#slouch witch

[prythianpages]

The Love Potion | Azriel x Witch Reader

Azriel x Green witch | summary: Azriel asks you for an elixir to soothe his aches and you accidentally give him the aphrodisiac you had made for Nesta, bringing to surface one of his hidden desires.

warning: this is purely smut with a breeding kink, oral (m receiving), p in v. some fluff at the end

a/n: this is based off this request. This can also be read as a stand alone fic but it is part of my Dandelion series.

The door creaks open, signaling Azriel’s return from a day that seemed to drag on endlessly. His wings sag under the weight of fatigue and as he steps into your study, the scent of herbs and potions are instantly wrapping him in a soothing embrace.

And there you are, a sanctuary amidst the enchanting chaos. His mate.

You're engrossed in your apothecary work. Your spell book floats in midair in front of you, your keen dark eyes scanning through the ancient text as your fingers deftly work their magic to bring the essence of the herbs to life. The sight reminds him of the day he met you, when the mating bond had snapped.

A soft smile tugs at his lips as he stands in the doorway for a moment. The fatigue that clung to him like his shadows begins to lift as he watches you, admiration and love evident in the way he drinks in the details–from the concentration in your furrowed brow to the way your pretty lips move in incantation.

The weariness he feels is soon replaced by a warmth that radiates from the depths of his heart and quiet footsteps carry him closer. He’s surprised his shadows haven’t given him away. They love you as much as he does and it is often them who greet you first.

His arms wrap around you from behind and he pulls you into his embrace. He nuzzles his nose lovingly into your neck. “Hello, love.”

“You’re home!”

He can hear the smile in your voice and you can feel the exhaustion in his body, his tense muscles finally relaxing and body slightly slouching into yours. “Long day?”

“Yes,” he responds and you’re turning in his embrace to face him properly with a gaze of deep rooted concern. He kisses your worry away. “But coming home to you makes it all worthwhile.”

He takes delight in the way you grace him with a smile, your eyes softening into their natural color as you brush his hair back. “Should I draw you a bath?”

He pulls you tighter against him until you are chest to chest. Your heart, the emerald talisman kept safely in his chest pocket, hums between you. A bath sounds nice but he just wants to bask in your comfort. 

“Will you join me?”

“If you wait for me,” you reply and pull away to catch the slightest frown on his face. “It won’t be long! I have one more elixir to finish!”

Azriel’s eyes drift to the line of elixirs you have sitting on the counter behind you.  They seem to glisten enticingly under his curious gaze. “Do you have anything to soothe aches?” He asks as he reluctantly lets you go to carry on with your work. “Training was rough this morning.”

“Of course. The one with the green liquid should work,” you say as you mindlessly point to the array of potions you spent all afternoon making, failing to catch the way the aphrodisiac you made for Nesta morphs from its deep red to a verdant green. “Drink all of it, if you need to. I can always make more. Just let me seal this last one with a spell and then I can draw your–”

Your voice falters as you turn to face Azriel, your gaze momentarily flickering to the potions before settling back on him. He fails to catch the way your eyes widen in a sudden panic and swallows the sweet liquid in a big gulp. It’s only once all the liquid is gone from the vial that he picks up on your slight distress.

 "What?"

“Umm,” you stammer, your hand rubbing nervously at your neck as you sheepishly look up at him. 

“It wasn’t poison, right?” He jokes but your silence wipes the smile off his face. “y/n.”

“Of course not!”

You drop your gaze, murmuring something else quietly under your breath. Both his shadows and ears strain to discern your words but they fail in their attempt. “y/n,” he calls your name again, growing worried by the second.

You slowly raise your eyes, and as they meet his, a rush of warmth colors your cheeks, betraying the fluster that has settled on your face. You should’ve separated the love potion from the others, especially when you knew how sneaky it can be. It’s known to masquerade itself as any elixir beside it as it yearns to be used and your poor mate took the bait.

“Youaccidentallydrankanaphrodisiac.”

Though your words are mushed, your voice is louder this time and he’s able to make them out. He throws his head back and laughs. A deep and amused sound.

“You’re not mad?” You say and though he’s laughing, your body tenses at the thought of him saying yes. Your hands clasp behind your back in a timid manner, inadvertently puffing out your chest and drawing his attention there. 

“I’m not mad, love.”

His eyes land on the silver jewelry delicately hugging your neck and then to the charm with his initial. When you suck in a short breath of relief, he watches the rise and fall of the curves of your breasts as the sweet sound caresses over his skin in a heated whisper that pricks at his skin. 

“Azriel.”

“I’m fine,” he says, brushing off your concern but his gaze lingers on the movement of your chest for a moment longer before meeting yours again. He follows up with a boyish grin, despite the sudden racing of his heart and the familiar feeling of blood rushing downwards. 

“How about that bath?”

**

There’s a buzzing underneath his skin. All the soreness and ache of his muscles melts away and it’s not from the inviting embrace of the steaming bath. A burgeoning impulse stirs within him. It’s as though the elixir he consumed earlier is coursing through his veins, gathering strength and coalescing in the depths of his stomach before dropping to his hardening cock.

Every gentle lapping of the water against his hot skin, every touch of yours as you help clean him feels so good. It certainly doesn’t help that you’re putting on a show, intentional or not, as you bend down and shift around him, gracing his eyes with tempting views of your ass or breasts.

He submerges his head into the water and while his body is now clean, there’s nothing clean about his thoughts when he rises back up. You’re at the center of every single one of his whirling thoughts, filling his head with lewd images. Of you on your knees as you take him into your mouth, of you under him as he thrusts into you hard and fast, of you on your back as you let him have a taste. Fuck. He wants it all.

As you drag the stool and shift to sit behind him, he reclines in the tub. His hands are gripping the edge of the porcelain roughly, his knuckles whitening under the strain and he can feel the flicker of amusement it draws from you through the bond.

His head goes quiet when he feels your chest brush against his wings, muscles tensing as your cool breath fans over the back of his neck. A teasing brush of your fingers along a sensitive spot on his wing as you clean at them with a damp towel has him biting his lip, suppressing a whimper. It’s almost embarrassing the way you’ve barely even touched him at all and he’s already at the verge of coming undone. He feels like a touch starved horny teen all over again.

“What’s the matter, my love?” You whisper sweetly, lips hovering dangerously close to his ear. Your velvet voice is smooth and it sends a thrill down his spine and straight to his throbbing cock. When you brush your fingers along that spot again, the porcelain cracks under his grip. 

The air is thick and heavy with his scent and the damp towel falls from your grasp. When you press your hands onto his shoulders, he can feel the shift in your demeanor. “Need some help?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

He can hear the smirk in your voice but the way you’re touching him renders him momentarily speechless and he can’t bring himself to muster a sly remark. Not when he’s completely at your mercy. He’d have to take what he can get for now.

His breath hitches when your hands graze the hardness of his chest, easing their way down to where the warm water of the bath laps at his abdomen in a slow and taunting manner. Your cool touch immediately soothes his heated skin. As you reach further down, his eyes flutter shut and head tilts back into your chest. His throat bobs when you stop right above where he needs you the most.

“Please, touch me,” he breathes, no longer caring how desperate he sounds and it’s like music to your ears.

Azriel is not one to beg…but for you? He’d do anything for you. If you’d ask him for the moon on the string, he’d deliver it to you and in this moment, he’d do so in a heartbeat. Anything to feel you. He’s aching to feel your touch. So bad it’s nearly painful.

Sensing his desperation, his shadows are trailing down your arms to his muscled chest, guiding you to Azriel’s cock so you can grant their master the relief he’s begging so sweetly for. Your teeth nip gently at his neck in approval before wrapping your hand around him and he lets out a sigh of relief.

“Like this?”

“Gods, yes.”

You continue to kiss along his neck, stroking his length just the way he likes it, drawing the sweetest whimpers and moans from him. The water laps against his chest at your movements and his nipples harden at the sensation. He’s never felt so sensitive. 

When your lips pepper kisses along one of his wings, he loses his resolve. His stomach tightens and he lets out a deep groan followed by a string of curses as he comes undone. His eyes flutter shut in pure bliss.

You kiss his temple. “Good boy.”

He doesn’t know if it's your words or the aftermath of his orgasm but that exhilarating buzz returns to his skin and he can feel the sinful liquid coursing through his veins again. More, more, more.

His eyes snap open and he stands abruptly, prompting you to do the same.

Water traces sinuous paths down his body, leaving glistening trails in their wake as he steps out from the bath. His wings unfurl behind him and his frenzied shadows disperse. Azriel’s gaze darkens until there’s only traces of hazel left behind, mirroring the gradual darkening of his shadows that envelop the room, casting an ethereal aura upon him. 

He looks like a god. 

Your knees tremble and you find yourself leaning against the counter behind you for support. His keen eyes pick up on the subtle movement, lips curling into a smirk. “You liked having me at your mercy? Hearing me beg for you, didn’t you?

You don’t answer but you don’t need to.

“My sweet girl,” he purrs as he steps forward and you clench your thighs in anticipation. “I can smell you.”

Long gone is the soft and whimpering male from moments ago. It’s as if a flip was switched from the intensity of his release. In his place, stands something darker and primal. He approaches you like you’re his prey and cages you in, his wet body pressing into yours. You keep your eyes on his, letting out a shaky breath when you feel something hard against your stomach. His smirk widens. 

“You’re all wet,” you protest weakly as you look up at him.

His hand caresses your face, a thumb sweeping in a long stroke along the side of your throat as he leans down and inhales sharply. “So are you.”

He nips at your neck the same way you did to him, his hand undoing the front laces of your dress. “It’s my turn to have my way with you, to have you at my mercy.”

Your dress pools at your feet followed by your underwear and he steps back, eyes tracing every contour of your bare body in deep appreciation. Mine, mine, mine. Dark tendrils curl around you, caressing every place his eyes do and if your scent had not given you away, the shadows would’ve. As they travel lower, they meet your dripping core, humming with eagerness. A cool stroke against your clit as a small moan escaping from your lips and when his eyes lifts back up to meet yours, there’s pure lust simmering in his heated gaze.

A slight pressure against your shoulders has you giving in and dropping to your knees in submission. It’s a silent agreement that you’re his to use and only his and he nearly growls at the sight. Desire consumes him like a raging storm, unleashing a torrent of unbridled passion. He’s filled with the primal urge to claim you and devour you in its wake. He brushes a hand against your face when you look up at him, thumb brushing against your lips.

“Open.” 

You do and your tongue eagerly swirls around the digit before sucking it into your mouth. He lets out a hum of approval, slipping his thumb out from your mouth with a pop. His hand buries itself into your hair, tilting your face the way he wants it while his other hand pumps his throbbing cock. 

He doesn’t have to ask. Your hand is already wrapping nicely around the base of him with the guidance of his shadows. You lean in to flick your tongue across his leaking head.

“Fuck,” he hisses as you take him into your mouth. His head tilts back, lost in the pleasure, barely giving you any time to accommodate his impressive length before pushing his hips forward. “So good for me.”

He begins to thrust, the hand buried into your hair guiding you to move in rhythm with him. He allows his shadows to continue to touch you and they brush along your folds, teasing your entrance. They rub against your clit and it doesn’t take them long to bring a wave of pleasure crashing over you. You’re moaning, sending delicious vibrations straight through him. His pace quickens, thrusting deeper with every snap of his hips.

“That’s it. Take it all.” he groans, digging his nails into your scalp. He holds you flush against his pelvis while you gag on him. Tears prick your eyes at the stretch but you’re desperate to bring him to his release and swallow around him. “Oh fuck.”

He feels the coil in his stomach about to snap and he wants to give in to it, to cum down your throat and make you swallow every drop. But there’s a voice inside his head, a deep and primal urge of need, that has him pulling away abruptly.

“Come here,” he says with a low growl as he beckons you to your feet and as soon as you're standing to your full height, his lips are slotting over yours in a heated kiss. 

He presses his body further into yours and you can feel every inch of him vibrating, his entire body pulsing with need. His skin feels so hot against yours and as his shadows envelop you both, you’re stuck in a dance of fire and ice. The dark tendrils disperse and you realize you’re in your bedroom now. You almost want to laugh. The walk from your bathroom to your bedroom is a short one but your mate is keen on not wasting anymore time.

His scarred hands are rough on your hips as he spins you around and presses your front against the bed. “I need to fuck you.”

You arch your back for him. “Please.”

Deep heat spreads over his skin at your whiny and desperate tone. He slaps your ass, reminding you that he’s in complete control now. “Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” you’re begging and he loves every second of it, his cock twitching in anticipation. “I need your cock so bad.”

One hand kneads the soft flesh of your ass while the other pumps his cock. He drags his thick length along your folds, coating it in your arousal. “I’m going to fill you up so good. You want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes.”

He pushes into you, reveling in the way your walls are wrapping around him. You’re so warm, so tight and he’s already completely lost in the pleasure. He doesn’t give you time he normally does to adjust to his thick length. He thrusts so deep into you, your hands are clenching around your silk sheets. He fucks into you ravenously like a man starved, hands gripping onto your hips so hard you’re sure you’ll bruise.

“Going to cum so deep inside you until you’re full with my seed.”

Your face falls forward from the strength of his thrusts, knees giving out. He sees you struggling to get back on your knees so he pulls you flush against his chest with a hand wrapped around your neck, squeezing slightly. You cry out at the new angle that has you seeing stars. His breath is hot and heavy and he brings his mouth to your ear. 

“Perhaps, I’ll fuck a baby into you so everyone knows you’re mine and only mine.”

“Gods, yes,” you cry out, clenching around him, his words bringing you so close to your release.

A deep growl resonates from his chest. He can feel everything you’re feeling through the bond. You want this as much as he does. The mere image of your body changing, swelling with his child has him quickening his pace. His brain fogs and he gives himself completely to that primal desire that was brought to surface by the aphrodisiac.

Bringing his free hand to your stomach, his fingers tease at the flesh right over where he can feel the bulge of his cock as he pounds deep into you, right where your womb would grow with his seed. All he can hear are the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and your pretty moans.

One brush of his thumb across your clit has your thighs shaking and screaming out his name as you reach your peak. He can feel his own release trembling underneath his skin. A couple more thrusts and wave after wave of immense pleasure courses through him. His cock twitches and then he’s spilling thick ropes of cum into you, groaning as your walls spasm and contract around him. He cums so hard, he can feel his release running down your thighs.

He pulls out just long enough to turn you so you’re on your back. A sinful smirk graces his lips at your blissed out expression but he’s nowhere near done with you. He’s still so painfully hard. More, more, more.

Positioning himself between your legs, he sinks into the delicious warmth of your hot dripping core, both moaning when he bottoms out. 

“Please.” Tears stream down your face and you’re not sure what exactly you’re begging for. You’re so sensitive, hands clenching so tightly onto the sheets as he drags his cock over and over that deep spot inside you. “Azriel, I don’t think I can–”

“You’re going to take everything I give you,” he interrupts sharply with a growl, leaving you a whimpering and crying mess beneath him. 

“Az—oh fuck.”

“You’re so perfect for me.”

His arms wrap beneath your shoulders to mold your body to his and he presses hot, feverish kisses down your neck and chest. His lips then slot over yours, stealing your breath away. When you moan into his mouth, he swallows it and eases his tongue into you, urgently exploring every crevice of your mouth.

He’s well aware that the elixir he accidentally took has amplified his every sense. Yet, amidst his heightened state, his love and adoration for you, so deep and genuine, remains the most enchanting potion he has ever known. The candles flicker with the green glow of your magic and he continues his brutal pace, immersing himself in the pleasure of it all with a strong determination for you both to reach another painfully delicious release.

**

Azriel blinks his eyes open and his heart melts at the sight of you, his beautiful mate, curled up in his arms. The tenderness of the morning light casts a warm glow over you, highlighting the delicate curves of your face. He gently reaches out to trace a strand of your hair, relishing the softness beneath his touch. A stark contrast to the way he handled you last night. He knows you're awake when he feels you tug on the golden strings of the bond, flooding him with a profound sense of pure happiness that seeps into every corner of his being.

“I love you so much.”

“Good morning to you too,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep, but a hint of a smile on your face.

You stretch out your sore muscles and Azriel’s eyes flash with concern when the sheets drift lower. He catches a glimpse of the bruises littering your body and you can feel a flicker of guilt down the bond. “Are you–fuck. Was I too rough? I’m so–”

You shift in the bed and silence him with a soft kiss. When you pull away, you smile at him, sending a wave of reassurance down the bond because while yes he was rough, you loved it.

“You were perfect.”

He sits up in bed and when he finds no trace of hurt or regret of how rough he was with you last night in your features, he finally relaxes and returns your smile. 

Your smile falters. “If anything, I’m sorry. It was my mistake that you drank that aphrodisiac. I made it for Nesta and I knew I should’ve stored that sneaky elixir somewhere safer but it wasn't too bad, right?”

Now it’s Azriel’s turn to brush away your concern and he shakes his head at you with a deep chuckle. "It wasn't bad at all. I enjoyed every part of your mistake."

“The best mistake I’ve ever made,” you grin and he laughs with you, his shadows dancing happily around his shoulders.

“What was in that elixir anyway?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean? It’s an aphrodisiac, it stimulates sexual desire.”

“I know what an aphrodisiac is,” he replies and he feels the heat rise to his cheeks. Oh gods, he was going to have to say this outloud.  “I’m talking about the way I was filled with the primal urge to–to breed you.”

“Oh,” you say and laugh again at the look bewildered look Azriel was giving you. “That was all you.”

You sit up and you don’t miss the way Azriel’s gaze flickers down to your bare body. Reaching out, you coax his gaze back to yours.

“My magic does not work that way, remember? It can’t create and destroy desires. It can only bring to surface what’s already lurking deep within."

Your eyes are alight with amusement as realization dawns on your mate. He’s flustered but only for a fleeting moment. The corner of his lips curve up and when your hand begins to move from his cheek, he places his own over it to keep it there.

“You wanted it as much as I did.”

“I did.”

There’s a warmth radiating from his heart that is so strong, you can feel it too. His hazel eyes hold onto yours with an intensity that goes beyond words, and when he speaks again, there’s a delicate vulnerability to his voice because in the year since you’ve been mated, this is a topic you’ve yet to discuss.

“You want to have children…with me?”

“Yes.” The response spills from your lips without a moment’s hesitation and his entire being seems to shudder in response. “Do you?”

"Of course I do," he breathes out, sealing his words with a tender kiss to the palm of your hand that has your heart fluttering. “I want everything with you.”

“I want everything with you too.”

Happiness dances in his eyes. Azriel is not a selfish man, always putting others’ wants and needs before his own. He had even accepted that meeting his mate was an unattainable dream. That is, until you came along, dismantling the walls he had spent centuries constructing around himself.

You, a manifestation of his long-buried dreams and wishes, emerged as a living, breathing reality. The selfish desire to have everything with you consumes him, even more so when your desires always seem to mirror his. You're his perfect match and he doesn't know what he did to deserve you. He can only thank the Cauldron, forever indebted to it for entwining your soul with his.

Overwhelmed by his profound emotions, tears brim in his eyes and you're kissing them away before they can escape, smiling when his lips capture yours afterwards. He pours everything into the kiss. It starts soft and sweet but quickly morphs into something more as he brings his hands to your neck.

He pulls away, rolling over to hover over you in your bed, bracing strong arms on either side of you. He kisses your nose and lowers his body until his lips are hovering over right where your heart is racing. Another kiss.

Heat pools down and your breath hitches when he pauses at your stomach to press a kiss there. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He murmurs and you can feel his grin against your skin as he settles himself between your legs. He hikes one of your legs over his shoulder, slowly running his tongue up your thigh. The gesture draws a soft sound from you that he will never tire of hearing.

“I’m worshiping the mother of my future children.”

a/n: the bath scene was purely inspired by this because hot damn 🥵 If you'd like to read more about Green witch & Az, the link is below! I do have some fics of their children up.

[series masterlist]

[casuallyimagining]

Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.

It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days. 

But who’s counting?

There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified. 

What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.

You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.

“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”

“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I…” 

I want to apologize. 

I’m so sorry.

I miss you.

It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”

He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.

“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise. 

“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”

Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.

Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.

You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.

The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”

You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”

“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”

His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.

Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…

Now he wanted you gone. 

“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”

“Wh-”

There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’

Kinder for whom?

The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering. 

Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”

“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger. 

He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.

There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up. 

Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.

You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.

Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.

It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.

I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?

At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.

Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you? 

Would you still be there if I had?

You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left. 

The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic. 

You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.

Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.

“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees. 

His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”

“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”

“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables. 

You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.

“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.

Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.

But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too. 

He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled. 

That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.

You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.

Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.

You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors. 

The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).

As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.

Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-

“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.

“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.

Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.

A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”

The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.

A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.

He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park. 

It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died. 

At least they’d had each other during it.

You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…

“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert. 

His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.

You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.

At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism. 

For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.

It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.

Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.

“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.

“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”

Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?

You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.

The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.

“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”

You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”

“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.

“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”

“That’s really cool.”

Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.

“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”

If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”

“It’s only like an hour a night-”

“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it. 

He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him. 

Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.

You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”

The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them. 

Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.

You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know. 

Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in. 

But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.

The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.

I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…

I would like to see you again. Someday. 

How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.

The other is from the day he turned 25.

A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…

I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.

I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…

I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.

I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.

Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.

I hope I see you again.

Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.

For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I-”

“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.

He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does–but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”

“I never said-”

“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”

“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”

You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.

You’d never considered that he would miss you.

But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How long are you here for?”

Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.

He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”

You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel. 

Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”

Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.

You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.

The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand. 

But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.

“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”

You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward. 

A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.

A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.

You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.

Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue. 

One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.

“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom. 

She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”

“But-”

“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”

For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”

“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”

You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”

Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick. 

It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room. 

You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty. 

But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly. 

You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”

It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter. 

“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.

“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets. 

“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”

Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.

Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see. 

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.

“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”

He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”

“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”

He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”

“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”

Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”

Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face. 

“Right,” you said softly.

“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading. 

You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.

Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent. 

“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”

“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”

And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.” 

And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.

“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…

Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar. 

You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you. 

Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.

Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.

Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.

You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.

Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.

“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.

You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”

“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”

“Were you right?”

He chuckles. “Not exactly.”

You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.

“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”

“I get it.”

“What?”

“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”

“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”

“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”

“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”

“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”

Yoongi groans.

“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”

For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.

You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.

“I’ll text you,” he promises.

You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.

“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.

It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.

“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.

“I will. I promise.”

And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform. 

You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.

As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.

Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug

“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Dangerous,” you joke.

“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.

For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you. 

The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.

He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.

You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”

He laughs. “What rules?”

“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”

“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”

You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.

“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What about work?”

He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”

“Yoongi.”

He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”

You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.

The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for. 

In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.

After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting. 

The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.

He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey. How was the train?”

He groans. “Long.”

You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.

You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.

It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.

Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.

He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.

“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”

Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.

“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.

An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…

You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.

“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him. 

“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”

“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”

“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”

At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.

“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?” 

“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.

Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers. 

And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.

For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause. 

We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space. 

At least, you think you are. 

But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable. 

Oh no. 

You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again. 

His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger. 

You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest. 

Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”

You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…” 

You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed. 

“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”

“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.

“We drove for an hour!”

You shrug. “Big city.”

He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing. 

He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand. 

So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.

The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.

It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.

You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response. 

There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.

For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.

You’re still holding his hand.

Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.

You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”

“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”

Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”

It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy. 

“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”

“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”

“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.

“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.

You push him.  “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”

Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”

“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”

Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.

You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible. 

You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone. 

“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.

“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”

“He seems…”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”

Oh. 

Well.

That makes sense.

“So they…”

You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”

Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings. 

He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.

“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.” He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”

“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”

“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.

You laugh, and something inside of him warms.

He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.

A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful. 

“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”

He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.

The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.

“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him. 

He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch. 

There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.

Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden. 

He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.

But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring. 

His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you. 

When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.

For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.

12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.

Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms. 

okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)

[lovebugism]

i have a lot of nightmares and shake a lot when nervous. could u maybe write something abt a reader that goes through similar issues, and eddie comforts them and tries to make them feel safe? u can do whatever u like with this, i just need some fluff! :]

as someone who also has frequent nightmares, this was very self-indulgent heheh i hope you like it :D — eddie calms you down when you have a bad dream (hurt/comfort, established relationship, cw for mentions of panic attacks, 1.2k)

Eddie didn’t know he loved you until now. Like, right now.

He’d always had an inkling, at the very least, but he didn’t know for sure until he got you into his bed — bare-faced and swallowed whole in an oversized t-shirt older than you are. You share a single pillow with him despite having your own, leaving your noses mere inches apart. His tired eyes go a bit cross-eyed when he looks at you.

Despite his heavy head and heavier eyelids, he doesn’t want to stop looking at you. He doesn’t want to stop talking to you, either. He doesn’t want to fall asleep at all ‘cause he’s scared he’ll miss you too much. 

And that’s when he realizes that he’s head over heels, completely, utterly, and hopelessly in love with you.

“You asleep yet?” he whispers into the dark bedroom, lit only by the streams of silver moonlight slipping through the curtains.

You shake your head against the pillow you share with him. “No,” you mumble — voice thick with exhaustion, eyes fluttered shut.

“Good,” Eddie replies, shifting on the mattress until he melts further into it. Your cold feet entwine with his warmer ones. He exhales a contented sigh through his nose. “Me neither…”

You can’t be entirely sure who dozed off first, but you know for certain you wake up before he does. 

3:47 A.M. blinks at you in bright red numbers on the nightstand. The witching hour greets you along with a rapidly beating heart, thrumming hard against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape from its confines.

The nightmare was a vivid one when it painted the backs of your eyelids, but you can’t really remember it now. You think that might be worse. Now you don’t know why you’re so scared — you just know that you are.

Fear, that’s all you can think about now, as your body trembles with a heavy, ice-cold feeling. Fear. Panic. Dread. 

The nightmare fades. Eddie’s body, warm and comforting next to yours, becomes a much more tangible thing. But you just can’t shake the feeling it left behind. The bad dream clings to you like smoke and swallows you whole before you can blink.

You shake with the longing to hold the boy beside you. If only you could clutch onto Eddie like a life vest, or a life-sized teddy bear, maybe then you could soothe your racing heart. But you know you don’t want to wake him, just like you know you don’t want him to see you like this — so torn up over a stupid bad dream.

You sit on the edge of the mattress and try to calm yourself down. The attempt is futile. You end up with a tight chest, a pounding heart, and two cheeks damp with fat tears. 

After no longer than five minutes of trying to stave off a panic attack by yourself, do you notice the bed shifting behind you. A wide palm smooths over your trembling shoulders a second later.

Eddie squints at your shivering silhouette, trying to see you better through the darkness and bleary haze of sleep. He finds you slouched over and clawing at your chest like something’s wrong. Your choked-back sobs and quiet sniffles aren’t any less concerning.

“You okay?” the boy slurs as he sits up behind you.

“‘M sorry,” you blurt, voice wet with emotion. You don’t know exactly what you’re apologizing for. You just feel like you should. Through hitched breaths, you manage out, “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to wake you— I’m sorry.”

Eddie shakes his wild head in response. The mattress squeaks under his weight as he shifts closer to you. “It’s okay. I woke up on my own,” he tells you, even though that’s not exactly the truth. “What happened, huh? Are you okay?”

You sniffle and try to respond through feeble gulps of air. “It was just a bad dream. I’m okay—” you blubber through tears, breath catching halfway through.

With his palm pressed to your spine, Eddie can feel each of your rattling breaths as you fight to drag them in. It makes his own chest ache. Your panic is his own.

“Breathe, baby, c’mon,” he urges gently as he slips in beside you. With one hand over your trembling shoulder, he slides his other over your heart. The delicate organ patters with an inhuman vigor against his palm. 

“Gotta calm down, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your temple before pressing a kiss there. “‘Fore you heart explodes on me. Breathe, babe. You’re okay.”

Your swelling throat tightens. “I don’t feel good,” you confess through tiny whimpers, ‘cause you don’t know how else to tell him it feels like you’re dying. You put a cold, trembling hand over one of Eddie’s — the one gently cradling your heart — and fight to stay grounded.

The boy’s brows pinch with concern. “Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

You think for a moment. Then shake your head.

Eddie rubs a hand up and down the length of your back. “You’re doing good, babe. Just keep breathing for me. That’s it.”

He pulls you closer, embracing you despite the awkward angle. Your shoulder presses into his chest as your head nestles between his jaw and shoulder. You rest there until it no longer feels like you’re fighting for each breath. Until your ragged sobs turn into mousy sniffles.

The first thing you think to do after you’ve calmed is apologize.

“‘M sorry,” you murmur, thick with leftover emotion.

You feel his head shake against you, untamed curls tickling your skin. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.”

You snivel. “I feel like such a baby…”

“Everyone has bad dreams, babe. That’s life,” Eddie tells you with a lighthearted laugh. “I can’t count how many times I’ve slept on the couch after having one just so I could be closer to Wayne. Like, that’s embarrassing.”

“No, it isn’t,” you argue with a scrunched nose, cracking a small (but no less sincere) grin.

Eddie smiles at your smiling. He squeezes your shoulder with a gentle hand. “Wanna talk about it?” he offers, watching as you visibly ponder the question. You shake your head in response. He nods in understanding. “Wanna go back to sleep?”

You shake your head again, much less hesitant this time. You’re too scared to shut your eyes for longer than a blink now — lest the nightmare threaten to plague your mind again.

“Wanna sit in the kitchen with me while I make us some hot cocoa?” Eddie offers then.

You nod slowly, pursing your lips to the side of your mouth to hide the smile pulling there. You can’t help but beam, though, when he smacks a kiss to the warm apple of your cheek.

“C’mon, sweet thing,” he urges as he rises from the bed, pulling you gently with him. He guides you out of his bedroom with a warm hand cradling your smaller one. The quiet trailer fills with the sounds of creaking floorboards, bare feet shuffling against carpet, and Eddie’s tender voice.

“I’ll even pick out marshmallows from the Lucky Charms box to put in your cocoa—” he says before a yawn cuts him off. “—‘Cause that’s how much I love you.”

[hotteoki]

getting into an argument with skz (hyung line)

warnings: slamming doors (does that count as violence?), lots of swearing, regular angst, fluff-ish making up at the end

notes: i was feeling like some angst except i haven't written it in a long time so uh it's a bit shit el oh el + idk if i want to write maknae line cause i wouldn't even know how to write for felix LIKE THAT MAN IS AN ANGEL

©️ strayedstars | do not repost

chan (방찬)

chan was stressed, it was obvious to anyone. he didn't get angry often, nor does he get upset with people easily, but the deadlines and pressure had been getting to him lately. you did everything you could to help him, from making his favourite food every day to taking him out for dinner, and he made sure to let you know how grateful he was for those.

today, however, when chan stepped through the door, you hadn't noticed how he seemed more closed off when you asked how his day was, or how he didn't give you any form of greeting. it was when you stood up from your seated position on the couch, did you feel the tension radiating off of him. you approached him cautiously, fearing that if you said the wrong things, it would aggravate him even more.

worried, you placed a gentle hand on his arm, "chan, is everything okay-" he pushed your hand off immediately, replying with a short 'i'm fine.' "are you sure? you know you can always talk to-" he inhaled deeply, "oh my fucking- yes i'm sure. i clearly don't want to fucking talk to you, so why are you still pressing me? it's like you just don't fucking listen to me. you’re so damn clingy sometimes." there was a deathly silence. you could tell he didn't mean for his words to come out so harshly, but it hurt all the same.

chan, seemingly in disbelief by his own words as much as you, opened his mouth to apologise, but closed it. you weren’t even sure what hurt you more; the fact that he yelled at you, or that he couldn’t even be bothered to apologise. "what the fuck," you whispered out. still processing his words, you wordlessly made your way to the bedroom and closed the door, hurt and slightly embarrassed. you heard his callings of your name, but you ignored them, just wanting to give him, and yourself, some space. never would you have thought your own boyfriend would be the one to make you cry.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

you stirred awake. mind still fuzzy, you tried to remember what happened before you went to sleep. right. chan. you sat up, now slightly more awake. looking down, you were confused at the fact that you were holding your wolf chan plushie you lost a while back, and you definitely would not have had time to charge your phone, so what- oh.

squinting your eyes, you finally acknowledged chan sitting by the edge of the bed, his slouched back facing you. had you forgotten to lock the door? contemplating whether you should go up to him or not, you knew the two of you had to talk about it sooner or later. switching on the bedside light and crawling over until you were side to side with him, you sat with your legs crossed, your warm hands wrapped around your ankles.

you turned your head to look at him, stifling your laughter. chan had fallen asleep while sitting down, presumably thinking about the situation. shaking him awake, he blinked his eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim light from behind the two of you. you weren't sure if it was because of the witching hour, or because you simply weren't mad at him at all, but you found yourself leaning your head against his shoulder.

"i'm so sorry, angel," chan breathed out, voice shaky. "i know," you responded simply. "no, you don't get it," he stood, only to kneel down on the cold bedroom floor in front of you. he reached for your hands, rubbing circles soothingly over the back of your hand, "i'm so, so, sorry. i was in a bad mood, and i took it out on you, and you didn't deserve a second of it. i'm so incredibly sorry."

chan's head dipped down, and you could faintly see his teardrops staining his joggers. "chan," you called his name gently. his bloodshot eyes looked up to meet yours. you freed one of your hands from his grasp to place on his wet cheeks, smiling at how he instinctively leaned into your touch, "it's okay. i forgive you." he but only sobbed more, "i don't deserve you."

you knew that right now, no matter what you say, he would never forgive himself, so you opted to guide him back on his feet, leading him under the warm duvets, "let's just sleep for now, okay? we'll talk more tomorrow."

minho (민호)

minho was trying really hard to be patient with you. he really was, but you kept forgetting which brand of treats were soonie's favourite, or which pet dish is doongie's, or where to place dori's favourite toys, and it was getting on his nerves. he knew you weren't doing this on purpose, you had a lot on your mind, but, really, was it that hard to remember a few extra things?

it was the fourth time in the past week that you've asked him if the cats have had their dinner yet. minho had already had a rough day at work, with the others being uncoordinated and him losing his phone, and your 'hey min, they've had dinner already, right?' made him snap.

he felt a hot wave of anger wash over him, without meaning to, he began spatting words out, "yes, they've had their dinner. we have a schedule for their meals, what part of a schedule do you not understand? if you could just use your head for once, maybe you'll fucking remember something!" in the heat of the moment, you retorted, crossing your arms, "i could say the same to you! you never put your shit together, your clothes are always on the floor, i always have to clean up for you! maybe for once, you should be the one using your head!"

minho groaned, running a hand through his messy hair, "give me a fucking break, will you? you're so exasperating." swallowing thickly, you managed out, "fine, you want a fucking break? have a fucking break." making your way to your bedroom, him following along, refusing to let you walk away. you went straight into the room, slamming the door shut in his face and locking it. "fine! have it your way!" minho yelled, hitting his fist against the door once, storming out the house.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

it had been exactly 3 hours and 28 minutes since the fight. minho knew only because he kept checking his phone every 2 minutes to see if there were any notifications from you. he wasn't even sure why he was checking in the first place, he should be the one apologising, not you.

pocketing his phone, he stood up from his seat on the bench in a nearby park. slowly but surely, minho made his way back, only praying that you were still there. rummaging for his keys in front of the door, his heart all but stung more at the heart keychain with both of your names on it along with your anniversary.

creaking the door open, minho's heart dropped at the silence that greeted him. he called out your name once, then twice. practically running up to your shared bedroom, he rattled the doorknob. still locked. his heart pounded over fear that something had happened to you.

holding back to the urge to cry in frustration, minho began rapidly banging on the door, "please, please, please, open up the door!" the door finally cracked open, your tired, red-rimmed eyes blinking hazily up at him. "you're okay? you're okay!" minho pushed the door open all the way, examining your body all around before pulling you close to his chest, wrapping his arms around you securely.

"why didn't you answer?!" he nearly yelled. you, still bleary, rubbed your eyes, "i was sleeping. w-why are you here? i thought you left?" minho almost burst into tears right then and there, burying his face in your hair, "oh love, i'm never ever leaving you again. i'm so fucking sorry. i'm so, so, so, fucking sorry. i promise you, i'll do so much better."

changbin (창빈)

you knew the pain in changbin's right leg from an injury at the gym had been irritating him for the past few weeks, rendering him barely able to do anything without wanting to scream in frustration. you had been helping him a lot, from carrying his bags to picking up things when he had dropped them.

you made sure changbin was as comfortable as he could be, especially considering how moody he was acting the entire day. he had refused to leave the bed, which was extremely unlike him. normally, even if he was in a horrible mood, he would still get up and go about his day, claiming that if he didn't, he would be 'wasting the precious moments of life'.

you knocked on the bedroom door gingerly before opening it up a crack, not sure if he was awake or not. changbin was sat up straight, leaning against the headboard, scrolling on his phone. smiling, slightly relieved you hadn't disturbed his sleep, you opened the door full, "hey binnie, how are you feel-" "oh my- i'm okay, leave me alone. you don't have to keep babying me 24/7, it's so irritating." with a final look, his eyes turned back to his phone, ignoring your presence. to say you were shocked at his outburst was an understatement.

"are you serious?" you raised an eyebrow, "i have been taking care of you all week and this is how you thank me?" scoffing, he continued to avoid your glare, "i didn't ask you to." realising that he wasn’t going to apologise any time soon, you cast aside your surprise, honestly wanting to leave as quickly as you could. pursing your lips, you set the glass of water you had been holding on the bedside drawer along with a new charger that he had been complaining for, and left the room promptly. you could only hope changbin would reflect on his words.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

it was only minutes later when changbin called out your name once from the bedroom. you paused the movie playing on the television, contemplating whether you should ignore him or not. you were just about to pick up the remote again when you heard a loud thud.

without hesitating, you ran up to the bedroom, opening the door. changbin sat on the floor, clutching his leg, wincing at the pain. "what the hell did you do?" he remained silent. you immediately hoisted him back up to sit by the edge of the bed, kneeling in front to check for any bruises. sure enough, a purple spot was beginning to form on his shin.

sighing, you sat next to him on the bed, waiting for his answer. changbin sniffed, "i was trying to get up and go apologise to you, but i fell off the bed." giving him a small smile, you rubbed his thigh comfortingly. you weren't exactly sure how to respond.

sucking in a deep breathe, changbin began, "i'm really sorry for, you know, what i said earlier. i was being ungrateful, and i'm genuinely so sorry. i don't know what came over me, i just-" he was rushing his words. you rubbed his back, "no, i get it. i know you'd never hurt anyone intentionally." changbin couldn't meet your eyes. "but it still hurt me a lot."

he instantly locked his eyes with yours, "and i promise i will do anything in this world to make it up to you." he held out his pinky. you laughed, linking your pinky with his and pressing your thumbs together. "you can't break it now," you teased. "i won't." that was one of the most genuine things you'd ever heard changbin say.

hyunjin (현진)

hyunjin was experiencing an artist block. this didn't happen often, but when it did, it stuck for a long time; everything he drew looked wrong, it was either the shadows were in the wrong place, or the colour looked a little off, or the entire thing was just not what he pictured in general. letting out a groan, he rubbed his face was his free hand, feeling a headache coming along.

slamming his paintbrush down on the canvas stand, he glared at the blank sheet, like something would magically appear and would cure his annoyance. "hey hyunnie, i'm home!" your voice echoed around the house, and for once, it pissed him off. how are you so carefree and happy while he had to suffer? hyunjin got up from his stool and went to greet you, deciding that you at least deserved one.

"oh hey hyunnie, here's the drink that you've been wanting!" you fished something out of the bag. it was the wrong one. it wasn't the one hyunjin wanted. already irritated, his words came out without him even noticing, "how many times do i have to tell you it's not this one? if you really knew which drink is the one i want, you’d open your eyes and realise it’s not this one. either way, there's a reason why i didn't buy it, do you know how expensive it is?"

before you could interject, he continued on, not able to control what he was saying, "no, of course you don't. you just live in your own little carefree life, right? everything gets done for you, you never have to worry about anything, right?" word vomit. those last comments infuriated you, "carefree? carefree? hyunjin you have no idea how hard i had been working for the past few days! i have a job too, you know? news flash, you're not the only special one!"

hyunjin's heart ached. he never thought about what you might be going through. "yeah, no, if i'm such a bother because of the way i live my life, then maybe i should leave for a bit," you sighed, leaving the kitchen and to the bedroom. hyunjin couldn't even describe the guilt in his chest as he watched you leave.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

hyunjin sat outside the bedroom, waiting for you to come out, but also because he was scared. scared that you hated him now. scared that you won't forgive him. scared that you decided that maybe this relationship wasn't worth-

the sound of the door opening cut off his train of thoughts. you peeked out from behind the door, looking down cautiously at him, "what are you doing on the floor?" "i- i just- i don't know," hyunjin sighed, shielding his face away from you. he didn't want you to see him cry.

"hey, hey," you slid down next to him, legs tucked underneath. you reached to hold his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. his glassy eyes met yours, "i mess everything up." with those words, he broke down. "oh, darling," you pulled him close and held him to your chest, "no you don't." "but i do," he stifled another sob, "i can't draw at all and i yelled at you and now you hate me-" "who said i hated you?" you ran your fingers through his hair.

his body relaxed, and hyunjin found himself leaning into your hold subconsciously. "couples have fights every now and then, and that's normal, hyunnie. and yes, you did yell at me, but so did i. as for your paintings, i'm sure you just need some motivation, and i'll help you find it." he pulled himself away slightly, tilting up to meet your forgiving smile. you'd never looked more beautiful in his eyes. "you. i want to paint you."

for @minvho @hyunverse @felixore @alyszaen and them only

[lqveharrington]

Sleepy | A.P.

Summary: Gorgons, having a head full of snakes, turn out to be extremely tired and clingy during cold seasons.

A/N: we need more fics of my fav gorgon, and if we don’t have any, i take matters into my own hands :)

Warnings: (not proof read) Use of Y/N L/N, use of she/her, cursing, ajax being soft and adorable, mainly fluffy fluff, reader is a witch, xavier and wednesday are dating, lmk if i missed any !!

Pairing: Ajax Petropolus x fem!reader

Word Count: 2k+

————

Every winter, snakes brumate over the winter. They stop eating as the temperature drops, their metabolism slows down, and they look for an underground place to hide from surface temperature changes. Which seems perfectly normal for a snake to do once the season changes.

But when your boyfriend and a fourth of Nevermore’s population happen to have a head full of snakes for hair, it becomes more complicated.

During winter, Nevermore’s community of gorgons get drained easily or just exhausted in general from their genetics, so they had an exception for sleeping in class and their lack of being active.

But what you noticed with Ajax was that he was more clingy to you than usual. He would find any possible way to be close to you. You were eating with your friends? He would take the seat next to you and wrap his arm around you, head buried in your neck. When you took notes, he’d have his hand in yours, head resting on your shoulder. In Jericho despite the weather being absolutely freezing? He would stay by your side and order a hot chocolate from the Weathervane for you both to share.

You let him do what he wanted amid winter, never minding the extra close proximity. You quite liked his clinginess.

“Jax?” You murmur, his head resting on your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“M’just tired, don’t worry.” He gave a soft response, not wanting to bother your conversation with Enid.

“Are you sure? We can go back to your dorm if you’d like.” Your brow creased as you rub circles into his hand that held yours. “I can just tell Enid, she’ll understand.”

He let out a small sigh, “I… You’re having fun with them, I don’t want to—“

“Babe, you’re gonna pass out sooner or later, and I would rather have you pass out in your bed than in a lounging area.” You interrupt the gorgon, catching his eyes full of love and exhaustion. “And you are not leaving on your own.”

For a few seconds, Ajax just stared at you, wondering how fucking lucky it was that you wanted to date him of all people. And in those few seconds, you had just finished explaining to Enid why you had to go, giving her a small smile.

“Let’s go,” You nudged his arm, snapping him out of his thoughts. “The comfort of your bed awaits!”

The trek to his dorm wasn’t as bad compared to when he had to sneak into your dorm. Polonius Hall was rarely checked upon by the hall master who was instructed to ensure the strict rules were being taken seriously. You did have trouble pulling him up the stairs from the common room to his room, the more tired he was, the more it seemed he was intoxicated. Which he wasn’t.

Finally getting to his room, you took the keys from his pocket, and— You forgot which was the right key.

You poke his cheek, earning a hum. “Which is the key?”

“The one with the snakes.” He mumbled, pointing in no particular direction.

Silently thanking him for decorating all his keys with different designs, you unlock his door, quickly taking him to his bed.

“Wait, aren’t you a witch? You couldn’t use your witchy powers to open my door?” Ajax sat slouched on the bed, pretending to use his hands to make the door move.

“I didn’t want to— That’s not the point right now, go get changed.” You try using an authoritative voice, but only hear a whine and a tired chuckle come from your beloved’s mouth. “What?”

“Nothing, you’re just cute.” He stood sluggishly and kissed your nose before heading to his closet. “η όμορφη κοπέλα μου είναι τόσο αξιολάτρευτη.” He said in a sing-song voice, his words confusing you.

“Babe, you know I don’t understand Greek.” You pout jokingly, leaning against his dresser. “What’d you say?”

He tapped his cheek first. You rolled your eyes at him, giving him a small peck. “Happy?”

“Of course.” Ajax grinned lazily and started to hum, completely ignoring your previous question.

“Jax.”

“Mhm?”

“You were— What the fuck?” You take your phone out of your back pocket, Enid’s name dragging across the screen. “Hello?”

“Hi! I know you’re like, very busy right now and you just left, but this is kinda an emergency and we need you. Like, now.” She spoke fast and it sounded like she was pacing.

“Uhm, alright, I’ll be there in a few.” You quickly ended the call and met the eyes of a curious gorgon. “Enid has an emergency—“

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” He reassured you, wrapping his arms around your torso. “Need to take a shower anyway.”

“You’re lucky I removed that mirror from your bathroom, A.” You cup his jaw, bringing him down so you could pepper his face with kisses. “It’ll be quick, then I’ll come back here.”

Separating from Ajax, you flash a small smile toward the tired male and then turn to leave, not before he wrapped his hand around your wrist, making you look back at him.

“I love you.”

Your smile gets slightly wider, “I love you too, Jax.”

Quickly parting from him, you speed walk to where Enid was, trying to figure out along the way what could have been the emergency.

— — ��

“Oh my gosh, thank god you’re here!” Enid rushed over and grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the situation. “Look.”

“It’s a hat.”

“No, not that!” She turned your head toward Wednesday. “That.”

You blink once. Twice. “Wednesday, are you okay?”

“I’m absolutely splendid.” Her mouth twitched a bit.

“But you’re…”

“Smiling!” Enid shoved a mirror in front of her face, peeking behind. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

You glance at the girl’s phone, watching as Xavier’s contact pops up. “Did you go on a date with Thorpe, Wednesday?”

“No.” She spun around and shoved her phone inside a drawer, silently cursing her own stupidity. “Why would I ever willingly hang out with that—“

“She’s blushing! You’re blushing!” Enid jumped up and down, squealing at the usually pale Addams. “Wednesday has a boyfriend!”

“I do not!” She cleared her throat, pulling the monotone face again. “I don’t have a particular interest in this conversation you brought me in.”

“You like Xavier, there’s no denying it.” Enid happily says, clapping her hands together. “My blog must know!”

“Don’t, E.” You wring your hands. “You don’t want another Ajax and Y/N situation.”

She froze, “Right, sorry about that. Uh, I promise not to speak about it until you let me.”

“Good. Or I’d have you six feet under.” Wednesday almost grinned. “Now why aren’t you with your boyfriend?”

“Because Enid said this was an emergency.”

The werewolf threw a small glare toward you, “I mean, it kinda was? She was smiling so hard! It should be concerning!”

“Yeah yeah, I’m happy for you Wednesday. I hope he treats you right.” You give her a minute smile. “If not, Enid will full-on wolf out on the school’s resident tortured artist.”

“Yep.” Enid flashed a toothy smile. “I can terrify the shit out of him.”

“With your colorful nails? Of course.” The pigtailed girl sarcastically remarked.

You let out a small laugh, trying to avoid the pillow being thrown at you. “Enid!”

“What?” She threw another one at you, soon laughing along. “You’re laughing at my nails!”

“I’m not!” You defend yourself, deflecting the pillow with a flick of your wrist, red encasing the soft cushion.

“You so were! And that’s cheating!”

“How?” You throw the pillow back.

“You’re using your powers!”

Wednesday shook her head at the two of you, “Y/N.”

“Yeah?” You turn to her, but not before Enid threw one last pillow at your face, causing you to glare at the blonde.

“So you came here because smiling was an emergency?” She had an eyebrow raised, arms crossed. “I’m sure Ajax has been missing you since you left him alone approximately eighteen minutes and fifty-six seconds ago.”

“It hasn’t been over five minutes.” Your eyes flicker up to the clock on Enid’s side table, seeing it had indeed almost been twenty whole minutes.

“Your journey to Enid and I’s dorm from the boy’s dormitory takes way longer than you think it does, even with your speed walking.”

“How did you—? You know what? I probably won’t get a straight answer.” You check the clock again, biting the inside of your cheek. Taking your phone out, you check your messages, seeing that Ajax has indeed texted you. “Shit, uh, I have to go.” You awkwardly point to the door with your thumb, looking between the both of the girls.

“Okey-Dokey, it’s no biggie.” Enid grinned at you, her roommate rolling her eyes at the words she chose. “We all know how Ajax is during this season. Very clingy.”

You flash her a grateful smile, giving her a quick hug and Wednesday a nod. Leaving Ophelia hall, you take a sharp right, bumping into your hall master, Miss Thornhill.

“Oh! Miss L/N, I didn’t think you’d be out of your dorm at this hour. You know it’s past the times you’re allowed to go out.” She gave an off smile, one that gave you the creeps.

“I…” Your answer died on your tongue, racking your brain for anything that would avoid getting both you and Ajax in trouble. “Ajax… He has my… My textbook for your class! Yeah, he wanted to use mine because he totally forgot where he put his and—”

She put her hand up, indicating for you to stop. “I know you and Mister Petropolus are a thing, Y/N. I also know that gorgons have difficulty processing stuff during cold seasons. So if you really need to go over to him, I’ll give you permission. As long as you both are not caught, all right?”

“Yes, of course.” You silently thank her for having some sort of favorite.

“And no funny business either.”

Too late for that. You nod, knowing she’ll figure out the lie within your words.

“Good, now off you go.” Thornhill dismissed you, missing the way you let out a breath and cursed at not paying attention.

And this time, you recorded the time it took from Ophelia Hall to Ajax’s dorm, which turned out to be eleven minutes. Though Nevermore was big, you didn’t know it was that big of a school. Entering Polonius Hall’s common room, you heavily sighed, hands running through your hair. You didn’t think you’d be tired from everything that happened within the last hour.

Quietly, you pushed open your boyfriend’s door, finding him sleeping on his bed, showered, and changed into his plaid pajama pants and a band tee, a different beanie snug on his head. Though some of his snakes were already out, snoring as well. You tugged your converse off and changed into one of his shirts, trying not to make loads of noise. Wincing when you knocked the cup of pens and pencils over while putting some of his stuff away.

Taking in the way he was positioned on the bed, you opted to sleep on top of the covers, staying as far away from him. It was only to not disturb his slumber, but you knew when you felt the bed shift you had woken him up.

“Baby, what’re you doing?” His voice was raspy from sleep.

“Trying not to wake you up.” You reply.

Ajax lifted the blanket up, letting you slide underneath it and into his embrace. “I think you failed.”

“Go back to bed, ’m sorry.” You feel the warmth emitting from his body, legs immediately intertwining with his.

“η όμορφη κοπέλα μου είναι τόσο αξιολάτρευτη.” He said again, kissing your forehead. You hum, fatigue taking over your body. “My beautiful girlfriend is so adorable.”

“Is that what that means?’

“Mhm.” He put his head on top of yours. “Also, don’t worry. I couldn’t sleep without my beautiful girlfriend with me.”

“Go to sleep, my love.” You peck his collarbone. “You can flirt with me in the morning.”

————

© lqveharrington — all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms.

[elinorasims]

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[styxwanderer]

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished |

〚Twisted Wonderland x Elphaba!Reader〛

[you the wicked witch from the west had died, but to your surprise you had woken up inside a coffin in an unfamiliar world. You had also noticed your magic had more freedom and your power seem to mix to those in this world] < FYI : no Fiyero doesn't exist in your OZ world, you are completly alone, >

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆꒷꒦꒷⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆꒷꒦꒷⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆꒷꒦꒷⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

you had accepted your fate to be painted as the villain and died by a very underhand method such as being thrown water. That pesky girl who has killed your sister, and the con who had framed you the real magician. You had tried your best to help everybody and every creature from a crueler fate, only for those same people to go against you, going as far as holding a witch hunt for you.

Fated to be scorned just for the green hue of your skin, something you had no control over. Such a heinous thing humanity is. you could hear the party that they will throw over your death, No one mourns for the wicked, save for your best friend, Glinda, who had been wiser than to judge based on appearance, a true friend. Unfortunately, she too was unable to save you from your grueling fate.

Yet here you are, trapped in a coffin.

"Have I finally died?" you thought. What more does God want from you, did They think that punishment is not enough for you?

you scoffed at the thought.

You were startled when the lid was suddenly slammed open by a racoon? Cat? looking creature with fire ears demanding your robe?

' Did this creature think this robe on me is going to fit him?'

'Also where did this robe come from? and did he think that by giving the robe he was going to let a woman bare naked? what a crazy guy'

so, you ran, pulling the hood, as you thought it is better for no body to find out that you are horrendious green from head to toe, and finding yourself in an impressive library. The creature had cornered you Just before the headmage trapped him in his leash using his power.

"Ah, i've found you at last. Splendid. I trust you're one of this year's new students." he then went on and on about how you should've controlled your familiar.

" Woah! we never have a student as... green as you.. how unusual." he said upon seeing your hand. You quickly covered your hand with your robe just as you had covered your face.

" that is alright, Here in NIght Raven collage we accept everybody just as how they are as long as they are chosen by the mirror of course."

He then forced you to go back to the room with coffin. There you found a lot of students wearing the same robe as you.

' is this the same type of school as Shiz University?'

The headmage, Crowley end his bickering with some other students before beckoning you to move to the mirror. You had yourself walk foward to the strange talking mirror. As strange as your original world is you had never seen a magical talking mirror. Sure, a talking face, but it is a mechanic created to be an illusion by that horrible con, Oz.

you hated the attention that is suddenly drafted towards you, you slouch as you reached the Dark mirror.

" The nature of your soul is........ unclear to me."

" what did you say?!"

" sure i can sense a magical power residing on this girl, yet it is unfamiliar, strange, foreign.. i have never encounter this sort of power in my whole life. therefore no dorm is appropriate."

Dorm? Magic power? what the hell is this mirror on about.

" Are you suggesting the black carriage went to receive a Girl?! and with a strange magic? Absurd! the student selection process has not erred once in its century of existence! how could this happened?!"

"HMMPH! ME! Let me have this student place!" the creature who called himself Grim had broken free from the leash. He then started insisting and creating a huge chaos.

in a panic you noticed you still have your grimore with you. odd i thought i had given this to Glinda to protect. you quickly flip over the pages.

you found and recite a spell for the target to follow your word for a brief minute just before the little guy breathe his flame towards a red eyed boy.

"Sit boy, down."

to your surprise most of the students and the headmage himself had fallen down to their butt sitting as they looked bewildred.

" a... i meant that creature not you."

"RAGHHHH!! UNHAND ME UNHAND MEE!" Grim shrilled.

" how... HOW DARE YOU? UNHAND ME THIS INSTANT!" said the red hair boy

" impossible..." said the pretty glasses guy.

" How brazen of you to order Me around, I will rip you into pieces." said the lion eared guy. odd he reminded you of that cowardly lion you had saved, such ungrateful creature whomst had blamed his cowardice on you.

" You! How dare you make me touch the floor!" said the gorgeous blind guy with purple tip.

"Whoaa?!! i am on the floor?!! How??" the boy with the bandana wrapped around his white hair exclaimed.

" Wuh WHAAA.. what is this ssr op power?! scary..." the floating tablet shouted.

" To be casted with a spell how unruly the new student this year is. OH, woe is me... Uncast me this instant!!!"

The other students had started to cuzz profanities at you as well making you more nervous. ' Ah its this again, everytime i tried to help.. i get punished..'

you fumbled around confused as usually in your world the enchantment would only work towards the target intended and usually the enchantment you practied were a permanent one, you hoped this won't last long.

" don't tell me you do not know how to unchant your spell?"

"uhhh..."

thank fully in a moment your enchantment is broken as the headmage start to stand up and dust himself, so as the other students.

The red haired boy spring up and start to point his gem pen? towards you.

" OFF WITH YOUR HE--"

" that won't be necessary Mr. Roseheart. Now you!"

The bird feathered headmage ripped oven your hood as he exposed you to the whole school followed with gasps acrossm the room.

" she is green?!"

" i never seen a green person before."

You grow weary and insecure as you tried to remove the headmage hold on you.

"I'm sorry i didn't mean to, But i acted in panic because this cuz is going to fire his flame to that white haired guy!" you defended yourself.

" haaa.. for now throw this creature out of the game. and the ceremony should end here." he said as you saw students following the guys somewhere.

" now you come with me.."

he tried to bring you back where you came from to no avail so he settle for you to reside in the abandoned dorm, of course that is interrupted by the same creature. although, your impression of him seem to falter as he was obedient towards you and you found his catlu behaviour rather cute, so you dont mind to have him as your companion. Crowley explain the situation to you, but since you are a girl you are still exempt from the courses and sadly are forced towards cleaning duty. He of course didn't hear you when you state that you had died in your world and so his agreement are something you can't refuse.

The next day you are met with Ace and his cocky personality trying to get even with the incident at the opening ceremony, you, not wanting to throw another chaos, refrain from using your spells since you had not learn the extend of the effect of this world to your power, but of course, Grim had to assert himself and created the chaos for you.

You are then met with Deuce who had helped you catch the running criminal trying to run away from his job, this of course before the chase went on and you three ended up breaking the expensive rare chandelier and had to find the replacement stone. and the story goes.

that is the story of how you become a NRC student with your trusty companion or familiar, Grim and how you and grim, with your fellow 1st year whom you meet along the way have an epic adventure to deal with overblots.

>> to be continued<<

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

( there will be more parts to this stay tuned, If you wish to be tagged, please let me know)

[anitalenia]

౨ৎ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙛*𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙨 ( • 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘, 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛, 𝙣𝙨𝙛𝙬, 𝙨𝙛𝙬 • ) ₊ ⊹.𖥔 ݁ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ mummified, Egyptian pharaoh comes back to life millions of years later ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ mermaid boy (merman) takes you to his secret cove after saving you from a shipwreck ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ ghost /phantom takes care of chores while you’re gone and helps you with anything you need (making your bed, brushing your hair, skincare, etc.) ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ siren sings you her favorite song ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ incubus teaches you how to touch yourself for the moments he can’t do it for you ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ succubus gives you a makeover ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ cat hybrid loves when you scratch behind their ears ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ bunny hybrid being too shy to talk to you and ask for what they want ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ vine monster always blooms your favorite flowers ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ orc husband needing his tusks sharpened ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ orc husband being a cry baby when it’s just the smallest scratch you’ve ever seen ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ constantly buying werewolf boyfriend new clothes because he shifts in the ones he’s wearing and rips them to shreds ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ vampire boyfriend who only likes feeding from you ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ witch girlfriend that makes you remedies and herb mixtures to heal your wounds because you’re a klutz ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ siren afraid of the sea and spends her time frolicking in lakes (idc if they’re supposed to be in saltwater it’s fantasy 😜) OR fresh water siren ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ merman teaching you how to swim ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ alien being confused on human biology and how you’re able to feel arousal ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ orc husband making you the best beef stew you’ve ever had ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ cat hybrid leaving dead things on your front porch ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ demon boyfriend with limitless power and influence whose too shy to talk to you ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ minotaur never letting you leave his maze ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ Angel having dirty fantasies about the object (person) of their desires ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ big, beefy, nerdy werewolf boyfriend helps you with your science homework ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ plant monster bursting with beautiful flowers every time you kiss them ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ sleep paralysis demon taking your virginity ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ sexy circus freak fingers you in his tent after the show ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ monster boyfriend who doesn’t fit in your home and constantly has to slouch, his horns scratching your ceiling and head banging into the lights, constantly knocking things over ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ fire bending boyfriend / girlfriend always having such warm hands & hugs ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ ice princess whose breath comes out frosted and wears gloves as to not freeze everything they touch ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ demon king who leaves hell very frequently to visit the girl of his dreams. she can’t go down to his fiery domain / human or angel girl ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ vampire s/o who overindulges in blood and must go to vampire rehab 😜 ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ shy succubus who has never felt the touch of anyone ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ yandere guardian angel who kills any potential suitors until you realize they’re the only one for you ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ yandere pack of werewolves that kidnap you for themselves to use as they please ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ demon king’s butler who believes he can service you more than the king can ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ demon princes taking turns with their favorite maid ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ warlock boyfriend teaches you how to cook ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ vampire girlfriend squeamish about killing the little bunnies who hop in her backyard and would much rather kill people because bunnies are too precious ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ monster boyfriend who can read your mind but doesn’t tell you, just likes to listen to your dirtiest thoughts and act them out later ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ gothic hardcore werewolf girlfriend takes cute and precious bunny hybrid girlfriend to rock concert ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ buying your big bad alpha werewolf husband baby kittens because he loves cats ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ forcing your orc husband into wearing Christmas sweaters with you ⟡ ࣪ ˖

꒰ঌ ⋆.˚ bull hybrid boyfriend being stereotypically hotheaded and always getting into silly fights ⟡ ࣪ ˖

[celebtf]

THE NEW PRINCE, HOOK

Under the night-cover, Hook seeked out the witch who was hiding in the outskirts of town. Her lair was a maze of twisted roots and flickering candles, and the air was thick with the scent of herbs.

"I need a potion," Hook demanded, his voice edged with desperation. "One that will let me swap lives with another."

The witch, her eyes glinting with joyfull glee, made a potion with ingredients known only to her dark arts. "This will do the trick," she said, handing Hook a vial of swirling, iridescent liquid. "But be warned, such magic comes with consequences."

Hook didn't care about consequences. All he wanted was to live the life of a hero, to be adored as Prince Charming was. That night, during a grand banquet in the prince's honor, Hook found his chance. He slipped the potion into Charming's drink, his heart pounding with anticipation.

As the potion took effect, a strange sensation overcame them both. Hook felt his body shift, his very essence being pulled and stretched. A violent surge ran through him, as if his bones were melting and reforming all at once. His skin tingled and burned, muscles twitching uncontrollably. He clutched the edge of a table to steady himself, his vision blurring as the room spun around him.

He looked down to see his hand, once rough and scarred from years at sea, smoothing out, the skin becoming fair and un-scared His fingers lengthened, becoming more elegant and refined. He felt his face contorting, bones cracking and rearranging. His jawline softened, the rugged stubble that had always marked his chin receding until his skin was smooth. His nose narrowed, cheekbones rising higher beneath his eyes.

His hair, once dark lightened to a golden color, the strands growing softer and more luxurious. He felt his body stretch taller, his posture straightening from the familiar pirate’s slouch to the proud and straight posture of a prince. His clothes, rough and worn, transformed into fine, royal garments, rich with intricate embroidery and vibrant colors.

Across the room, Charming experienced a similar torment. His handsome, noble features twisted and warped. His golden hair darkened, becoming a tangled mess of black curls. His clean-shaven face grew rough with stubble, his jawline becoming sharper, more angular. His muscular frame shrank slightly, becoming leaner.

His royal attire morphed into the rugged, leather-clad outfit of a pirate. The new elegance of a prince went away. He looked down at his hand, now rough and scared, a pirate’s hook replacing where his left hand used to be.

When it was over, Hook, now in Charming’s body, looked at his reflection in a polished silver goblet. He saw not the feared pirate, but the beloved prince. A big grin spread across his face. He was now Prince Charming, and the real prince, trapped in Hook's form, stared back at him in horror.

The transformation was seamless. No one suspected a thing. Hook reveled in his new life, soaking in the adoration and respect that had always been out of reach. He performed heroic deeds, courted the beautiful Snow White, and lived a life of luxury and honor.

Meanwhile, the real Prince Charming, now in Hook's body, faced a grim fate. Labeled as the notorious pirate, he was swiftly arrested and thrown into the town jail. His protests of innocence fell, for who would believe the words of a pirate like Hook?

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Hook, living as Charming, found joy in every stolen moment of his sad new life. He had no regrets, only a deep satisfaction. For him, there was no need for a happy ending beyond this—the life he had coveted was now his, and he intended to keep it that way.

As for the real Prince Charming, bored in a cold, dark cell, hope seemed a distant memory. The town had moved on, and so had Hook, leaving Charming to rot in the misery of a fate that was never meant to be his.

And so, the tale concluded not with a happy ending, but with a cruel twist of fate—Captain Hook living the life of Prince Charming, while the true prince languished in obscurity, a prisoner of envy and dark magic.

[deviantly-inspired]

Ok so I've seen the idea of food 'made with love' being what Dream enjoys most but I really think we, as a collective fandom, need to lean in more to the idea of it, actually.

We KNOW from the comics that Dream eats food; that he was starving after his freedom. But even though he's hungry, even in the waking world, he won't eat because there's been nothing but bad intentions and malice directed to him for over a hundred years. He's wary. Like a spooked horsed.

But Hob Gadling has always been so unashamedly fond of Dream, that it's... tempting. to indulge.

(it's more than tempting. He's already starving: for dreams for nightmares for softness for sharpness. Hob is the only person Dream knows that he would take any of it from. If Hob were to offer him poison then Dream would take it gladly, if only to have something to fill the void within him. How miraculous it is, then, that Hob would only every offer succor)

So maybe Dream stares at some home-made food that's being eaten on some picnic while they're about. And Hob needles him just a bit, trying to get some information. What all goes into being Dream of the Endless? And Dream enjoys their wordplay and games so he dances around answering but his gaze keeps going back to that soft little picnic, not too far. Hob steers the conversation towards intent, and Dream admits that, yes, he can sense the intent things are made with, before directing the conversation to something a little safer then the art of consuming.

(Dream would take and take and take and take anything that Hob would give him. Even poison. And would thank him for the malaise of it. It is safer, then, to not let even the hint of hunger touch his waking form.)

But Hob didn't get to over 600 by being a slouch on his academics. He's smart. perceptive. He knows people, and Dream is certainly a 'people' even if he's not quite a person. So he makes something simple, that night. A stew maybe, and thinks of his mother's care and simple wishes whispered to the cast iron. love and kitchen magic. Spells for healthy children and a meal that will fill for longer than it should. Hob wonders, to this day, if maybe she was some sort of real witch and not just the magic that all good mothers are. But he can't ask her so he whispers wishes into his potatoes and encourages the bone to seep fully- he's going to be all bones like you if you don't fill him up- and thanks the meat for it's part and imagines it sticking to the inside of whatever Dream calls ribs to keep him going for a bit longer than he might have otherwise.

(there's all sorts of magic in the world. most of it regular folks will never get to touch. but there is a type of magic, the oldest kind, that's alive and well even in the most scientifically inclined people.)

Hob presents this stew casually. There's no fooling Dream though. It's simple appearance does nothing to hide all that was poured into it. The way the vegetables sing of harbors and the meat dreams of comfort. How the broth simmers with comfort and fullness and broken bread over centuries. love thickens the whole of it into something that will last. Something that will stick and keep him full long past when he should be hungry. To fill the most ravenous parts of him. He wants to consume. He cannot.

I shouldn't, Dream says.

It's yours, Hob replies. I made too much anyway. Wouldn't want this to go to waste.

The idea of it wasting, left to rot, a gift returned, is abhorrent. Dream never claimed to abide by the mortal concept of good. He eats the stew, and then the second bowl and then the third. And hob is only too happy to give him more and more and more, until the pot is empty and, still, Dream starves.

I shouldn't, Dream says with his eyes locked on Hob's lips.

I'm yours, Hob replies. I've always been yours. There's enough of me to pour into you, however much you want for however long you want.

I will want you endlessly, Dream warns with what little strength he has. There is nothing in me that does not hunger. I was born of Night most of all and this means that I know what it is to be a black hole, i know what it is to consume everything, even light, and still never be full.

Hob smiles and leans forward and pours himself into Dream's mouth, all of himself, all that he can spare and then more and more and more. He tastes like lightening and warm broth and bread broken under starry skies. It tastes like every daydream Hob has had for 600 years. It tastes like the knowledge that this will last, sticking to the inside of his ribs warming from within bolstering against that which would sap the meat from your bones. It tastes like something that will last.

(the oldest magic across every universe is love, of course. but you knew that already.

All stories return to their original form, after all.)

[mentally-retired]

I like the idea of virgil being taller than everyone (cus heightened anxiety lol), but especially roman, but the sides cant tell cus hes slouches a lot

Roman: *Standing next to virgil*

Virgil: *Stretches back out, standing unslouched for once*

Roman, now seeing virgil is like half a foot taller than him: HOW THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT?!?!! WITCH?!!?!????

[5sospenguinqueen]

CURSES & CONFESSIONS - GARRETH WEASLEY

Summary: The four times people told you Garreth was in love with you, and the one time Garreth did. Slytherin F!MC. Seventh Year.

Fandom: Hogwarts Legacy

Warnings: Fluff, unrequited love, shitty writing.

Word Count: 4957

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#1. Imelda Reyes

Rolling her shoulders back, MC exhaled deeply, hoping to ease some of the tension in her form. The incessant nattering of her roommate was doing little to help her efforts. Side by side, the teammates trod across the dew-dusted field, unbothered by the growing moisture on their shin pads. Morning mist clung to strands of their hair; both of them sporting green ribbons securely tying back their long locks. The Quidditch field loomed in front of them. The cheers of their fellow students beckoning them forward. Having spent the entirety of Sixth Year begging, Imelda finally convinced her competitive friend to join the Quidditch Team as their final Chaser. 

Imelda noticed the steps of her friend falter as they drew nearer. “The first game is always nerve-wracking but once you mount your broom, all worries about impending injuries vanish.” 

“Very reassuring, Reyes. Why not just tell her to take a Bludger to the head?” Sebastian Sallow commented, long legs easily catching up to them. “It’s a good thing it’s not your job to give motivational speeches to the team- Oh, wait… Maybe that’s why we lost the House Cup last year?” 

Slinging his arm across his friend’s shoulders, he grinned down at her ashy face. “Merlin, you almost look nervous,” the Beater jeered playfully, poking her in the cheek.

MC frowned, a crease forming across her brow. Goblins? No problem. Giant trolls? Easy. Embarrassing herself in front of the majority of the school? Mortifying. 

“Shut it, Sallow. We’re not going to lose this year. We have the ‘Hero of Hogwarts’ on our side.” Imelda’s tone was teasing, watching her friend chafe against the title she had earned in their Fifth Year. And hated ever since. 

Eyes landing on the Quidditch tent, Imelda honed in on a smattering of red lingering outside the entrance to the changing rooms. His dark eyes were trained on the muscular arm that Sebastian had draped around MC, ready to storm over and rip it off. 

Loudly, Imelda declared, “Besides, we’re playing against Gryffindor today. We already have the upper hand against them.”

“Is that so? Do feel free to share with the group.” Leander’s haughty tone broke through the cacophony of excited spectators.

The trio turned to find him looking down at them, arms crossed against his chest. Garreth flanked his left side, expression at odds with the relaxed posture of his body. Gravitating towards the mop of red curls, MC discreetly shuffled towards him, close enough to see the condensation forming on his robes. The cool air clashing with the natural heat of his body.

Similarly to the Slytherin Beater, Weasley had undergone an enticing transformation over the summer. Even whilst slouched against the wooden beam behind him, he towered over her. The second-hand uniform that used to hang loosely on his frame, now strained against the broadness of his shoulder, pulling taut at the muscles of his biceps. When she lifted her gaze to his, he offered a genuine smile, green eyes twinkling. Her brow smoothed, eyes lightening as she smiled back at him. 

“You may be an awful strategist, Prewett, but I know better than to give the enemy important intelligence. Why would I share my secret weapon with you?” 

“I hope you’re not referring to the little witch cowering behind Sallow. If so, you’ve lost already. After all, magic is banned from Quidditch and without her extra magic, she’s not very skilled.” 

Garreth clenched his fist, knowing his friend was only trying to intimidate the group of Snakes. Punching his teammate before the Game began wasn’t the best way to win the Quidditch Cup. 

“She is going to kick your arse for talking about her like she’s not here.” MC glared up at Leander. “I didn’t realise you were so eager to relive the humiliation I dealt you at Crossed Wands, which I did without extra magic.” 

Garreth sniggered, covering it with a cough before his Captain could scold him. Opening his mouth to retort, Madam Kogawa interrupted, yelling out that there was two minutes left until the start of the Game. Prewett dashed inside the tent, remembering he still needed to strap on his knee pads. Sebastian followed closely behind, muttering about how badly he needed to piss before climbing onto his broom. 

Shifting awkwardly on his feet, Garreth hated how his large frame made his discomfort more apparent. Both women turned to look at him as he moved, unable to move subtly anymore. Having noted the trepidation on his Potions partner’s face, he wanted to offer words of encouragement. Except her Captain was looking at him as though she were plotting all the ways to throw him from his broom. The trees swayed as the wind picked up. Not the best weather for a first match. 

“Don’t get blown away out there.” Garreth internally cursed himself.

Why did his mouth insist on saying the stupidest things his brain conjured up? Instead of telling her how he wished she had a good match. How some part of him wanted her to win so that he could revel in her joy. 

An alluring spark flickered in her eyes as the competitive side of her was ignited. “Have a good game, asshole.”

“You too, Princess,” he called out after her retreating figure. The scent of her shampoo filled his nose as she brushed past him. He watched her go with a dopey grin on his face, unable to wipe it off before Imelda walked past him. She didn’t look at the redhead but he watched the Slytherin Captain shake her head in disgust, knowing it was aimed his way. 

“Forget everything I said about keeping an eye on the Quaffle.”

“Excuse me?” MC questioned, turning to face her friend as they entered the Slytherin section of the changing rooms. “Doesn’t the defeat the purpose of my position?” 

“Your new job is to tail Weasley.” Imelda had a wicked smirk on her face. One that usually accompanied words of insanity. “Weasley has been infatuated with you since you stole the Fwooper feather for him. And, as much as the babbling buffoon bothers me, once he’s in the air, he’s exceptionally talented. I need you to put a stop to that. Whenever you’re around, you’re the sole focus of his attention. I’m not even sure he’s aware of it.”

The flaps to the tent rolled back, allowing in bright bursts of sunlight. Emerald and maroon robes filed out onto the grassy pitch. 

“You’re so full of shit.” MC muttered, pushing aside the way Imelda’s words made her feel.

The only response she received was a knowing smile before Imelda slowly sailed out of the tent, and into the roaring crowd. When the whistle blew, MC was further convinced of her friend’s dishonesty. Dashing after the Quaffle, she was elated when her hands were the first to wrap around the ball. Darting across the sky, she was unable to dodge the mass of red barrelling towards her left side. The two collided. She released the Quaffle, dropping it into Natsai’s awaiting hands below. Tightly grasping the handle of her broom, it took all her strength to avoid tumbling off it.

Oblivious to the Quaffle sailing past his head, Garreth’s attention remained on MC until he was confident she wasn’t plummeting to the ground. Furious eyes snapped up in his direction but he simply winked at her, flying back into the fray. He attributed the red tinge of his cheeks to the biting wind. Not the fact that his skin heated from where it had made contact with the beautiful Snake. 

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#2. Natsai Onai

Sunshine illuminated the two Seventh Years lounging in the Transfiguration Courtyard. Bags and outer robes discarded by the bench, the pair of them curled up on the neatly-trimmed grass. Taking a much-needed break from studying, the pair of them soaked up the warm rays. Even though it was only two months into the school year, NEWTS were bogging them down. So, instead of discussing the terrifyingly long Potions essay they’d been set, the pair were gossiping about their fellow classmates.

Entering the Courtyard, Garreth was alerted to his friend’s presence when her familiar giggle reached his ears. His head whipped round, searching for her.

“Is it true that Sebastian has a basilisk inked onto his back?” Natsai asked, when MC’s laughter upon hearing about Leander’s disastrous date subsided. Her hands weaved a small pile of flowers together. 

MC lifted her head up from the cushion she had transfigured her cloak into, squinting at her friend. “Pardon?” 

“Some of the Ravenclaw girls were discussing it in the Library. I may have overhead, and decided you would be the best person to ask.” 

“And you thought to ask me, and not Ominis? Why do you think I am the most knowledgeable about Sebastian without a shirt?”

A dark shadow fell over her, stealing away the warmth that had likely burnt the skin of her nose. 

“Who’s seen Sebastian without his shirt on?” Garreth dumped his bag beside MC’s before collapsing onto the grass beside her. His hand picked up a strand of her hair, twirling it between his fingers absentmindedly. “Can you believe the length of Sharp’s essay?” 

MC smiled up at him, amused by his actions. 

“I was just asking whether MC could confirm the rumours regarding Sebastian’s tattoo,” smiled Natsai, watching her housemate’s reaction closely. 

“The one on his back?” Garreth’s jaw ticked, fingers dropping the hair. “Why have you seen him shirtless?!”

Without letting MC reiterate that she hadn’t seen Sebastian without a shirt, Garreth spoke again. His teeth clenched tightly together as though the words pained him. “Although, I suppose the pair of you as a couple makes perfect sense. You would compliment each other nicely.” 

MC pulled herself into a sitting position, eyebrows knitting together. “What is that supposed-?”

“Oh, Garreth! We need another player for Gobstones.” Poppy shouted across the Courtyard, waving eagerly at him. 

Wanting to escape the bubbling feeling in his chest, Garreth excused himself, clambering to his feet before his mouth blurted out anything else he might regret. Watching the redhead make his way towards Poppy, MC felt a nauseous feeling arise in the pit of her stomach. 

“What was all of that about? Sebastian and I? Together? Merlin, it would be like dating a brother. A really annoying brother.” MC rambled. “And, could he have escaped us any faster? You would think he hadn’t seen Poppy in months instead of a couple of hours.” 

Guilt coursed through her at the ugly thoughts she was possessing, not enjoying how the idea of her friends together was making her feel. Poppy was a delightful witch, and if Garreth were to date anyone, MC couldn't think of someone who could be nicer. 

Natty snickered at the words tumbling from her friend’s mouth, watching her suck in a deep breath. “They were playing Chess in the Library earlier, but you had your head buried in your Herbology book.”

“Oh…” A dejected look overtook her face, watching the dark-haired witch laugh loudly at something Garreth said. “I wasn’t aware he felt that way about her. Although, I suppose it’s impossible not to like Poppy. She’s the sweetest. Now that I think about it, he is always patient with her, and they do spend a fair bit of time together. I think everyone should love Poppy. Oh, no… I’ve been trying to convince Ominis to tell her how he feels about her, but clearly that would be counterproductive if she and Garreth are courting. I wouldn’t want to interfere with that. Not when he looks so happy and-”

“My friend,” interrupted Natty. “Breathe.” 

Natsai looked at the witch across from her, wondering how somebody who had duelled Rookwood and survived, could be so oblivious to someone she looked at every day. 

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“What is going on with you and Garreth?”

“Nothing. We’re just friends.”

The fact that she didn’t ask for a further explanation told Natsai everything she needed to know. She shook her head in disbelief. “I have watched that boy almost snap his neck because he heard you laugh and wanted to see what was causing it. Even worse, I watched him smear mashed potato over his face because you walked into the Great Hall, and he was too busy watching you instead of where his fork was going.”

“I remember that,” mumbled MC to herself, before turning back to her friend. “It is sweet of you to try and boost my ego but Garreth and I don’t feel that way about each other. Poppy was next to me that day in the Great Hall. He was clearly looking at her.”

Natty enjoyed the discomfort on her friend’s face. MC clearly didn’t understand why the idea of Garreth and Poppy was so unsettling to her but Natsai certainly did. She just hoped the pair of them would figure it out soon. She had done her best to prompt her friend but it was not her place to declare the redhead’s love. That was something he needed to do himself. Ignoring the knowing smile on Natsai’s face, MC’s eyes zeroed in on the flowers in her hand. Changing the topic of conversation, she commented on the beauty of the flower crown. The Lion leaned over, placing it atop the Snake’s head. 

“I feel like a faerie princess.”

“I believe you are as frightful as one sometimes.”

“Oi! I haven’t duelled anyone in two whole days.”

“A new record.” Natty deadpanned. 

MC laughed, loud and clear. Fumbling his gobstones, Garreth’s head snapped up. His lips quirked into a smile at the joy on her face and the flowers in her hair. He paid no attention to the foul-smelling liquid spraying his robes. 

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#3. Sebastian Sallow

Legs aching, MC wished she was curled up on the couch in the Undercroft, reading to Ominis. That was how she was supposed to be spending her frosty Sunday. Instead, she was trudging along the icy pathway to Hogsmeade, eager to get to J. Pippin’s Potions. She’d overheard Garreth complaining that he was out of Bicorn horn and his latest experiment required some. Unfortunately, he had managed to land himself in detention for the first weekend of December. Professor Sharp hadn’t been overly impressed to find his hair transfigured into snakes, having been on the receiving end of the redhead’s latest concoction. The redhead had spent all of dinner last night complaining about his plans for the day had been ruined. 

Wanting to surprise him, MC decided to brave the harsh December weather to go for him. Because that was what good friends did. Nose pink and goosebumps dotting her arms, she snuggled further into her scarf and cursed when she slipped on black ice. 

Large hands wrapped around her arm, pulling her upright. “Remind me how you managed to save Hogwarts when you can barely stand on your own two feet?” 

“Are you stalking me, Sallow?”

“Absolutely. I bet you’re glad for it now.” Sebastian grinned, falling into step beside her. 

“Only because you saved me from cold and bruised buttcheeks. I shall sorely miss the peace and quiet though.” 

Sebastian pressed a hand to his chest in faux offence. “You mortally wound me. Even more so upon discovering you failed to invite me on your little outing. I thought we agreed you would stop fighting Ashwinders and Poachers alone,” he scolded. His expression turned questioning when she continued past the Forbidden Forest, instead of venturing into it as he had expected. 

“Fret not. I’m simply running errands today.”

“Even better. Any adventure with you is thrilling but the best ones involve Butterbeer and free samples from Honeydukes. Are we looking for anything in particular?”

“I need to stop by Pippin’s,” mumbled MC. 

Whilst she enjoyed Sebastian’s company, and was pleased that he preferred outings to Hogsmeade than skulking around Catacombs these days, she’d slipped away quietly that morning in the hopes of being alone. Only because she hadn’t wanted to explain what she was doing. 

“I thought you stocked up on potion supplies last week? Don’t tell me you’re out already.” Sebastian chuckled, eyes honing in on the blush staining her cheeks.

Damn him and his perception, she cursed. 

Clearing her throat, her spine straightened. “I’m not actually going for myself. Garreth mentioned he was low on some supplies.” 

“Where is your boyfriend? Why isn’t he accompanying you?”

Pace picking up as they neared the Wizarding village, she prayed that the sight of Honeydukes would be enough of a distraction to keep Sebastian from prying too deeply into the meaning behind MC’s deed. She, herself, wasn’t willing to look past the fact that she wanted to help out her friend. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she protested

To her dismay, Sebastian persisted, following her down the cobbled streets. “Have you told him that?” A gleeful grin lit up his face. 

“What are you blabbering on about?” 

“I happen to have it on good authority that he spent the entirety of Potions convincing Andrew Larson not to ask you to Hogsmeade today. That’s why he messed up his potion. For once, he wasn’t brewing his own recipe.” 

MC stopped in the middle of the path. Sebastian smacked into her back with a soft ‘oomph’, unable to slow down in time. “That’s why he’s in detention? Why would he do that? I’m not complaining because at least I didn’t have to find a polite way to deter Andrew but…”

“Why would you decline Andrew’s offer? Perhaps your answer is the same reason why Garreth convinced him not to ask in the first place.” 

“Or maybe you’re listening to gossip again, and they got it wrong. Who is this so-called good authority?”

Sebastian’s smirk deepened. “Ominis.”

“Oh.”

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#4. Ominis Gaunt 

Splattered with mud, strands of hair slipped from her low bun, sticking to the sheen of sweat coating her face. Her entire body groaned in protest as she and Poppy sullenly made their way up the stairs before the Great Hall. Neither were feeling particularly victorious despite having saved all animals caged up in the Poacher camp. When Poppy had suggested Flooing to Irondale to dismantle a Poacher camp, the two witches had thought they would return before dinner, pleased with themselves and the good they had done. Instead, dinner was in full-swing and all the witches wanted was to reach the Hospital Wing without detection.

The three Wiggenwelds they had taken with them were long gone, and yet numerous injuries remained. Poppy had taken a nasty hex to the chest, and MC hadn’t hesitated to shove all three of the healing potions into her mouth. Unfortunately, that meant there had been none left over for when she was thrown from a platform, body slamming into the hard ground. Despite her twisted ankle and Poppy’s bleeding forehead, they had managed to get back to the Floo flame but were deposited all the way down at the Boathouse. 

“Is that blood?” A horrified voice exclaimed.

Footsteps hurried over to them. Warm hands reached for her cheek, pulling her face into the light so that green eyes could inspect the cut marring her face. Beside her, Ominis was reaching for Poppy, wand waving to assess the damage. 

“Don’t worry. It’s not ours. Well.. not most of it.” 

“Is that supposed to reassure me?!” Garreth shrieked, looping his arm around MC’s wait to help take some of the weight off her swollen ankle.

The two men accompanied their wounded witches to the Hospital Wing. Easing MC onto the stiff white sheets of an unoccupied bed, Garreth dashed into Nurse Blainey’s office, dismayed to find it empty. Tugging at his curls in frustration, he paced back and forth, fretting about his friends. 

“Gar, it’s dinnertime.” MC reminded him, voice soft and comforting. “She’s likely in the Great Hall. We can wait, we’ll be fine.” 

“No, you can’t,” he said firmly. “You’re injured.” Pain shone in his bright green eyes. 

Demanding that Ominis keep a close eye on them, (to which the Gaunt boy promised he’d do his best, prompting MC to giggle), Garreth announced he would go hunt down their healer. Before MC could ask him to stay with her, he was dashing out of the infirmary, robes flapping behind him. She didn’t care about the pain. She had just wanted him to stay. 

“I do believe he genuinely forgot how to breathe when he caught sight of you hobbling into the castle. I almost thought I was going to have to carry all three of you into here.” Ominis spoke up, hand twitching as he fought against the urge to reach for his favourite Hufflepuff. 

“He did go rather pale when he looked at us,” snickered Poppy.

MC shifted, easing her body into a more comfortable position. “Yes, well, you seem to have that effect on him.” She winced, attributing it to the heat lancing down her spine. Nothing to do with the words she spoke crushing something deep in her chest. 

“I don’t think it’s Poppy that makes him forget oxygen is vital to living. Regardless of how adorable she is.” Ominis drawled, taking joy in the pink flush blossoming across Poppy’s cheeks. 

“I told you she was oblivious.” squeaked the Hufflepuff. 

MC scowled, discontented with the running narrative that she was unobservant. Her perception had saved Poppy’s life earlier, and her body was bruised enough to prove it. It was as if her friends had teamed up to insult her consistently this year. 

Fed up with everyone tip-toeing around the fact, Ominis decided he was no longer waiting for her to figure it out. “Please tell me that you are aware Garreth is in love with you, and has been for the past year.” 

“If not more.” Poppy chimed in, supporting Ominis’ decision. The rest of the gang decided to let Garreth tell her himself but Poppy knew he would never do it. 

“No, he’s not.” 

Ominis snorted. “He’s so infatuated with you. Even a blind man could see it.” 

“You are blind.” 

“Exactly. And I can see it.”

“You can’t see anything,” shot back MC.

She shot her tongue out at him immaturely and whilst he couldn't see it, he had the sense to lean over and punch her in the shoulder. He shrunk back in terror when MC winced and a furious voice reverberated off the flagstones; amplified for his sensitive hearing. 

“Why the fuck would you do that. She’s already injured, Ominis. I asked you to look after her whilst I was gone.” Garreth thundered, storming in.

Poor Nurse Blainey was rushing to catch up with him. A slice of carrot cake was cupped in her hand, having been grabbed just as dessert was served. 

“Mr Weasley, you made it sound as if the poor thing was on death’s door.” Blainey scolded, saving the blind wizard from Garreth’s wrath.

The healer took MC’s ankle in hand, examining the swollen ligament and apologising as the Hero of Hogwarts gasped in pain. Poppy wrapped a hand around Garreth’s wrist to prevent him from trying to push the healer away.

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#5. Garreth Weasley

Mended and amused by the tension in the room, Poppy thanked Nurse Blainey for healing her before taking her leave from the Hospital Wing. MC had insisted that Poppy be seen to first, despite the Hufflepuff being mainly mended by the earlier Wiggenwelds. MC watched her and Ominis leave, hand in hand. A pitiful sigh escaped MC’s mouth as she watched them. That’s what she wanted. Someone who loved her enough to hold her hand in public, propriety be damned. The only issue was that she would only be satisfied if it was with the man beside her. The man who was also watching the new couple go, an unreadable expression on his face. Most likely agonised over watching the woman he liked walk away with another man. Ominis had finally worked up the courage to ask Poppy to accompany him to The Three Broomsticks. 

“Best drink it all in one go, dear.” Nurse Blainey advised. She had mixed numerous healing positions into one foul-smelling tonic, handing it over in a wooden goblet. “You’ll have to stay here for the night whilst your fracture mends but Mr Weasley is welcome to stay with you until curfew. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m hoping I can catch the end of the Feast. I’ve been looking forward to the choir all week.” 

Thanking the healer, MC immediately mentally cursed her when she swallowed the contents of her cup. The vile taste of the potion had her gagging, coughing loudly. Instantly, Garreth was there, a glass of orange juice in hand to chase the taste away. He had listened to MC recount the events of her fight - and the extent of her injuries - to Nurse Blainey in complete silence. Even now, he said nothing as the door shut behind the healer. The loud click echoed in her ears, reminding her that the pair of them were entirely alone. 

“You don’t have to stay with me. I’m sure you have better things to be doing.”

Garreth nodded but made no effort to move. An uncomfortable silence settled over them for the first time since their friendship developed. Their time together was usually filled with babbling antics and loud laughter. Now, the pair struggled to string a sentence together. MC’s hands moved towards each other, Garreth’s eyes tracked her movements. Fingers cracking her knuckles, she was desperate for something to focus on. Something aside from the hollow look in Garreth’s eyes. His hand shot out to still hers, and stayed there. His fingers enveloped hers, curling around her. As if he were grounding himself, reminding him that she was still here. Her heart stuttered in her chest. The tissues in her ankle slowly started realigning, pulling a pained gasp from her mouth. The sound dragged an anguished noise from Garreth’s chest. 

“Garreth, are you okay?” She whispered, concerned by his unnerving silence.  

A bitter laugh escaped his mouth. “Me? You’re the one who had to drag herself back to the castle, injured.” 

“I’m fine.” She grabbed his other hand when he turned his head away in disbelief. Garreth’s eyes instantly shot to hers. “Look, I’m alive. Unharmed.”

“But you weren’t!” He snapped. “You went out, alone. In the dark with only Poppy as your backup, and the pair of you came very close to not coming back.”

Her eyes stung at the harsh tone directed towards her. She chalked it up to being overtired and emotionally drained. Not because she felt as if she were being reprimanded. 

Garreth charged forward, oblivious to the look on her face. “I spent all evening looking for you, worried out of my mind because nobody knew where the pair of you were.”

“I told Sebastian-”

“Who was hidden away all day in some secret underground only you and Ominis know about!” 

Infuriated that tears were still pooling in her eyes, MC snapped back. “I don’t have to tell you where I am every minute of every day. You’re not my keeper! If you’re concerned that I’m dragging Poppy into danger then you should take that up with her! Besides, she’s the one who suggested we go. She made it quite clear it didn’t matter if I came or not so I went for her safety.”

“I don’t care about Poppy!” Garreth exploded, not meaning it in the way it sounded aloud. “Why must you bring her up in every conversation we have? Godric, you make it so hard to care about you sometimes.” 

MC sniffed before icily responding. “Then don’t bother. Walk away, Garreth, I’m not your problem.”

Garreth stood, and she thought he was going to listen to her, and leave. She didn’t truly want that but if she were such a burden- The pot at the end of her bed sailed across the room, smacking into the floor with a loud thud. When he turned to face her, there was no anger on his face. Only anguish. He wasn’t mad at her. He was furious with himself, for not being honest. For not being able to say the words desperately hanging to the tip of his tongue. If he had told her the truth last year, perhaps he would’ve been with her at the Poacher camp. Maybe he could have saved her from the bruises welting her back. 

“You don’t understand. I want you to be my problem. I want to worry about you, and I want to drag you to the Hospital Wing when you’re injured. Although I would really prefer you remain unharmed. But because I want to hold you in my arms afterwards, knowing you’re safe. I want to comfort you when defeating Poachers doesn’t go the way you expected. I want to take you to Hogsmeade, and hold your hands around the shops. I want to see you laugh, and know why you did so. And, I want to kiss you before a Quidditch match and when you win, even if that means I’ve lost. You are the cause of all my distractions, and the only regret I have is that you fail to understand how deeply I care for you.” 

“But, you and Poppy and seem so close?”

Was that really all she could say, MC chided herself. 

“Because she’s been trying to convince me to tell you how I feel.”

“Oh.”

“I love you. I am so deeply in love with you that every potion I’ve invented for the past year smells like you.”

And, as his thumb brushed her cheek and he leaned in closer, MC truly believed Garreth Weasley loved her. 

[skribbyposts]

Zosan haircut time!!!!

had to write this after getting the idea from my last post lmao. I love the idea of Sanji being like "ugh you look fucking terrible" and then forcing Zoro to take care of himself. they're so stupid and gay and in love omg. beginning part is mostly Zoro and Nami but that's ok because they're wlw/mlm solidarity always!!!!

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

More than anything, Zoro loves sunbathing on the Sunny's deck. Something about the warm light makes him want to melt into the wood. However, Zoro finds it very hard to enjoy the sun when it is boiling outside, and he swears he can hear his sweat sizzle when it meets the wooden flooring.

"We're going through a summer climate, just wait it out." Nami sips on her martini, laid out on a lounge chair and taking cover under an umbrella.

"Easy for you to say, you witch. You stole all the shade." While Nami's basking in the shadow of her parasol, Zoro's sprawled out on deck, sweating his fucking balls off. His whole body is damp, and he's stripped down into just a pair of loose shorts to cool off.

"Go hang out with your boyfriend in the kitchen," She says.

"He's not my boyfriend. I fucking hate you."

"The feeling's mutual, you sweaty loser."

Zoro groans, peeling himself off of the floor to sit up and comb his fingers through his shaggy hair. It's too long to stay out of the way, and it's uncomfortably wet where it sticks to his forehead. Zoro would tie it back, but it's too short for that. In short, he is suffering.

"I'm gonna die from heatstroke because of you," Zoro shakes the excess moisture from his hands.

Nami scoffs. "Stop whining, hop in the sea or something."

Zoro briefly considers this, but decides that's more effort than it's worth and tries to take a nap instead.

Zoro hears someone stroll out of the galley, and cracks his eye open to see Sanji balancing a tray of smoothies in one hand with a beach towel in the other. He's dressed down, an open Hawaiian shirt and blue shorts replacing his usual suit.

"Hello, my darling, Nami-san! I've just prepared smoothies. Would you like one?"

"Yes, Sanji-- thank you so much," She says smugly, while looking directly at Zoro. "You're a saint, You know that?"

He watches the cook hand Nami a drink from the tray, and Sanji's eyes follow her gaze to the floor where he's lying. "Oh my god, marimo. you look like -excuse my language, Nami-san- a fucking caveman."

"What are you talking about?" Zoro would pick a fight, but it's way too hot to bother.

The blonde cringes. "Your hair looks like someone ate it and then spat it back out onto your head."

"Okay, well, fuck you too then!" God, everyone's out for him today. What has Zoro ever done to deserve this?

"Ugh. Stand up, you dunce." Sanji nudges Zoro's head with a sandaled foot. "You need a haircut."

"I can give myself a haircut." Zoro nods in the direction of his swords, trying to move as little as possible.

"Are you insa- no! I'm cutting your hair, properly. Now get up."

"I don't wanna."

"I swear to god," Sanji sighs. "My dearest Nami, do you mind holding this for a bit?"

Nami peers at the two of them through her oversized sunglasses, a knowing smirk on her face as she takes the tray from Sanji's hands. "No problem."

Zoro doesn't have time to get a word in before Sanji reaches for his ear and bodily drags him all the way to the bathroom.

----- "I don't understand how you let it get this bad," The blonde lectures.

Zoro grumbles as he slouches on a stool in front of the bathroom sink, glaring at his own reflection. Sanji was partially right with his comment earlier - Zoro's hair is a damp, scraggly mess on top of his head right now. From where he is, Zoro can see the cook as he lines up all his fancy hair-cutting stuff, whispering insults under his breath. He looks kind of...domestic, out of his suit. It's the one thing Zoro appreciates whenever the Sunny passes through climates like this. "Okay, I'm going to attempt to fix this mess, and you are going to stay still," Sanji asserts as he slides into place behind Zoro. "as in, do not move."

"I know what 'stay still' means."

"Surprising. I thought you only spoke in grunts."

They both fall silent, Sanji draping a towel over Zoro's shoulders and clicking a button on the clippers in his hand. Gentle fingers push Zoro's head forward to access the strands at the nape of his neck. The whirring of the machinery and Sanji's hums every now and then are the only sounds in the cramped bathroom, and Zoro almost falls asleep to the feeling of the blond's hands in his hair.

"Hey." Sanji delivers two sharp taps to the back of Zoro's head. "Stop slouching, you're making it uneven."

"I'm so hot."

"I'm sure you are, you meathead. sit up."

Zoro begrudgingly straightens his back, getting a better view of the cook's freckled face reflected in the mirror. He always gets freckles when it's sunny out. They look like little constellations, scattered across his cheeks like that. Zoro wants to touch them so badly.

A few minutes pass, and Sanji moves to the front of his hair, taking a black comb from the counter to parse through the mess draping over Zoro's forehead. His face is scrunched in concentration, a crease between his eyebrows visible as he snips away with a pair of silver scissors. Zoro just...watches, staring intently into the other man's eyes. He's not sure if he's delirious from the heat, but is the cook's face turning red?

Sanji pauses his ministrations to frown at him. "Stop fucking looking at me. It's creepy."

"Sorry, sir." That earns him a snort and another smack to the side of his head. Zoro closes his eye (reluctantly. very reluctantly).

It feels like forever before Sanji finishes up his hair, ruffling it slightly before commanding Zoro to open his eyes.

The haircut is cropped close to his neck in the back, his overgrown sideburns shaped to follow his hairline. His hair is still a bit long on top, but it doesn't fall over his face.

Zoro's reflection looks better; neat, almost. He actually really likes it.

"It's okay, I guess." Zoro's lying through his teeth. It's fantastic, anything Sanji ever does is fantastic.

Sanji looks at him through the mirror. "Hm. Handsome little marimo." He nods in self-approval before packing up all his stuff, whisking the towel from around Zoro's shoulders to take to the laundry room.

Zoro sits there, bewildered, watching the other man maneuver around the tiny space unbothered- what?

He turns to look at Sanji as the blonde saunters out of the bathroom, definitely already busying himself with something else.

When Zoro turns back to his reflection, he doesn't fight the tiny smile that crosses his face. Sanji thinks he's Handsome.

The smile's gone just as quick as it came, replaced with a scowl as he hears a female voice giggling through the wall to his right.

"Nami, I'm going to murder you."

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

Nami was eavesdropping the entire time lmfao.

Nami, to Zoro: wow so handsome!! such a handsome wittle marimo arent you so wittle?? ooga booga doo!!!

Zoro: i am not above killing lesbians. Anyway BRAND NEW HC that Sanji gets freckles when he's in the sun he's such a cutie patootie i love him.

Pre-slash Zosan domesticity fuels my soul <33333

ALSOO!!! opening up asks cuz im running out of ideas :P if you ask me for something I'll probably write it thanks

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Feeding 101

kai parker x reader

summary: damon was a great teacher during elena's transition, but he's less than helpful when kai escapes hell and needs to feed. luckily, you're there at the right place, right time, and offer to teach him, (much to damon's disapproval). | heretic!kai

tags: based on s08e13, mention of twilight, blood drinking, blood sharing, feelings, confessions, arguments, protective!damon but also protective!kai, mention of sex but no sexual content, almost kiss

word count: ~2.7k

You’re too busy texting to look where you’re going. A nervous text from Alaric; a warning, judging by his unusual use of the red exclamation + question mark emoji. You stumble to the bathroom to read it, wanting your reaction to be out of sights from the crowded diner. Mystic Falls has been a mess lately; no doubt it concerns the next big enemy. 

But as you burst open the nearest door, you catch the sight of two bodies occupying. Right as you turn to leave, you realize it’s Damon by the sink. 

“Oh, shit, sorry - wait, Damon?!” 

This is an uncommon place to find him. Usually, he’d be at the Mystic Grill or the Scull Bar. Never at the rather unkempt small diner on the end of the street. You, however, go there often, whenever you need to escape wandering eyes and small-town chatter. Damon, often both the cause of the eyes and the chatter, enjoys being in the center of attention. 

However, when you catch his gaze this time, his throat tightens in fear. “Y/N, out! Go!” 

His urgency scares you. Your eyes bounce around the room for the threat, wondering what’s so imperative that you hurry on your way out the door. 

You settle your attention on the figure beside him. Well, not one, but two. 

One man slouched against the wall, diner apron still loosely around his waist. Another man is holding him up by his shoulders, feeding on his neck.  

You startle at the sight, not expecting it. 

“Get out, Y/N!”

The man feeding is too caught up in his gig to notice your presence, but you soon start to recognize his shoulders. 

You stop, feet planted into the cement; fear becoming curiosity. “Is that Kai?”

“No!”

At the same time, the man in question lets the diner cook slump to the ground. He turns to Damon, unsuccessfully wiping blood off his face. “So that was-” he finally sees you, “hey, I remember you.”

“She’s leaving,” Damon answers. “Y/N, go!”

“Y/N, that was it!” 

You’re having trouble tearing your eyes from his face. Jesus Christ, he’s a messy eater. 

“Is this the big emergency Ric texted me about?!”

Damon shrugs, “probably.”

“As much as I love talking about Ric, I need to feed on more than just this big guy. I’ve been in hell for a long time, Damon, and-”

“I know! You’re hungry; I get it. We’re having a little problem right now of finding people that you can eat. It’s not like there’s a line outside of willing participants.”

You swallow hard.

Kai’s always made you feel a type of way you couldn’t explore. His bloodstained lips and teeth multiply that feeling tenfold, reminding you why you came to Mystic Falls in the first place. Vampires, witches, werewolves. You started out as a Twilight enthusiast looking for adventure, attending Whitmore College, but then became a valuable asset to the team. 

God, if Kai ever knew how hard it was for Elena to keep you away from him, you’d probably die inside. You fell for him hard. And now, staring at him in his full transition, you can already feel those tingles returning. 

“What are you guys doing?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

“Kai here says he can bring back Elena, but he needs to be strong enough to do the spell.”

Ah. You shift your feet nervously. Even despite what he did to your best friend, you can’t help your desire for him. “So you need to go,” Damon continues, “and not be a witness anymore, and we need to go find more bad people.”

“Why only bad people?”

“So that Damon doesn’t feel guilty for eating good ones,” Kai answers, to which Damon gives him a distasteful smile. 

“And, because like I said, you don’t exactly have anybody willing to be fed on, especially not by you. So we have to get a move on it if we’re to reverse this spell quickly, before Cade gets his hands on you.”

“Cade?”

“He’s coming for me, because I escaped Hell.” He glances down at the diner cook again, wondering if any of his blood is still fresh for a second round. “I really don’t want to go back there, to Hell, and every time I feed, I can feel myself getting stronger, so that’s great, in case I need to fight him.” Kai takes in the sight of you one last time before tearing his lust-filled eyes away. “So if we can find more people-”

“Feed on me.”

“What?”

“What?!” Damon repeats Kai’s question, but with extra dismay.

“You need to feed, but are having trouble selecting people. I’m a willing participant; feed on me.”

“Yeah, that’s a no.”

“C’mon, Damon, you want Elena back, and so do I, and I don’t know… I trust Kai won’t kill me.”

“Y/N, do you not see the dead guy slumped on the floor?”

“Yeah but Kai knows me. You both do. I’m not some villain, or some unimportant cook.”

“That man was very important,” Damon fakes, “he was doing his job, serving burgers-”

“He was forcing his hand on an underage girl,” Kai interrupts, “that’s why we picked him.”

“See? Eating people with a good cause. C’mon, Kai, I trust you. Just heal me back up when you’re done. Has Damon taught you how to do that yet?”

“No.”

“Okay, then I will.” You shrug off your coat, exposing your neck. “Come here. Pierce this vein,” you point, “and drink from it.”

“No!” Damon lunges for Kai when he steps closer to you. “Y/N, this is insane!”

“It’s fine! You’re being dramatic!”

“You’re being under-dramatic!”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It certainly is!”

“He isn’t going to drain me, I’m just giving him enough to make him stronger. You want Elena back, right? So do I. Kai, drink.”

The vampire steps closer, flicking his tongue against your neck. When your knees buckle at the sensation, he grabs your waist to hold you up. 

“You okay?”

“Mhm. Go ahead.”

Damon can only watch as Kai follows your instruction, biting down carefully into your jugular vein and beginning to suck. He was never so careful with his previous victims, and would let himself tear messily into their skin before finding his latch. Blood would stream down their neck and his chin, staining them both. You showing him where to latch makes his bite a lot cleaner. Instead of worrying about hurting you, he can focus his attention on keeping you upright. 

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Damon asks, also noticing your weak knees. 

“Mhm- yes.” You grab onto Kai for support. He pulls off to look at you, but latches back on when you nod the consent to continue. 

“Doesn’t look like that from here.”

“It’s just… intense. I’m okay.”

After a minute or two, your skin pales. Your body is weakening under Kai’s strong grip, and he realizes quickly, detaching his teeth from your neck. 

“Hey, what do I-”

“Bite here,” you point to his own wrist, “feed me your blood to heal me.”

“Bite here,” he repeats, situating his teeth on himself. He bites, then it bleeds. “Like Damon’s done?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay.” He pushes his wrist up to your mouth, almost force-feeding you. You would’ve grabbed onto his wrist and fed yourself, but the way Kai does it, like he’s desperate for you to heal, makes you wonder if he could really feel that way.

Within seconds, you start to feel like yourself again. The color returns to your face, and you get a little of your strength back. Most of it is turned to mush at the fact that he fed from you - he literally fucking fed from you; your heart is racing - but not all of your weakened state is due to overwhelming feelings. 

“Are you okay?”

“Mh- yes.”

“Are you sure?” Damon overrides, coming up behind you. 

“I’m good. Fuck,” you’re still trying to catch your breath, exhilaration coursing through you, “felt good.”

“Well it isn’t supposed to feel good,” the elder vampire comments. 

“I, um, I just meant… the healing part of it did. Felt good to have my strength back.”

“Mhm, sure.”

“I didn’t hurt you?” Kai asks, head tilted.

“No, you didn’t. You’re okay.” He smiles, then brushes a loose hair from your face. You have a suddenly overwhelming urge to kiss him, but doubt Damon would like that very much. Instead, you point towards the sink, then at his bloodstained mouth. “Let me clean you up, okay? Can’t go anywhere with dead line cook all over your face.”

Kai takes a step back to let you reach the sink, while Damon tries not to be dumbfounded at how okay you are with this whole situation. 

You wet a paper towel and add a teensy bit of hand soap, then beckon Kai forward. 

“Thanks for teaching me how to feed properly,” he says, watching the first bit of blood wash down the drain. 

“Of course. I don’t know why Damon didn’t-”

“-because that’s not my job, Y/N. And it wasn’t yours, either.”

“Still. There’s a huge bloodstain on the wall now, and that one certainly isn’t my problem.”

“We’ll just leave it for the cleaning lady. Put an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the door.”

“Nice,” you reply dryly. 

“Hey, while I was feeding,” Kai says suddenly, “I felt this rush go through your body that I hadn’t tasted before. Is that normal?”

Damon’s heart drops to his toes. “It was fear,” he tries to say. He knows you had a crush seven years ago, and Kai does not need to learn about it now.

“I’m asking Y/N.”

“I, um… yeah, I mean, normal sometimes. Blood sharing can be really personal, so since you weren’t feeding to kill, it’s not…” you glance over to Damon, who’s making gestures of cutting off a head to make you stop talking, “it’s, uh, normal.”

“It’s personal? Like how?”

Damon’s eyes roll all the way to space. He slaps a hand to his forehead. 

“Um, like… well… that level of trust that I put in you, coupled again, with the fact that you weren’t feeding to kill. Sometimes it can stir up, uh, feelings.”

“Feelings?”

“Oohkay, Y/N, you’ve done enough!”

“I don’t know how to explain it!”

“Blood sharing is personal because you’re feeding off one another in a really intimate way, sometimes more intimate than sex. Now, Kai, another important thing you’re gonna learn about being a vampire is compulsion. Compel her to forget this ever happened.”

“What?” You step back in surprise, “no!”

“Come on, Y/N, it’s for your safety. He doesn’t have any feelings anyway.”

“No! Damon-”

“For the record, I feel things sometimes. Remember - hello - merge with Luke? And before that, I could feel, I just didn’t know what I was feeling.”

“Neat. Great. Compel her anyway.”

“Damon!”

“No! She doesn’t want it. I’m not gonna force something on her that she doesn’t want.”

“I bet this guy didn’t want to die, did you think about that?”

“That’s different. She’s different. She matters.”

“Oh, great.”

“You just said blood sharing is really intimate, so why would I compel her when she doesn’t want it when we practically just had sex?”

“That is not what I said!”

“It is, too!”

Damon sighs, “you compel her because it’s for her own good! Because she should never be caught doing anything with the likes of you. You’re only gonna get her killed.”

“I didn’t get her killed just a minute ago when I was feeding on her.”

“Because she showed you how! Otherwise, you would’ve just ripped into her neck like this other guy here.”

“No, I wouldn’t have fed on her at all if she didn’t teach me, because I’ve never wanted to hurt her.”

Damon throws up his hands. “God! Kai, why?!”

“Oh, is it suddenly bad that I care about someone?! I thought that’s all you ever wanted from me. And now I do, and I’m the bad guy again?”

“You were never the good guy, I-”

“Okay, just stop it!” You interrupt, putting hands between the men. “This is ridiculous.”

“His apparent, sudden feelings for you are ridiculous!”

“I’ve had a crush on her since the day I merged with Luke,” he blurts out.

“What?” You and Damon say in unison, both now looking at him. 

He sighs. “You were there for Bonnie’s birthday and helped us all send a message to her. But after my sister stabbed me and Damon healed me with his blood, you were the one that cleaned me up and made sure I was okay. I always thought you were cute, but from that day on, I don’t know, I just felt something.” He looks down, embarrassed. “I never said anything because I’m, well, me, and you’re you - this super sweet and gentle and caring person, and I would be nothing but wrong for you. And the only reason I agreed to feed on you today was because I am really hungry, and your blood smells just so good, and you were willing to teach me how to do it without hurting you.” He pauses, “I’m sorry for lying to you, and I’m sorry for causing such a big fight, and for letting this get out, but that’s the truth.”

“You had a crush on me,” you say, not really as a question. Kai looks up, unable to read your tone, hoping your face gives you away. He expects mocking, certainly not the excitement you seem to have instead. 

“Yeah.”

“Damon,” you turn suddenly, “did you hear that?”

“Yep, all three times, Y/N.”

You turn back to Kai, expression unreadable. “For the record-”

“Y/N, don’t-” Damon attempts. 

You ignore, “I’ve always had a crush on you, too.”

A smile tugs at the edge of his lips. “You have?”

“Even before the merge, I liked you, but then after it, watching you navigate the world, I couldn’t help but fall head over heels. I wanted to help you through it more but somebody…” you glance at Damon, “held me back.”

“For good reason-”

You interrupt him again. “But yes, Kai, I like you.”

“Even as a heretic?”

“You think I’d let just anyone feed on me? Let alone a baby vamp who I literally just watched rip open another guy’s neck?”

He smiles. “Got it.”

“If anything, it was hot.”

“Y/N-”

“You learning control on me was hot, too, but that display of near-rabid vampirism was also super hot.”

“Y/N-” Damon warns again, not liking the direction of the conversation.

“And yeah, I wouldn’t share my blood with just anyone. So, yes, Kai, I think it’s safe to say I like you even as a heretic.”

Kai’s hand finds its way to the side of your face. An overwhelming urge to kiss you settles in his bones. 

“Nope-” Damon speeds forward to separate you. “You can talk about your weird, gross, feelings, but we aren’t going any further with them today.” 

“Alright, alright.”

“Damon,” you warn, not liking the grip he has on Kai’s shirt. “Easy.”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s a big, strong heretic now, right?” He pushes him hard into the wall.

Kai groans, pain coursing through his body for a mere second before any bruises heal themselves. 

“Damon!” You come to his side. “Let go.” Luckily, he does. Kai makes another, lower groan as his body is released from the man’s clutches. You try to not let it go to your head. “Can we just… go do whatever it is you were doing earlier now? This guy is starting to smell.”

Damon looks at him, then at the two of you. “Fine, whatever. Y/N, I’m assuming I can’t shake you off?”

“Nope.”

“Alright. Then let’s go make enemies out of my friends.” You tilt your head in confusion. 

“Bonnie, who’s helping Kai get out permanently. Alaric, with… Alaric in general. Elena, when we wake her, for letting her realize I failed to keep you two apart like she tried so hard to do. Matt-”

“We get it.”

“Good. Then let’s go.”

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 3/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: high time for a baptism

tags: a whole lotta words, reader is so totally sexually repressed, angst if you squint really really hard, 18+ CONTENT, masturbation, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap before you tap)

word count: 9k (jesus, wren. what the hell.)

a/n: SURPRISE! (sorry this took two months?? hot damn??)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

The walls are blockades of tar when you wake.

Tangled in the liminal spider web of consciousness, your eyes crack open in hesitant increments. Movement isn’t an option—not yet. So you bide your time. Lethargic. Still tangled.

But distant bird chatter punctures your eardrums, and you’re jostled back into an awareness of the minutes sliding through your fingers with all the lenience of serrated glass. It’s with unfocused eyes and bleeding hands that you take in the reality of the dark, saturating the floorboards with promises of deep pinks and purples. 

Dawn. You’d slept to the edge of dawn.

Your first voluntary gulp coats your lungs in sticky air, snags on the cotton lodged in your throat, and you fold over with a violent cough and a twinge of pain in your sides. One of Mrs. Campbell’s complaints about chairs screams when you go to uncurl your spine, and the left side of your neck is strained from where you’d been slumped sideways. 

Familiar shapes and smells return to their rightful places only after the initial shock of your aches subside. And perhaps it was the framed pictures—faces unrelated yet well-learned, softened into ambiguity by youth and dust and a lack of light. Or exhaustion, more realistically. Either way, one of the two has you slouching down in your seat, blanketing your eyelids with the back of your hand despite the swampy darkness.  

You find that it’s easier to focus on the little chirps this way. Easier to visualize the fattened droplets of morning dew rolling from the fogged windows to the porch, and eventually to the ground below. The acrid smell of dried sweat and rainwater is draped over your imagined backdrop as a thin screen—apparent, but not enough to disturb. Something close to serenity, you think, even with the fireplace burnt down to nothingness and still tickling your nostrils. 

But when a memory suddenly flashes white-hot, you slam your hand back into the arm of your chair with an agonizing groan, the shooting pain that rattles up your forearm just barely managing to surpass the burgeoning mortification.

Stupid.

This is beyond stupid.

You’re many things. Many, many things, if you take the (societally imposed) negatives into account. You’re also perfectly capable of becoming many things. But a bitch in heat, to your knowledge, is not one of them. 

Only, you’d spent the vacant space following Arthur Morgan’s departure waiting for that pang of true regret, for that honed blade of self-preservation to unsheathe itself and sever the grip of what had nearly drowned you. You’d slipped your shirt back over your shoulders and paced. And paced, and paced. Paced till you’d carved a new trench into your dirty rug and dropped, regrettably, into the very chair you awoke in.

Your gut squeezes, and you know that the grip still has yet to unwind. It makes you sick. Feverish. Confused. Like you’ve pulled a scorching pot from a frigid stove.

Discomfort spreads when you sit up to refasten the buttons of your shirt, fabric now stiff with rain and resisting the pull of your fingers, and your mind, lost to the beginnings of repetition, wanders further.

You were no prude, if only out of spite. The top button closes, and you’re brought back to your first spark of rebellion—some fresh-faced businessman looking to pawn his talents off on your father. Bright hair, stiff collar, fingernails clean but hands grubby. Not much “talent” about him, either.

Hardship was unmistakably foreign to him, old family money softening him like rotting fruit. He’d likely continue to be softened into a pulp, considering the funds your father had shelled out to keep his mouth shut after you’d stumbled your way into fucking him. 

(The statement would only fall flat once his buggy had mysteriously turned over into a ditch, just outside of Saint Denis.

You never did find out what he’d planned to do with the money.)

Desperation found a way to manifest in other ways; you suppose it had worked out somewhat in your favor. You’d been granted deliverance from society. Your father.

Right into the arms of your stranger.

Your fingers are pinching air when the very thought of him surges through you. Suddenly aware of a tingly tightness in your throat, you hastily pop the first button back open before settling your hands back into your lap. The buzzing fades, and you can breathe again.

You let out a stuttering puff of air.

…Limits.

You’re aware of them. How short of a leash to hold yourself on. But you think, just before the sun is privy to your misdeeds, you can offer a little give. A simple test, just to see if the burning you feel might burn you back for once.

(You slip. Just enough.)

You’re almost surprised at the harsh sound of your hand sliding to the button of your trousers. But the metal of it isn’t hot. Not cold, either. Nothing to provoke or dissuade, it just is. And suddenly, remorse is far, far away. 

It’s even further when you test the pressure of your fingers on the clothed warmth spreading over your cunt. Farther still, once the unpracticed pressure morphs into a steady roll.

Instinct rears its ugly head, and you relish in the fact that you’d only had words before—on pages, floating through hallways, locked behind a vault. Relegated to dreams, raging fires, cavernous hallways.

Now you have more. More. More. Fresh memories become markers in your search for that spark, that jolt of life you’d only seen hints of in passing.

A strangled gasp punches out of you when the pad of a finger catches on that bundle of nerves, and the inky black walls fall to pieces. But you’re still lost in the rhythm of hands, and hips, and dirt, mind glazing over at the thought of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

More than a little flustered, but still curious, you begin to paint. The colors smush together the moment they hit the canvas: blue eyes, weathered hands, weathered soul. Pink tongue darting out to catch sweat, blood, life. From a thigh. A cheek. The inside of an elbow. 

Alive. Yes, that’s what radiates when you finally work up the nerve to slip shaky fingers between fabric, searching for the dewy apex of your thighs. Alive in the friction from your clothes, the isolation of your whimpers and whines, Arthur running phantom fingers along your neck.

You’re delirious enough for that rasp to work its way into your ear again. Arthur is saying something, mumbling some unidentifiable remark into the thick silence made thicker by the obscene squelch of your pumping fingers, but still maintaining that tense distance, and it dawns on you that he isn’t quite real yet. 

Heat begins to kick up debris underneath your navel. Bastard. Riling you up, leaving, just when you begin to know; even in your most debauched fantasies he does nothing but watch. Perspiration fixes your back to the chair, and you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. Crush your eyelids shut. Inhale and crook your fingers almost enough, but not quite.

You miss that spongy spot inside of you by what feels like a mile, and you feel it like a bullet to the chest. Fingers frantic, scraping at whatever buzz you can salvage, you press into creaking wood for leverage. Little twitches and gasps and it’s still not enough, but if you could just see him, feel him—

—and before you can stretch your work over the mold you’ve conjured up, natural warmth cascades over your cheeks. The train of your high whooshes past. You’re splitting your eyes open, ripping your hand from between your thighs, surging out of your chair and towards the lifeless fireplace before that damning sensation can slam into the base of your spine. Undecided weight and legs close to crumpling are only leveled out by the shame burning in the back of your throat. 

Damn it.

The walls are back up, color crowding the suddenly cramped room. You force yourself to will the ache away, still your swimming vision, make space with steadying breaths. Try to, at least. The unresolved tremble in your thighs is still there, wetness still coating your fingers. You settle for wiping it on the side of your pants only after a stone settles in your chest.

There’s nothing to lean up against; it’s just you and the sparse furniture. But it’s cramped. Why is it still cramped?

(Something needs to move.)

Sun flush against your back, you blindly reach out behind you to pull the chair in the general direction of the table. By the angry clack, you’ve slid it a touch too far. Which was fine. It was perfectly fine, so long as it was out of the way.

(Something needs to move.)

—

You’re a little lost after that.

Muscle memory preserves you long enough to notice that Mrs. Campbell is looking at you with an abnormal amount of pity. 

You pretend not to notice, crouched over the tiny green tendrils poking free of the earth, the beginnings of oats planted only a week ago fluttering under the gentle passing of your finger pads.

Mrs. Campbell’s voice whistles in from over your shoulder. “Growin’ mighty quick,” she says. Watchful over how far your fingers prod the fresh sprouts. There isn’t much experience for you to draw on, so you nod, and your knees give a muted pop when you push yourself to stand and try for a small smile.

It’s a little harder to pretend now that you're somewhat close to eye level. The unease you feel knotting just underneath your clavicle only comes to a stop when Mrs. Campbell’s face finally relaxes, and your ears catch the wet plod of work boots emerging from your left.

“Should be caught up on our planting real soon, mm?” Mr. Campbell loops an arm around his wife, Mrs. Campbell acknowledges her husband, and you’re fully convinced that the smug tilt of his mouth is an early morning test.

His tell is picked up almost immediately. She pulls back, takes his face in her hands: “You been sticking your hands in the sap again.”

“Francis.”

“Howard. Again?”

“The bucket was gooped up from the rain anyhow—”

His protests are smothered by hands wiping harshly at the corners of his lips, and you can only watch as the two of them chirp back and forth. It takes a while for Mrs. Campbell to feel that her grievances have been heard, and she steps back from him with a huff.

“Ought to ask that helper to start tailin’ you early. You make my head hurt, you know that?”

The confusion must show on your face, because Mrs. Campbell is retracing steps in her head before realizing she’s made a mistake. She says nothing, only regards you with that renewed sense of pity before removing her glasses to wipe them on a handkerchief she’s tucked into her apron.

“Got news,” she murmurs to no one in particular, and your head is spinning just enough to justify your slow descent to the ground. Legs crossed, you wait for her to find her footing.

Mr. Campbell looks almost pained, thumbs tucked into his belt loops and looking at you with that same chest-scraping pity. Pity, pity, pity. You find you’re quite sick of pity. But it seems he has enough of it to scrounge up what’s left of your death sentence. 

“Your Pa rang in a couple nights ago.” Your Pa. “Says you’ve ‘repented enough.’ Tried to talk that coward out of it, but—” and he cuts off, that anger you’ve only seen a few times punching the rest of his words down.

Hit after insurmountable hit, you’re left to sink into the dirt until your grave is marked out plain as day. They look to you now. And you’re looking up at them. You’re not sure who says what. If it’s you, or the wind, or maybe one of the cows is stuck in the fence again. Maybe the barkeep has run out of tales to spin.

What now?

“We make do.”

—

The moon hangs precariously in the sky, swathing the quiet river in a soft, pale muslin. Swelling water is pushed apart—disturbed not by the breeze, or the pull of the current, but by something innately warm, foreign. 

A delicate shimmer of damp skin peeks out from between the throng of maple trees. Night bathing is never ideal, never really a feasible option, but they shield your modesty as best as they can. Water slithers just under your collarbone as you wade silently, only stopping every so often to pluck a stray leaf from an arm, and the current carries away the fans of green with little protest.

The tepid undulation of the river pushes against the slight prune of your fingers when you sway your arm just below the surface. It was the shock of the chill that you’d sought out tonight, sating that need for something a little stronger than a pinch. It helps that you have an excuse: the grime you’d washed away, surrounding your naked body like a halo before floating downriver.

That was hours ago. Two, if you’re being precise. You can’t feel the cold, not anymore, but the gooseflesh spreading up and down your forearms hang onto every word of the open air.

You pass another hand over a hardened knot in your shoulder, press into it with a little more force than necessary. And for once, regrettably, your body listens. Untangles it in a matter of seconds, leaving you with nothing to do but stand loose-limbed against the steady brush of the water.

Some animals had the teeth to gnaw off their legs when caught in a trap. And yet, they didn’t. Rarely did, anyhow. But here you are, wondering if some miracle might strike your jaw and grant you something sharp enough to cut free of the numbness. To toss the dead weight into some unspecified corner where it would fizzle, crumble, or crack.

(Going home isn’t an option. Not with your father still yanking the reins. You could leave. But…alone?

No. Never alone.

Not anymore.)

Your feet skim just barely above the bottom of the river, weightless. The lapping of the water against the riverbank cradles the shells of your ears.

There’s not much left to contemplate. Nothing you have a say in, really. So it’s no surprise that you’re tipping backward, water finally laying claim to your cheeks, your breasts, the space between your outstretched arms and your sides. 

You think you’ve floated once before—some distant dream pulled from childhood. But you don’t startle when the river begins to seal over the tip of your nose as you sink. Eyes closed. Breath sucked down so hard you think it burns. 

True silence.

Until the drum beats.

The water is punctured by heavy footfall and you’re swaying, rocking back and forth in what was once still water before your shoulders are seized and you’re hauled upwards.

A name you think might be yours is bouncing in and out of clogged ears while your lungs make space for new air. Hacking, you look up, met with a bleary mess of a man and the moon. He’s breathing hard, so hard you can feel the cigarette smoke rattling his chest; it doesn’t occur to you that you’ve met him before, even after his heaving only slows once your eyes have begun to refocus. 

Gingerly pulling you into the crook of his elbow, he dips his other hand back into the water before bringing it up to wipe at your forehead and the base of your skull. One, two, three times. His work is quiet. Fingers prodding at what might be a bruise or mud—neither of you are entirely sure. Rather than asking, you twist your head away and watch listlessly as decaying foliage floats off into the night.

More dirt. You knew there was more. 

“That ugly, huh?”

Although your surroundings have solidified, your turn back is a slow, labored thing. Arthur is looking up at an owl circling just overhead. But the arm anchored under your back is a hot iron, molding itself to the curve of your spine just so. It’d be hard for a figment of your imagination to do such a thing.

“You can let go.” You choke.

Arthur’s arm stiffens around you just in time to brace the two of you against a sudden gust of wind.

“...You got somewhere to be?” You shake your head. “Then you’re fine right here. Till I know you won’t go and drown yourself in another puddle.”

Drown yourself?

But you hadn’t—

You would never—

“I think you should let go. Now.” You push weakly at his chest, but he only gathers you and your limbs closer.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

You’re going to kill him.

It’s then that he fixes his gaze on something just beyond your shoulder and hooks an arm under your knee, swallows the whole of you into his chest and begins to trudge toward the riverbank.

“Arthur.” Even through the dampness of his shirt, you can smell him. “Arthur I mean it, let go—”

“Behave.”

You yelp when he pinches the skin underneath your thigh, shock and sudden recognition of your bareness sizzling in your tear ducts. It’s enough to get you to pound a fist into his chest and kick out your legs.

“Arthur Morgan, I am naked!”

He stops. Solid ground is there, right there, but you wait for him to speak.

His voice is a tight rasp, and you think you feel his thumb twitch underneath your shoulder. “Was trying to ignore that.” 

“I know it. You know it. Now put me down.”

He complies almost immediately, sliding you out of his arms and turning around the moment your feet hit the riverbank. The loss of warmth sends a shiver in full force, and you stumble over to where your clothes sit neatly folded atop a rock.

You check over your shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking before wiping yourself down with a dry rag.

“How often are you pullin’ women trying to bathe out of rivers?” You call out. The water continues to pulse. Arthur is silent. “That many, really?”

The sound of his hand raking through wet hair gives you pause.

“Didn’t look much like bathing to me,” he says, voice laced with a cool sort of dismissal. He’s a little right. Just a little, but the idea of you thinking you could convince him of anything otherwise stings more than his accuracy.

The rag is suddenly sandpaper in your hands, and you set it down, reach to pull a too loose shirt over your head. But just as the collar settles, you spy a separate pile of things just a few paces from your own.

You pad over silently. In the grass sits the same revolver you’d seen Arthur carrying during his last appearance, alongside his hat and a small satchel. All relatively familiar things you’ve come into contact with since you’d first met him, save for one thing. A small leather-bound journal pokes out from within the bag, the cover curiously well-kept despite the obvious wear and tear of the pages.

No. You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t. But you’re drying your hands on your shirt and picking it up anyway, leafing through the pages carefully. A journal. Arthur Morgan was keeping a journal.

A smile begins to build when you catch how easily Arthur’s disposition reveals itself in his penmanship. He’s well-practiced, that much is obvious. A selfish part of you wonders how different life might’ve been if he’d been educated as you were, been just as defiant toward the circles you’d fought so hard to keep yourself from.

The drawings are another world entirely; you keep your fingers at the edges of the pages just to avoid any chance of smudging them. Birds, trees, sunrises, sunsets, and people. So many people. They’re etched with so much care that each turning of paper finds you faced with a deeper shade of envy.

You can count on hand the number of people you’ve loved. Cared for. And yet, Arthur seemed to have enough in him to immortalize these people as best as he could, smudges and all.

“If you’re robbin’ me, I ain’t got much on my person.”

You jump, thumb through just a little quicker after casting a quick glance over your shoulder. His back is still turned. “Y-Yeah,” You reply. “Almost done, I mean. Not stealing.” Cool it. “Just uh…gimme a minute?”

The end of the journal comes sooner than expected, and you’re flipping back and forth between the used pages with renewed fervor. You tuck the one in your hands underneath your arm and squat down to stick your hand in the satchel, eyebrows knitting together when nothing even remotely resembling a book finds its way to your fingers.

You’re on your second pass through the book when the slight bend of an otherwise unused section catches your attention. You pull it.

Scraps of paper have been slipped into the very back of the journal, Arthur’s handwriting filling up every inch. The blurbs aren’t dated, but ascertaining the sequence of events is fairly straightforward.

Came across the strangest creature one evening. I say “creature” only because she looked more nymph than human. Was on my way out of some farmland after nabbing a couple things, but I felt like I had to stop. Caught her talking to the cattle out in the cold like they was kinfolk. Might’ve been laughing right along with her, if I wasn’t so flummoxed. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile that irked me this bad since Micah told me what he does with his dirty socks. I ain’t in the business of prying, so I left. Hope she gets that smile fixed real soon. 

Stopped by to get more stuff. Watched her try and haggle out of a deal from some pushy hoax trying to sell papers. Pulled a knife on her and I nearly came out of hiding to snap his neck then and there, but she’d beat me to it. Flashed the same rifle she’s been trying to scare me off with, so polished it nearly blinded me, and told him something I don’t think I’ll repeat. She did good. Real good. But she looked spooked.

Don’t believe I’m fit to be an outlaw no more. Ran into her after I’d sniffed around a few more times on her property than I should have. Took care of some real nasty men. But she’s awful pretty up close. Pretty and angry. So much so that I’d fibbed and said I’d had a chicken I ain’t know what to do with after I turned up on her doorstep. I’m not good with women and I’m an awful liar, so I feel a little guilty that she believed me so easy. It helped that she seemed a little happier. She knows who I am, though. That’s no good.

Appears my intuition ain’t completely shot, after all. Even if my aim is. Nasty idiot I thought I’d gotten rid of caught me off guard near Valentine, told me his employer had a “deal” to help get the gang out of that whole Blackwater mess. I will say that the lady and her Pa look nothing alike, that’s for certain. Hard to believe they’re even related at all. He’s a real piece of work. Real slim too, like those snakes that used to nick my heels as a kid. Told me if I got rid of her he’d clear my name with the Cornwalls. Seemed like an unfair shake to me. I can see why she’d looked so hot in the face when she told me about him. Dutch and the others don’t know I’ve been sneaking off, so I’ll have to handle this alone.

Saw that lady again rushing past the saloon a few weeks after that. High noon, I reckon. Only remembered because of what color the sun was when it hit her eyelashes. Had her skirt hiked up all lopsided, so one end was dragging in the dirt while the other end was left unscathed. Uncle caught a flash of an ankle and said he’d like to take her out horse riding, and I told him I’d gut him like a fish if he tried anything untoward. I don’t think I want her to die. I just hope she don’t want that neither.

Ran into her again. Same night after an ugly tumble at the saloon. My head feels like a brick but I remember her a little too clearly. I don’t know how I ended up at her door again, but I think she might really be one of them fairies I’ve heard so much about. Even her yells sounded like beautiful music. I said some real dumb things. Dumbest I’ve been in a hot minute. Think the bashing and the rain did me in. But that spark in her eyes made me believe seeing her again might do her some good. Or do me some good. I don’t know. I’m to see her tomorrow, Dutch be damned. 

And it’s a strange thing, seeing yourself reflected through the eyes of someone else. You flip the smallest scrap to find what you think is a scribbled mess. It’d obviously been done in a hurry, like he might’ve forgotten what he was drawing if he waited any longer. But the longer you look, the more the pieces begin to fit together.

The barrel of a rifle. Finger curled just under the trigger. Tense shoulders. Rickety porch. Billowing fabric at your sides and a smile so wicked your heartbeat quickens at the thought of being faced with it as anything other than a sketched memory.

It’s you.

It’s snatched from your hands the moment you’ve locked it into place. You spin, Arthur still drenched and engulfing your wrist with his hand before he’s pulling you up.

You don’t know what to say. Neither does he. So he holds you there, suspends the two of you in an easily escapable bind. The water trickles all the way down from his arm to your sleeve. Replaces the dampness that you’d rid yourself of only moments prior. But neither of you choose to move. 

Until you speak first.

“You came back.”

You’re not sure which time you’re referring to. The first? The last? Perhaps all of them.

Arthur’s grip loosens. “You asked.”

“That was one time, if I remember correctly.”

It’s then that he lowers his arm, though his hand still circles your wrist. You think you know enough now to deduce that it’s more for him than for you. The thought warms your insides. But you can feel the silence coming, find that you’re a little sick of silence, and open your mouth to fill it. Arthur beats you to it.

“Just the one was…enough.”

He looks confused for a second. Then it’s washed away, leaving behind that calm certainty.

Good. This was going good.

—

You don’t know how the two of you end up back at your cabin. You don’t think you care, now that the silence is shut out. The two of you spend the next hour trading tales like schoolchildren after you’d changed into a proper nightgown. A botched heist here, a messy cow birth there, all as time slips farther and farther away. 

Arthur is kind, you realize. Remember, actually.

All bark, a whole lot of bite, but kind. A little odd, freakishly crude, and a massive flirt to boot, but still kind. You won’t tell him though—not unless you want him to pop an eyeball out of his socket. For the time being you’re simply content with observing.

Arthur sits across from you in his chair (his chair), much like that first night, trying to parse through some knuckle-headed joke. You’ve migrated over to the kitchen—the pots and pans, you’ve decided, are in desperate need of organizing. You tell Arthur as much when you hastily slip the blankets off of your shoulders to stand. You don’t tell him about the embarrassment you’d felt, eying the hairs that covered his broad chest. Overheated from the fireplace, he’d said. So he’d popped a couple of extra buttons and gave his neck an exaggerated pat of a handkerchief. 

The nerve.

But it was the seemingly innocuous flirting that had crumbled the last of your resistance; the cattle could pay you no compliments, and the catcalls thrown at the markets were a far cry from flattering. But this. This was exhilarating.

But Arthur’s gone strangely quiet when you reach up to hang a dingy pot onto a hook.

“…Arthur?” You hesitate. “You see somethin’?”

It’s then that you remember that odd habit of his. So you close the blinds to the small window over the sink, force a shaky breath, and return to your chair so that you’re facing him. He says it as soon as your bottom hits the seat.

“You.”

Oh.

It’s then that you notice just how quiet the inside of the cabin is, in comparison to what it’d been like outside. The sound of the howling wind is kept at bay with the help of the front door, leaving only the crackling of the fireplace and labored breathing from opposite ends of the room.

You cross your ankles. Then you uncross them, and cross them the other way. 

Damn this gown. 

The ignominy of your wandering eyes has produced nervous beads of sweat, and the fabric still on you anchors itself to your body with its help. Determined to give you away.

Arthur watches you fidget.

His face flashes with the same look you’d caught glimpses of when he’d first showed up on your porch. When he’d watched your lips as you spoke. Methodical. Analyzing. Eager. You thought you’d imagined it. Arthur must have been weighing something within himself, too. His words, eager to inspect yet all too happy to flee at the slightest hint of apprehension. The results of his investigation are presented to you with his bare hands.

“S’there someone I need to be frettin’ over if I touch you?”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

Then Arthur is standing. Christ, he’s standing, and he’s crossing the distance in three agonizingly slow strides—boots hitting the floor with a thunk, thunk, thunk. Till he looms right over you. He boxes you in; hands braced on the arms of your chair, hat tipped forward just so.

Maybe it wasn’t a mangy cat, or a crook, or a ghost that you’d allowed into your home. 

This was a wolf.

The wolf curls his fingers under your chin and tips your face upwards, eyes half-lidded and hungry.

“Am I leaving?” The words scrape out of him. The thought of leaving pains him, but the words are a necessary evil.

You’re almost too afraid to speak—doing so means his thumb might stray from the path it’s begun to trace on your bottom lip, and you can’t possibly give that up. Instead, you consider Arthur carefully. 

It’s a rather precarious situation you’ve found yourself in—lusting over the very thing that might bring you to ruin. You’d given up on misplaced hands in quiet corridors years ago, replaced them with hatred for the man who’d had the gall to call himself your father. The shame of letting your unruly desires steer you. There was doubt, too. Lingering at the far corners of your mind, wondering if maybe, just maybe, your affections might be dangerously misplaced. That you’d end up like the others.

Taking whatever it was he had to give would be the final nail in the coffin, and you knew it. You’d known from the moment you’d caught him (and him, you) that Arthur would be no good. No good for you, no good for him, no good for anyone. 

But, that was then. This is now. 

And how often was it that the light of a fire enveloped someone so earnestly, so wholeheartedly? You would be mad not to want him. 

And oh, how you’d wanted.

But what to do, where to look? 

You settle for his lips. 

With a shuddering breath, you allow your mouth to fall open. His thumb goes stock-still, just before it presses past the rosy flesh and onto the top of your tongue. But just as quickly as it enters, it retreats. You chase after it with a humiliating whine, a trail of saliva marking the falter in your promise to stay away, away, away. Arthur smears the remainder of your shame on the corner of your mouth, his lips twitching up just enough to betray the beginnings of a smirk. 

“I don’t play that,” he chides softly. “I need words, darlin’.”

Leave it to Arthur to make things difficult, the bastard. 

You tilt your head till he’s catching your cheek in his palm. Let out a breathy whimper when he rubs his fingers at the sensitive base of your ear.

“S’not fair,” you whisper. It really isn’t, but it sounds pathetic after it bubbles up from your throat. But you can’t bring yourself to utter anything else. Arthur presses closer in place of an answer, eyes tracking every blink, every inhale, every eyelash that catches the puffs of air that leave him. 

His eyes tell you that he’s hoping to pull your confessions from you like weeds—and it might feel good, perhaps. To let yourself put a name to the desire that curdled in your veins. Too big to be contained. But there was something delightfully emboldening about being “trapped” with Arthur. 

He was stuck with you, just as much as you were stuck with him.

Breath intermingling, you ghost your mouth over the inside of his wrist. Teeth peek out just enough to graze him, and you keep your eyes locked with his when you go to bite weakly at the exposed skin. You mumble against the shiny spot left behind.

“I ain’t a beggin’ woman, Arthur Morgan. You know that.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles, slow and sure. “Do  I, now?” He croons.

You nod, and you’re smiling dreamily right back at him.

You try your best to keep the thundering of your pulse contained when his mouth is a hair's breadth away from your own. But the steady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat is strong and stable, setting the tempo for your own to follow suit all too easily. 

He speaks to you. “You feel like fixin’ that, doll?”

“Dunno. Can you fix it, Arthur?”

And like a thin branch caught underneath a heavy pelting of snow, the tension cracks—but it falls to the ground in complete silence. It’s gentle. Smothering. Freeing.  All consuming. His lips are rough, and light, and a little dry, but he’s kissing you. You.

You realize a little belatedly that he’s wrapped his other arm around your middle, and he’s pulling you up from the chair to meet him. Maybe the whiskey on his lips that you’d offered earlier has gotten to you, because you stand up so quickly that the chair you’ve been sitting on crashes to the ground with an embarrassing thud. Ignoring the huff of laughter against your mouth, you snake your arms up from where they’ve gone limp at your sides to wrap them around Arthur’s neck.

The press of his body is warm��accommodating. A hand cradling the back of your head, the other a teasing warmth skimming the side of your ribcage. It’s…nice. Merciful, almost.

But you weren’t looking for mercy.

So, you do what you know best. 

Piss him off.

With the precision of a skilled hunter, you nip his bottom lip with your teeth and bring him into you with the help of a hand between his shoulder blades.  The reward for your efforts is a chain reaction: Arthur pitches forward, licking into your mouth with a groan. Hands clutch: hips, waist, neck, and back to your waist. You have to arch away to accommodate the sudden shift of weight, and he’s swaying the two of you backward till your hips collide with the rough edge of the kitchen countertop. 

It’s forceful enough to knock the air out of you. At your exhale of surprise, the pressure against you lessens. Your pulse picks up when rough hands find your flank, offering what you believe to be an apologetic squeeze. But his hands don’t stop there: they iron past the fleshy mounds, friction intensifying the swelling heat before his hand cups you.

You break away with a gasp.

Apparently satisfied with his repentance, Arthur withdraws his hand and leaves you with a parting kiss before he noses downward to suck at the skin of your neck. The warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his beard invite an electric buzz underneath your skin. 

“Been drivin’ me crazy, woman, Jesus.”

“Then quit bein’ nice,” you breathe. Your hands have grown impatient, they take the liberty of slipping between the two of you in search of the hardness straining against the confines of  Arthur’s pants.

“I ain’t—ngh—nice,” Arthur clips. Score.

You swallow a moan when you feel him buck against your palm. “You lyin’ to me, Morgan?” 

When your fingers go to find his belt loops, he bats them away and slams your hips back into the counter before leaving a quelling nip to your shoulder.

He’s got a hand in your hair now; it yanks your head back, and broadens the depth of Arthur’s tongue when he recaptures your lips in a scathing kiss. The parting of your thighs is almost instinctual, and you’re soon scrambling to grab at any article of clothing that might bring him closer once he slots himself between them. 

Can he feel your arousal, you wonder? Painting the inside of your legs with a sloppy depiction of your poorly concealed lust, hoping that Arthur might notice, might see. 

But Arthur is far from unaffected. With each mewl that escapes your lips, he rocks up into you. Swallowing your wretched noises whole and using them as fuel for the fire that would weld your bodies together. Each brush of his lips siphons the air from your lungs, though you don’t mind. It only stirs the warmth that’s begun to swirl in your abdomen. But through the heat and the haze, you can faintly register the wriggling of fingers at your hip and air hitting your bare thighs.

Spit slicks your lips when Arthur pulls away, and he peppers open-mouthed kisses down the center of your body; your neck, the dip of your collarbones, over the thin fabric of your nightgown—all while his other hand continues to ruck your hem up, and up, and up. There’s a new weight to your skull, too. It shades your tired eyes, dims your overexposed senses and forces you to focus on the mess he’s made of you. 

The pads of his fingers skirt over where your nipples have pebbled underneath your chemise, but only just. It isn’t until Arthur’s fully sunken to his knees that you’re able to take in the sight of the top of his head. 

The top of his head?

Wrenching your fingers from where you’re sure they’ve put indents into the wooden countertop, you tighten them into his hair and tug him away from where he’s made contact with your navel.

He’s pulled away with a dicey rumble reverberating from his chest. “What in the—”

“Arthur,” you say, still breathless, “Arthur w-wait. Your hat, where is it?” 

Your knowledge of outlaws was limited, but you knew their hats weren’t to be trifled with. The very last thing you needed was to incite the wrath of the outlaw gods in the middle of…this.

And if you weren’t so blissed out, you might kick Arthur for the look he gives you: depraved and utterly devoid of remorse. 

“Arthur, I’m being serio—ohh, f-fuck!”

He yanks your bloomers down in one fell swoop, pulling your hips flush against his mouth and dragging the flat of his tongue up through your slick folds with a groan. Arthur, idiot that he is, dares to laugh. Laugh in the face of the embarrassing slew of curses that follow after he just barely reaches your clit.

You’re being mapped, you realize with a shiver. Every twitch is cataloged, every gasp a lesson. If the building pressure in your gut is any indication, he’s a quick study. Firm hands rub soothingly at the backs of your thighs, though they’ve somehow managed to worsen the growing ache. 

Each push of his muscle plucks at a string so deep, so tender, that your vision leaves you in bursts of white flashes. You pull the collar of your chemise up and into your mouth; the stars winking behind your closed eyelids aren’t enough to shield you from the utterly obscene noises coming from the both of you as he laps at your weeping cunt. 

But a particularly electrifying flick of his tongue sends one of your hands flying to your hair, only to find that something rather hat-like sits atop it. 

Ah. So that’s where it went.

You feel Arthur smile against you. “You alright up there?”

That devil.

Chest heaving, you risk a look down once you notice the absence of pressure against you. 

(You’ve been doing a lot of risking, lately. But what was one more?)

If this was a test of resilience, you were failing miserably. You’re torn between wanting to hide and wanting to preen: Arthur’s stalled his ministrations, index finger now tracing lazily over the juncture where your thigh meets your sex. He’s eyeing you lecherously from his place on his haunches, hair mussed from violent fingers and jaw slick. You swallow. You’d done this to him.

But, he’d stopped. Why had he stopped?

Greed attempts to force Arthur’s hand with a buck of your hips, but you’re met with a palm pressing you back. It seems the warmth of the fireplace hasn’t yet reached this corner of the cabin. Arthur’s mouth has been what kept you warm, kept you sated, but he’s taken that away from you. You’ve been doing fine, and he’s taken it. Why?

“Arthur, what—”

The finger that’s been tracing you slides its way just above where your clit throbs. Works it underneath his finger in slow, slow circles. Your abdomen spasms, a guttural sob shooting out from your throat. The sensation makes your mind go fuzzy, and Arthur has to lean back to avoid the abrupt closing of your legs while you steady your breathing.

God, you really were going to kill this man. 

Arthur, apparently, is none the wiser. Either that or he’s blatantly ignoring it—though you suspect it’s the latter. He’s knocking your legs back apart before you have a chance to shield yourself. 

“Don’t go all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, voice cut with an edge of warning. He’s pressing a finger at your entrance. It’s just enough to frustrate you, just enough to entice the moisture that begins to build in your tear ducts. See what you could have, it taunts. He begins another slow circle with the pad of his finger, pride swamping his features at your sharp intake of breath. “I came to see a show.”

You don’t know how long you stare at him, watching as he molds you at his will. But it’s Arthur who detaches the hand that you’ve clapped over your mouth, guides it dutifully back to where it’d been tangled in his hair only moments before. The gentle stretch of his finger slipping inside of you only prompts a pleased sigh as your head lolls back. 

He slathers your cunt with praises. “Gorgeous,” he says, nudging his nose alongside it, “this all for me, pretty girl?” The warmth returns with his admiration. Interlacing with each stuttering breath, climbing higher and higher till it’s crawling out of your throat. You welcome it enthusiastically. By the time he’s slipped in a second finger, you’ve long forgotten any shame felt beforehand in favor of the prickling pressure in your belly.

“M’gonna—gonna kill you, Morgan.”

“S’alright,” Arthur drawls. “Keep talkin’, baby.” He keeps his opposite hand poised at your wrist, ready to strike should you choose to stifle any of the sounds he’s worked so hard to coax from you. 

Too tired, you wanted to tell him. You were barely keeping yourself standing as it was. But the sounds being pulled from you are gentle, yearning. Easy.

This was easy, you think. Safe. Within your control. You’d bitten off more than you had room to chew, goading Arthur on like you had. But his fingers, ever so forgiving, weigh your eyes shut with every delicate pass over your walls. You could ride the high of this warm haze forever.

Pity that “forever” hinges on Arthur’s terms.

A chaste kiss to your inner thigh is the only warning you have before Arthur is surging forward, crooking his fingers and sealing his lips around your clit. 

Your legs are the first to go, knees buckling and calves straining from exertion. Unfortunately, the only things capable of keeping you upright are the fingers and the tongue that got you into this mess.

Arthur wastes no time reveling in a slow pace—and why would he? Why the hell would he, when he could keep you dancing on this rocky cliff for as long as he damn pleased. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh again, fingers still plucking at that warm bundle of strings that made you weep. “Atta girl,” he rumbles, “Y’look real pretty like this, don’t you think?”

“Yes, fuck, yes!” You curl over him with a wanton moan, taking his head in your hands and pushing him as close as he can go. You’re only half listening, throbbing with the threat of your impending release.

“You gonna give me what I deserve, sweetheart?” He’s back to lavishing your cunt with devilish flicks. You meet him there, in time; aimlessly grinding your hips down and using his soft strands for leverage. Studious monster that he is, each pass of his thick fingers gives new life to your limbs, now roused into feverish jerks and quivers. “You don’t get to hide from me, you hear? Too pretty for all that crap.”

Arthur’s still waiting for you to respond. But the praises you sing have been wrung completely dry, leaving only high-pitched squeals and chants to ricochet off the cabin’s walls. 

You think you imagine the hand he’s got shoved down his pants, working over his length in short tugs before your eyes flutter shut, and you’re twitching at the bites Arthur leaves on your legs in return—rough, possessive, claiming. 

You can feel it. It’s there, it’s right there. It burns. It scrapes at your very being, keeping you drawn taut against the pump of Arthur’s fingers, soaked and hell-bent on pulling it out of you.

“C’mon, give it to me.” He’s commanding you now, voice desperate. He must feel it too. “Lemme see what I came here for.” You sob, and his name leaves you in bits and pieces. Whether you nod or shake your head is a mystery, but you do know that you wrest your eyes open. Brush aside the hair blocking Arthur’s face with trembling fingers, and through the hot tears you find pools of blue. Waiting.

You slip. You fall. And it’s his.

Your orgasm is ripped from you in a scream and a violent storm. Tremors shaking your body, stomach tightening, stars exploding—it’s everything but calm, and too loud. But Arthur’s fingers are there to guide you through it all, ensuring that every last inch of your body he covets is handed over in full. You’ll have to thank him, later. 

He’s pulling you down into his lap once you’re nothing more than a puddle of warm flesh, still pulsating. Your temples are warm where his lips greet them. Eyes blown wide, throat raw, Arthur sweeps an appraising gaze over your crumpled shoulders and moves the hat from your head to his. 

“That’s one,” he says. 

…Were there more?

Your voice finds the two of you slumped chest to chest. You look up at him to poke a finger to his cheek, and wince at the feeling of how hoarse your throat is.

“You—you pull a stunt like that again, and I’m kicking your sorry ass out.” Arthur quirks a brow. Another bluff, and you both knew it. You let him litter your forehead with kisses while you wait for your mind to reinhabit your body.

But in the interim, your hand snakes its way down his burly chest. Slip it between the waistband of his pants before you’re pulling his cock out as he hisses.

“Don’t need to,” he says, only you do need to. Want to. Have to. And you think you tell him so because he’s nodding. Turning you to face him, guiding your legs apart and sliding himself up against your wet heat. He begins to rock with you, tipping your head up to mouth at your chin. Hums, a wretched thing you’ve decided is yours and yours alone.

“You got any idea—” Arthur begins, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “you got any idea what you do to me? Hm, pretty girl?” He grunts when the tip of his cock bumps up against your clit and you arch away. But he’s quick to reign you back in with one hand at the back of your neck.

“Arthur, c’mon. P-please. I wanna—”

He’s vibrating a no into your neck, tongue rolling out to lick a stripe upwards till he’s got your earlobe between his teeth.

“You can wait. Lemme hear you say it.”

“Say what.” You moan into the open air when he bites at the underside of your jaw, hard, and you have to fight a smile when you realize it’ll likely be there tomorrow.

A light gasp leaves you when you feel his hand reaching between the two of you to position his length at your slick entrance. Almost, almost—

“Arthur, say what.”

What little control he has left is contained in the fingers he’s using to hold himself steady. His hips begin that slow roll. “I need you to tell me what you were thinkin’ about this morning.”

This morning? What did he—

This morning.

Hand caught between your cunt and the chair, fingers working through a steady gush of arousal. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

He only catches you off guard because you’re distracted.

You’re split slowly. Greedily sucking him in while your forehead taps against his so you can try and sharpen your focus.

“Easy, baby. Easy. I got you.”

You whimper. He was there. He was there, watching, just like he was watching you now.

But you couldn’t care less.

There’s no hiding that fullness you feel, the fullness that is. The two of you go quiet as he sinks further and further in. Warmth is flooding your body, circulating between your joined bodies as an inescapable circle of fire and need, and you can’t help but feel that this was how things were supposed to be from the beginning.

Arthur doesn’t have to remind you not to stifle any noises. Not when he’s unsheathing himself for barely a second before he’s got his hands on your hips to guide you up and down his length. You clench and Arthur’s hips give a stutter.

He slides his hands up the back of your sweaty chemise and he eases you to the floor. Slides the fabric off of you, looms over you like an unwavering mountain. “Jesus, you’re perfect. Too good, you fuckin’ hear me? Christ.” Arthur’s control is wavering, you can feel it. So you take his face between your hands and kiss him hard enough to get him to move faster, damn it.

It’s a gradual start. But his rhythm begins to pick up just as that brightness begins to hurtle around your gut again. His mouth is tasting everything it can reach: the salty sweat beginning to collect on your brow, the poke of your nipples, each time finding himself eagerly gulping down the noises spilling from your mouth.

And too suddenly, his cock brushes up against that spiral of light and you arch with a cry. Arch so hard that you think you can see your climax right before it’s pulling at your abdomen with such heated vehemence that the tears spilling down your cheeks only make the sparks brighter.

Arthur isn’t far behind, and you sigh at the feeling of him sliding out of you before he takes himself in his hand while you’re still a jolting pile of bones on the floor. It takes one, two, three strokes in quick succession before he’s coming in thick spurts over your belly with a grunt.

He curls over you then, pulling you into his arms and pressing kisses back at your temple,  atta girl, you did so well.

Your heartbeats are pressed together and you realize that he’s still clothed.

But—you’re giddy. That felt good. Feels good. You didn’t think you got to feel good anymore.

So you look at Arthur, really look at him this time. The rise and fall of his chest. The hair curled at the nape of his neck. The blacks of his pupils, still blown wide and dark as the night. You close your eyes, and he’s hung the moon.

When you open them, you’re in your bed. Tiny, creaky, but a welcome opposition to the floor. There’s light spilling in from a crack in the door, and the wind howls just outside. Arthur has already wiped you clean, tucked you under the blankets (just a little too tightly). He sits in the corner with an ankle crossed over his knee and arms folded. He smiles.

And you have a thought. An idea. A terrible one, actually. So acute you can feel it cutting your tongue. 

“Take me with you?”

[frost-queen]

Witching hour (Reader x Ambrose Spellman)

Requested by: anon ,Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22 @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury,  @imagines-by-her,  @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn

Summary: You are but a mortal friend of the Spellman's, working with Hilda in her shop as you become off interest to the Weird sisters and one wicked boy. They find it funny to scare you till it gets out of hand and you get hurt. Afraid and frightend you run to the Spellman's because you are too scared to be alone. Ambrose comforts you and considers to tell you magic is real and how he feels about you.

“Ambrose.” – you called out as he was blocking your way in the small row between shelves. He chuckled leaning with his arm on top of the shelves. – “I’m just standing here.” – he answered smiley. – “Yes in my way.” – you laughed out picking a book from the few books you were carrying. With a small novel you hit Ambrose against his shoulder. It startled him making him flinch. – “You know how much your aunt hates you slouching against her books.” – you said teasingly. Ambrose smiled sheepishly, rubbing his arm as you moved past him. You went to the next row to set the books you were carrying away. Noticing Ambrose had followed you. – “Shouldn’t you be at home helping your aunt Zelda?” – you questioned.

Ambrose pulled his shoulders up. – “Maybe?” – he replied mischievous. – “Wait till your aunt Hilda sees you here.” – you joked out. – “Alright, alright you sure can pester one way.” – Ambrose answered bothered as it made you laugh loud. – “Now go.” – you said slapping another book playfully at him. Ambrose moved his hands up, backing out of the row. – “Go.” – you mouthed laughable to him, seeing him linger. Looking over your shoulder you looked to see if Hilda was coming out of the back door or not. Ambrose exited with a grand gesture making you laugh loud. You kept laughing till you heard Hilda’s footsteps. She had come out of the back area carrying a box.

“Was.. was that Ambrose?” – she questioned seeing the last of a shim disappear into the night. – “Sure not, Ambrose is at home as he is supposed to.” – you told her with a cheeky smile. Aunt Hilda quirked her eyebrow up but was gullible enough to believe you. – “I’m just going to set this box away and we can start locking up for tonight.” – Hilda spoke showing the box your way. You hummed loud in response. Hilda left as you continued to stock the few remaining books away in your hand. On top of a shelf laid pumpkin lights as you smiled upon them. You blinked confused seeing a pumpkin light flicker. It was so briefly you weren’t sure if it was a trick of the eye or true. The lights appearing normal now. Leaning in closer you stared at the pumpkin light.

From the corner of your eye, you saw another pumpkin light flicker. Turning your head you saw it flicker clear as day. More lights started to flicker making you be stunned at bit, not knowing what to do. Then the flickering stopped, all the lights turned off from itself. Curious and confused you leaned closer once more, pointing your finger out to tap the light. The moment your finger touched the light you saw a scarier face appear on the light. It had scared you so much you dropped the book in your hand, jumping back against the bookcase behind you.

“Everything alright Y/n?” – Hilda asked lifting her head up from across the shop near the window. Looking back at the lights, they were normal again. – “Yes… everything is alright.” – you answered to pick up the fallen book. You quickly put it away. Meeting up with Hilda, you said your goodbye’s. – “See you tomorrow Y/n.” – she spoke giving you a hug. – “Happy spooky season.” – you called back to her, waving your goodbyes, knowing how much Hilda loved the spooky season of October. Only a few days till it would Halloween.

A cold breeze would creep up on you once you were outside. Leaves dancing in circles on the ground carried by the wind’s orchestra. Looking up to the night sky you saw a crescent moon. You started walking home in the dark of night. The trees rustling as a breeze swept underneath your coat sending your scarf up. It caught you off guard making you turn a bit around as if someone had touched you without permission. Your eyes went slowly up seeing a figure stand at the end of the street. Lighted up by a streetlight. It came you the chills. A loud scream carried away by the wind made you cover up your ears and duck down. Looking back up the shadow was gone. Panting and frightened you turned around only to be met up with the shadow.

You screamed your lungs out, swaying your arms around and take a run for it. You started running for your life, wondering if you had seen too many scary movies last night with Sabrina, Theo, Harvie and Rosie. That must be it. Your mind was still thinking about the scary movies you had seen. A dog barked loud making you jump away, picking up more speed to hurry up home. Out of breath you reached your house, hurrying to get the keys. Panicking his much you dropped them.

Scrambling to get them, your hand shook as you tried to stick the key in the keyhole. With one last scream of feeling rushed, you opened the door jumping inside. Without looking back, you shut the door behind you. Locking it immediately. Switching on the lights you felt more at ease. You jumped out of your skin seeing three girls in your living room. One of them sitting down, the other two sitting each on a side. – “Well hello mortal.” – the one in the middle purred out while checking out her nails.

 “Who are you?” – you asked loudly. – “What are you doing in my house!” – The girl that sat clicked her tongue swaying her finger to the side. – “We’re but friends mortal.” – she slowly got up. – “Shall we play a game?” – she asked not expecting an answer from you. – “This one is called.” – the redhead on her left said. – “Hide and scream.” – the black-haired girl on her right filled in. With the snap of a finger went the power off. You squealed loud at the sudden darkness. – “Now run!” – A loud whisper filled your ears coming from behind. Lightning stuck all of the sudden, lighting up the room. You screamed loud seeing that the girl’s faces had become horrifying. Almost demonic. You started running for your life up the stairs. Hearing their loud giggling and cackling surround you.

You ran into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you. – “Oh mortal let us in.” – one of them spoke, knocking gently on your door. Covering your mouth to silence your breathing, you backed away. – “We only want to play.” – one of the other spoke. You backed up against your bed as it startled you. A sudden grip around your ankle made your eyes widen. Before you could utter a scream you got pulled at your ankle.

Falling flat forwards, your face smacking hard against the ground. Looking over your shoulder you saw a boy hide underneath your bed. His face half caught by a shadow. His wicked smile reflecting against the darkness. You screamed it out, kicking your feet at him. What is going on? You thought. Rushing up to your feet, you wanted to run for your door, remembering in the last second that those three girls were just outside.

The boy came crawling from under your bed. Your eyes stood wide with fright, pressed against the door. He started to rise his hands as fire light up from your flooring. Forming a circle around you. You screamed it out as he could only laugh. What kind of witchcraft was this? Your head was spinning trying to process the magic just happening in your room while trying to deal with the fear. – “Leave me alone!” – you called out to him. He pouted his lips. – “But we were just making fun.” – he slashed his hand down as it made your head turn with a gasp. Feeling a sting on your cheek.

With trembling hands you went to touch it. Fingers stained with blood when you looked at them. He had left a cut on your cheek. – “You’re the devil!” – you called out. – “Oh honey I assure you I’m not. I am merely a child of night.” – he answered with a grin. Not wanting stay here with him, you jumped over the fires to the back of your room. – “Oh we got a runner.” – The boy called out swiping his hand across. A force picking you up as you got flung out of the window. Glass shattering as you crashed through it. You fell onto the lower roof part of your porch, rolling over it to drop to the ground, landing in a bush.

Groaning loud you got up seeing the cuts all over your arms and legs. You got up, running for your life. Limping at bit from the fall as you didn’t want to be home alone anymore. The boy was watching you run from up your room. The three girls coming to stand beside him. – “Great you’ve chased her away.” – Dorcas said slapping his arm. Agatha sighed loud. – “Ambrose would be furious if he finds out we scared his little mortal friend.” – she spoke making Prudence roll her eyes.

“I do not care one bit for that Spellman. He should know better than to mingle with lame mortals.” – Prudence chuckled deep. – “Shame I couldn’t make her bleed more.” – the boy said with a shrug of his shoulder. Dorcas and Agatha quirking their eyebrow at him. – “We don’t want her dead you moron! We just want her scared.” – Dorcas called out. The boy rolled with his eyes not caring much.

“Ambrose!” – you shouted loud. Huffing and puffing out of breath as you reached the Spellman’s house. – “Ambrose!” – you shouted again running up the porch. – “Ambrose! Ambrose please open up!” – you panicked banging loudly at their door. The door opened as you exhaled deep pushing yourself inside, not wanting to be one minute longer in the dark. – “Y/n what are you doing here?” – Sabrina asked as she had opened the door. – “I…I…” – you tried to speak. – “What happened?” – Sabrina wanted to know as Ambrose came down the stairs. – “Y/n?” – he said widening his eyes at the cuts on your body.

“What happened!” – Ambrose demanded to know, rushing up to you. – “I…I…I fell out of my window.” – you told him still catching your breath. – “What?” – Sabrina called out. Ambrose stared confused and slightly worried at you. Sabrina pulled her shoulders up as she had no clue as well. – “Come.” – Ambrose said wrapping his arm around you to lead you upstairs. Sabrina closed the door giving her cousin one last worried glance. Upstairs seated Ambrose you down on his bed. – “Now Y/n tell me what happened. How did you get these cuts?” – he spoke worriedly.

You looked frightened at him. – “There were these girls in my house.” – you told him. – “Girls?” – Ambrose repeated confused. – “Three of them. Demanding to play a game with me. All the lights went out!” – you panicked explaining your story to him. – “Then upstairs in my room was a boy, hiding under my bed. Fire! Ambrose there was fire!” – you grasped for his hand, startling him with your sudden loud voice. – “Fire?” – he questioned. – “Yes. Poof fire.” – you gestured out. – “It was like he created it out of thin air.” – you said as Ambrose’s eyes widened. – “He gave me this cut without touching me.” – you showed your cheek to Ambrose to show him.

“When I wanted to run I got thrown out of the window by a force. Leading to my appearance.” – Exhaling deep you felt yourself slowly come at ease. – “Darn witches.” – Ambrose mumbled under his breath. – “Huh?” – you said hearing a whiff of his words. Ambrose chuckled nervously. – “Have I gone crazy, or did they do magic?” – you asked to be certain you weren’t losing your mind. Ambrose slightly nodded, not wanting you to feel insane. He carefully watched your reaction trying to see if it was perhaps a good idea to tell you he was a witch as well. – “Okay…” – you replied neutral not sure how to react to it.

“Why… why would they taunt me? Is it because it is almost Halloween?” – you slapped Ambrose his hand out of pure over-reaction. Ambrose shook his head. – “It is because you are with me.” – he told you making you furrow your brows. – “Why would they do that?” – you wanted to know. Ambrose took a deep breath pulling you closer to him by your shoulders. – “Y/n I’m going to tell you something and I hope this doesn’t change anything… or at least maybe a bit.” -  he started.

“Ambrose you are scaring me a bit.” – you answered. – “Don’t be.” – he made sure. He took another deep breath before speaking. – “I am like them. I am also a witch, so is Sarbina and my aunties.” – your mouth fell open with shock. – “But I assure you we mean you no harm Y/n. We aren’t all bad, besides we adore you. Specially me… I…I…like…no love you Y/n. That… that is why the weird sisters, and that boy tormented you. It is because they can see I care for you, and I am so sorry for that.” – he finished.

You slowly smiled kissing Ambrose by surprise. Ambrose pulled startled away. – “I’m not scared anymore, knowing you won’t let anything happen to me.” – you told him. Ambrose nodded still trying to process the surprise kiss. – “Also I like…no love you too Ambrose. I just didn’t think you saw me in that way.” – Ambrose laughed loud, grabbing a hold of you to kiss you. This time longer and deeper. – “I promise you no harm will ever come to you.”

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