kind she and her brother have always tried for since leaving the last foster home.

And Ben doesn’t stop smiling. 

Even when she drapes lights over his arms to keep them from tangling as she wraps the strand around the tree…

Even when she coats his nose in flour while they bake…

Even when he pulls Kylo out of the tree for the third time that night…

Ben’s always grinning, and Rey’s stomach is doing flips.

Why does this man have to be so perfect, but completely uninterested in a committed relationship?

And how long can she stay here knowing she’ll never have him?

“So the tree is decorated,” Ben says before reaching into the oven. “And the cookies are baked,” he adds putting the pan on the stovetop. “I think we managed to survive today.”

“We did,” Rey agrees.

“And you said you’d think about Nonna Padme’s Christmas Eve party if we survived today, so…?”

Rey takes a step closer, her eyes focused on the little trees and candy canes on the baking sheet. “Do you still want me to go?”

“Yes, Rey. I—”

Ben’s phone pings three times in a row, stopping whatever he was going to say. Rey looks at him, trying to decipher from his features what the messages say.

“There’s an accident on the interstate ramp, and a Christmas tree caught on fire on the other side of town,” Ben says. “They need backup.”

“Of course, you should—”

Ben’s hand grips hers, and Rey goes silent.

“I want to finish our conversation,” he says.

“We can talk when you get back.”

“It may be late,” Ben replies. “Do you want to grab breakfast?”

“I’m working the morning shift,” she says. “Lunch?”

He shakes his head. “I’m at the station most of the day tomorrow. Dinner?”

“It’s a date,” she says before taking a step back. “Not an actual date,” she corrects. “Just…”

“Two people who live together having dinner together?” Ben offers.

“Something like that,” Rey says before following him to the front door. 

He puts on his coat and then his eyes turn back to her. “Would you mind watering the tree—making sure it’s okay? I don’t want anything happening to you or Kylo while I’m gone.”

It catches her off guard, how protective he is. Kylo’s his cat, but the way Ben shows concern about her too—Rey’s not used to that from anyone but her brother and Rose.

“I’ll make sure we’re okay,” she says, before realizing where Ben’s standing.

Her eyes go to the light fixture above him, and Ben’s eyes follow.

“It’s mistletoe,” she explains, before standing on her toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It’s tentative, but he doesn’t pull away, so she brushes her lips against his a second time—asking him through the contact if he wants more.

She would’ve stepped back and let that kiss be enough if he didn’t respond, but one strong hand finds her waist and another goes to the back of her neck.

Suddenly, Rey’s body is flush against Ben’s, and the kiss deepens. His tongue is in her mouth, and Rey can’t hold back soft, needy moans. Her fingers are in his hair, and he’s pulling her closer until there’s no space between them.

Is that a flashlight in his pocket? Rey can’t help but wonder as her belly rubs against something hard.

But then Ben’s cell phone pings again.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as he breaks the kiss, sounding breathless. “I have to go.”

“Right,” Rey replies, untangling herself from his grasp, just as Kylo curls around her ankles. She scoops up the cat to ensure she doesn’t reach for Ben again.

With the way he kisses, she’d probably beg Ben to stay when he needs to be elsewhere.

“Be safe,” she tells him. 

Ben takes a moment to turn back one last time, nuzzling against Kylo’s forehead and then leaving a brief kiss on Rey’s lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he whispers.

Rey nods, before watching him go. She carries Kylo into the living room and sits down on the sofa.

She’s not going to recover from that kiss anytime soon, and she doesn’t know if she wants to.

~~~

Hours later, Ben texts his best friend on the other side of town.

~~~

Ben doesn’t say he was the one close to begging. He spent the night aroused—by the sight of Rey in her holiday sweater, by her gentle caresses as they decorated, by the way she licked icing off her finger.

He would’ve done anything she asked—if they weren’t interrupted.

~~~

Ben’s determined to show Rey how good things can be between them.

What could possibly go wrong?