#step aside; i'll be fumbling her too-

[cervinae-canine]

(sighs dreamily) it'd be an honor to fumble her

[illusioninfnty]

"i'll do anything!" ↠ day 23 ; virginity loss

↠ bo sinclair x reader

fandom: house of wax word count: 2.8k warnings: nsfw 18+, bimbo!reader, reader has shitty friends, coercion, corruption, dubconish, fingering, blowjob, cum swallowing, dirty talk, kind of semi-public sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pervy!Bo, allusion to murder, the plot is like a bad porno but i promise this is good guys

kinktober m.list || read on ao3

“God, did you forget to fill the tank again?”

You lean over from the backseat to take a look at the fuel gauge, and see the arrow is nearing empty. You furrow your eyebrows. “I was sure it filled up all the way,” you murmur. You try to recall when you all last stopped at a gas station, and how your friends delegated you to fill up the car while they went into the shop and bought snacks.

“Well it obviously didn’t, you idiot!” Your friend jerks the wheel and pulls over on the side of the desolate road. “This is why we never like to go anywhere with you.” 

You bite your lip, holding back tears. It wasn’t your fault that you were so forgetful sometimes, always getting distracted and lost in your thoughts.

This was supposed to be a fun road trip with your three closest friends, celebrating your college graduation nearing. But after a car karaoke session that went on for too long made you guys miss an exit, you’d been stranded on empty roads with nothing but trees surrounding you for quite a few miles now.

Your friend sitting in the backseat with you turns to face you, her arms crossed against her chest. “You should be the one to go find a gas station,” she protests. “It’s your fault we got stuck out here anyway.”

Your two friends in the front row look back at you and then at each other before nodding in agreement.

You crane your neck to look at the journey that would be ahead of you. It looked as though it continued to stretch for miles and miles with no end in sight, only the empty road and dying trees.

“By myself?” you ask hesitantly.

All three nod in unison.

You huff in defeat, unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out of the vehicle.

“I’ll try to be back—”

They slam the door in your face before you can answer.

“—Soon,” you finish before sighing and starting the long walk, hoping to find some destination before it got too dark.

~

Bo was not expecting to see a pretty little thing like you around Ambrose when it was nearing dusk, especially all alone. You had your arms wrapped around your bare midsection, and even from his spot inside the gas station he could see that you were shivering from the cool air as the sun set. You were looking around frantically, and he could tell immediately that you were lost and looking for help.

He smirks. Oh, he’d help you, alright. Bo took that as his cue to reveal himself to you. He wipes his hands with a dirty rag and tosses it aside, exiting the station.

You hear the ringing of the bell as Bo opens the door, and you turn your head towards the source of the sound. You scurry on over, seeing Bo in his mechanic’s uniform.

“Sir! Hi!” you start, fumbling over your words. “You work here, right? Do you have some gas? My car—well, it’s my friend’s—but it’s, like, miles back there and we ran out.” 

Your eyes then shift to the side and he could tell you were embarrassed. “It’s kind of my fault.”

Hmm. Sir. He liked hearing that come from your pouty lips.

Bo gives you a toothy grin. “Don’t gotta worry your head ‘bout it, sweetheart. I’ll get ya all settled. Come with me.” He slides his hand across your lower back, just barely grazing your ass. You gasp under your breath at the feeling, and Bo can’t help it when his cock stirs at the sound.

As you walk into the gas station, Bo scans you up and down. He notices that you have nothing on your person but your clothes, and even then it’s just little scraps of a skimpy top and skirt—which means you must’ve forgotten a wallet, too. His grin widens even more.

Reaching behind him without you noticing, he cranks the thermostat down. The air gets cooler within seconds, and Bo revels in seeing your nipples harden as they poke through your top.

He goes to find a can of gas, rolling up his sleeves as he plucks it from a top shelf. He notices when you gulp and stare at his muscles as he flexes them subtly.

You were such a cute little doll. He was going to have fun with you.

He plops the can on the counter. You go to reach for it, but he holds a hand out. “Ten bucks, little lady.”

Your eyes bulge almost comically and it takes all of Bo’s strength not to laugh at your expression.

“Wow, that’s a lot more than I thought it would be,” you say nervously, shifting on the balls of your feet.

Bo exaggerates a sigh. “Times are tough out here, owning a small business like this. We don’t get many customers out here.” He opens his hands to motion to you the desolate town of Ambrose.

You completely buy into his bullshit excuse, nodding your head in complete understanding. “Oh my god, that sucks, like, a lot.” Patting down your lame excuse for a shirt, you look up at Bo with wide eyes, jaw dropped in surprise. “I forgot to bring my wallet!”

You were such a dumb little thing. What were your sorry excuses of friends thinking, sending you off all alone?

“I’m so sorry, sir!” You clasp your hands in front of you in a pleading manner, looking up at him with big, watery eyes. Bo holds back a groan. Jesus, those eyes could make a man cream his pants if he wasn’t too careful. “Please, is there anything I can do to pay you back? I’ll do anything!”

Bo pretends as if he’s thinking long and hard. Oh, he knew exactly what you were going to do as payment.

“You know, I get lonely sometimes,” Bo starts, a mock frown on his face. “A cute lady like you could really help a man like me out.” He shuffles up to you, and palms your ass under that sorry excuse for a skirt.

“Oh!” You gasp, grabbing onto his arm. “That’s really sad, sir.” You look lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know if I can do that for you though.” You bite your lip, looking unsure of yourself.

“Aw, you gotta be kidding,” Bo clicks his tongue, rubbing his hand around the plumpness of your behind. “I bet you’ve helped lotsa guys out, huh?”

“A-actually,” you look down in shame. “I’m a—” you lower your voice to barely over a whisper, “—virgin.”

Bo blinks. That wasn’t a response he was expecting from you. So the slutty clothes were just for show, was it?

“Oh really?”

You nod, blatant regret all over your face. “I don’t think it’ll be good for you, ya’know, since I haven’t really had any practice and all that.”

He puts a smile back on, laughing gleefully and patting you on the shoulder, rubbing a thumb between the groove of your collarbone. “Well, that’s no problem for me, sweetheart. I can teach ya!”

Your eyes lighten up. “You can?”

“Sure I can!” He starts to undo his belt, throwing it aside on the counter. “Just need you to get on your knees for me and I can show you what to do.”

His cock jumps in anticipation, looking forward to seeing your juicy, plump lips wrapped around—

“Wait a minute!” you cry out, interrupting his fantasies.

Bo pauses in his movements, his jaw ticking at your interruption. “Yes?” he askes, concealing his frustration.

“What’s your name? I don’t wanna do this without knowing it.”

He sighs and points to the nametag on his jacket. “I’m Bo.”

You slap a palm across your forehead and nervously giggle. “Oh jeez, I should’ve known to look first!”

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Bo mutters through his teeth impatiently. “Now lemme help you out, alright?” “Oh! Yeah, sorry!” You—finally—drop to your knees in front of him. “What do I need to do?”

The sight of you in front of him like that, so eager and pliant, had his cock jumping in his pants.

Bo lowers his jeans and boxers, his hard cock now revealed to you. He wraps a hand around the base stroking his full length as it puts it on display for you.

“That’s…big,” you murmur. You look up at him, concern plastered across your features. “I dunno if it’s gonna fit.” Your eyebrows crease together and those damn pouty lips of yours come out again.

Bo bites his cheek to conceal his smirk. This was gonna be a lot more fun than he thought. “I told you, that’s what I’m helping you with, ain’t I?”

You nod.

“Great. Now open those pretty lips up for me.”

You open your mouth as wide as you can, giving Bo a perfect hole to stick his cock into. He guides himself inside you, hissing as the warmth of your mouth envelops his length.

“Good girl,” he praises. He begins to thrust his hips slowly, your lips latching onto him as he does so. “You gotta let me move, sweetheart.”

“Sorry,” you mumble around him, and he groans at the vibrations that travel up his cock.

Your lips loosen and you start to suck on his cock, the suction of your lips making shivers of pleasure run down his spine. He grips the back of your head, controlling the pace of his thrusts.

“Fuck, look at you,” Bo hisses. You look so pretty and innocent with his cock stuffed down your throat, gags escaping your lips. “You’re a natural. Sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I told you—!”

Bo slaps your cheek, shushing you. “Stop talking.”

You nod obediently, the action making him pulse inside of your mouth. His grip on your hair tightens as his thrusts become harder, more primal. He fucks your mouth with vigor, ignoring your gags and the way your nails dig into the skin of his thighs.

He cums faster than he’s ever had before, groaning as his hot release coats the back of your throat. You cough around his cock, spurts of liquid splashing against your cheeks.

“Swallow it,” Bo commands.

You gulp harshly, your lips still secured around his cock. The extra pressure has him bucking his hips and like a good girl you swallow all of his cum. He pulls his cock out of your mouth, and you begin to cough and sputter as you regain your breath.

“Is that it?” you question him.

“Baby, I still gotta get rid of that virginity of yours.”

“Oh.” You giggle behind your hand. “Right.” You start to strip, only taking a couple of seconds since you’re practically naked already. “What do I do now?”

Bo’s cock hardens back to life at your nude form in front of him. Your nipples are hard, attached to your perky breasts that bounce up and down right in front of his eyes. He stares lecherously, licking his lips. “Now that you got my cock all wet,” Bo rubs his length, now slick with his cum and your saliva, “I can stick it in your pussy.” You bite the inside of your cheek and nod, your eyes flicking between his face and his cock. “I know I asked before,” you begin, and Bo moves to place your hand over his cock, “but will it really fit?”

Lord, he was really starting to understand why your friends let you go alone.

“Yeah, I told you, I’ll make it fit.” He lifts you from the back of your legs and places you on top of the counter. He brings his thick fingers to your pussy, sticking a fingertip inside.

You gasp and arch your body into him, throwing your arms around his broad back. Your bare breasts brush up against his chest and he relishes in the contact. 

“That feels really good, Bo!” you cry out. He adds a second finger inside of you, pushing the digits in deeper. He can feel how wet you are and the way you clench around him so desperately. Your hips jerk into him unsteadily, chasing the pleasure his fingers bring you.

He chuckles. “It’ll feel even better when I stick my cock in you.”

Bo removes his fingers, basking in the way you whine as he pulls them out, leaving you pulsing and desperate to be around him. He lines his throbbing cock with your entrance and pushes himself in without hesitation.

“Bo!” You scream, nails digging into his back. Little gasps leave your mouth as he begins to thrust in and out of you. Your pussy grips him like a vice, and it’s difficult for him to move inside you with you so needy for him.

He shushes you, gripping your cheeks and watching as tears leave your eyes.

“It hurts,” you whine to him. Your nails grip onto him as if your life depended on it.

He shoves his face into the crevice of your neck, placing kisses upon it. “Gotta relax a bit for me, okay?” he coos into your ear. “Or it won’t feel good for you.”

“You promise?” you ask through glassy eyes.

He nods, and feels as you unclench just a tad around him. Bo is able to rut himself into you harder now, and he can’t help but be more forceful with his thrusts as it causes your breasts to bounce right in front of him.

“Look at that.” He motions towards where the two of you are connected, his cock pulsing at the way your blood and juices coat the base. “Look at how we're connected now.”

Oh wow,” you gasp in awe. “That’s kinda romantic, huh?”

Bo doesn’t respond. If you wanted to put it that way, he wouldn’t stop you. He ignores the way his heart stutters in his chest.

His hips continue to pound into you, your body bouncing along with the power of his thrusts. The whines that come out of your mouth sound so angelic, and Bo has to fight the urge to kiss you.

“I—I think I’m gonna cum,” you moan out, your head thrown back and your eyes are scrunched up in pleasure.

Bo didn’t need you to tell him that. Your pussy goes back to clenching down on him, your walls tightening around his cock, fitting themselves to the shape of him. He curses quietly into your neck. He never wanted to leave the warmth of your pussy.

“That’s it, baby,” Bo coaxes you. He moves a finger to your clit, enjoying the way you jolt at the newfound sensation as he rubs circles on the bead. “Cum around my cock.”

“Cumming!” Your voice is squeaky as your legs come up to wrap around his backside, and you finally reach your peak. Your pussy tightens around Bo even more, and he can’t help it when he cums for a second time as you squeeze every last drop out of him.

You pant heavily as you come down from your orgasm, sweat rolling down your temples despite the cold air of the station that surrounds the two of you.

Bo’s own breathing is heavy, something he’s not used to much. You squirm out from beneath him as you drop from the counter, legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm. You bend down to gather your scraps of clothing, and Bo has to take all of his strength to conceal his groan as he watches his cum slowly leak out of your pussy.

“Leaving so soon?” Bo didn’t know what compelled him to say that. You were just some cute college kid passing through that was a chance to get his dick wet. Yet there was something about you that drew him to you, like a moth to a flame.

You shimmy back into your clothing, and he notices how you ignore the trail of his cum that runs down your thigh. “My friends’ll be mad at me if I take too long getting back.” You pause in your movements. “I can take the gas now, right?”

Bo’s heart drops in his stomach. He realizes quickly that no, he wasn’t going to let you take the gas. In fact, he wasn’t going to let you leave at all. He wanted you—needed you—here with him. He couldn’t let a pretty little thing like you just pass by him like that.

He glances outside quickly. The sky's already turned to a pitch black hue, and he knows there’s no streetlights on your way back to where your friends wait for you. He turns back to you as you stand awaiting his answer.

“It’s pretty dark out there, little lady.” You peek over his shoulder, and your eyes widen as you realize just how late it had gotten. “It ain’t safe for you ta’ be out walkin’ all alone. Why don’t you stay over at my place for the night?”

“B-but what about my friends?” A pout overtakes your face and you look up at Bo with puzzled eyes.

Bo smirks, holding you close to his chest and running a hand over your hair. “Don’t need ta’ worry about them, sweetheart. My brother’ll come an’ fetch ‘em.”

[tamayakii]

a son for a son.

notes: I changed a thing or two of what happened in the show, basically putting Maelor in cause i still cant believe they didnt put him in it (same thing with Daeron) this can be read as a stand-alone fic or paired with the Their Angel series. pairings: Otto x reader (romantic), Helaena x reader (can be viewed as one sided or platonic) warnings: Otto & reader have a son, SPOILERS FOR HOTD S2;E1!!!

The candle light illuminates the room, flickering against the stone walls of your and Helaena’s chambers. You had moved into her living spaces the night that Aemond had come back from the Stormlands, a sick smirk upon his face as he waltz into the small council room.  

And when your husband had shown no remorse for your brother's actions, no sympathy for your dead nephew? You couldn’t stand to look at him, matter of fact, you couldn’t bear to look at anyone. The grief toppled upon the hatred you had towards everyone who had played a part in usurping your sister’s throne. 

The twins and Maelor were already asleep within their beds, and your own son blinks his big owl-ish eyes at you. He looked so much like his father, even at two years old, a little wisp of white tangled within his brown locks- almost emulating Otto’s salt and pepper hair.

“Why can’t I..?” Alerion fumbled over his words, tiny hands curling over the cotton blanket, trying to fight his heavy eyelids as they dropped low. Chuckling lightly as you brushed his hair aside, he was quite stubborn. Especially as bedtime neared and sleep hovered over him. “Because I said so, besides; don’t you want to play with your cousins on the morrow?” Your reasoning seemed to reach him, Alerion’s brown eyes slowly shutting as he murmured. Sighing, reaching around your back to unclasp your heavy necklaces, you couldn’t help but smile as your son unconsciously pulled the blanket closer. 

The recent days weighed heavily on you; the war was impending. With no word from Rhaenrya, Rhaenys and Meleys helping guard the gullet with the hundreds of Velaryon ships, war was going to burst like a bloated goat. 

Perhaps if you were more active in the small council, you would’ve stopped the rats that sat in those seats. Staring at the necklace as you set it down, dark jade glimmering in the light. Helaena’s soft reflection reflected in the deep sea of green. It hits the table with a soft thud.

As you hear steps incoming, you simply assumed it was Helaena. She always had a sense for when you were upset, coming to you like a doe, with her big purple eyes and soft face filled with worry. 

Or perhaps she came to take you to bed. Since your move, Helaena was delighted to have you close, and near-ordered that you sleep in the same bed, just as you did when she was a little girl. “Quiet! Quiet!” The voice made you turn around, and your gasp died in your throat. Fear laced through your veins like a snake coils around its prey, freezing your body like the north. 

A strange man holds a dagger to Helaena’s throat, her blood dripping over the steel. Her eyes were wide with fear. The man's eyes flicker over to you. “Move and I'll cut her throat.” He spits, slowly dragging the blade, causing more blood to leak. Nodding as the tears well in your eyes, heart beating against your rib cage. The blood roars in your ears like a thousand horses stampeding. 

Another man comes in, a bigger and scarier man, and your heart stops. 

“A son for a son.” His words were all muddled until he said those five words, a son for a son. Helaena offered her necklace to the men, trying to convince them to run off with its worth, but the bigger man snatched it from her. “It’s not a son.” He turns around and looks at the twins in their beds, sleeping ever so peacefully. Gently, you reached back for Alerion’s crib. Shaking hands gripping the wood with a grip tighter than death and yet you were too weak to fight these men off, in the past week and a half, you’ve neglected your meals within your grief and even if you didn’t, you’d sooner be dead on the stone floors of the Red Keep with your sons fate unknown. 

The men came to the realization that they did not know which twin was the boy, and for a brief moment you felt elated that perhaps they would give up their mission, but all hope vanished when Helaena pointed at Jaehaerys.

“Helaena..” You whisper, lips trembling and you can't help but feel bile come up your throat as the men storm to Jaehaerys, the bigger one covering his mouth, covering his scream. Helaena shakes as she makes a move to her daughter and youngest son, and you do the same.

As you hear the splatter of blood, a sob escapes your throat, your hands trembling as you hurriedly and carefully retrieve Alerion from his crib. Helaena runs out first, holding her children close to her and you’re not too long after her. 

Whilst Helaena makes a mad dash down the stairs, you run onward. Climbing up the other pair of stairs, Alerion stirs in your jumbling hold. Whining at the rude awakening and you try to shush him over your crying, 

“Shh.. shh.. Alerion,” The halls rushed past you as you ran, the skirt of your night-dress threatening to trip you. Only thoughts of protecting your own son ran through your frightened mind, fearing that perhaps he would be targeted too. 

The doors to Otto’s chambers slam open and a flurry of fabric and hair falls to the floor in sobs. The man looks at the sight bewildered, but soon he realizes it is you, his wife, that refused to look him in the eye. Surely, you had come to beg for forgiveness, having come to your senses. 

But as you look up at him, your son in your arms, cradling him like he was about to shatter- he knew something was wrong.

“They killed him.. They kill the boy!” 

[canyonmoonchild]

⊹ Slow Burn [2]

Pairing: firefighter!harry x bartender!reader

T.W.: mild language, firefighting references, alcohol, otherwise fluff

Words: 3,542

Synopsis: when a dare from the crew pushes Harry to finally ask out the bartender who stole his heart, a clumsy confession sparks a slow-burn romance neither of them saw coming.

Part One

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🌷Masterlist

current taglist: @catmomstyles3 @multiplefandomstan @vikiii07 @sittinginthegardern @triski73 @mads3502 @aileen1237 @stylesftcher @harrrrystylesslut @allmyinterestsworld

***

I wake up tangled in my sheets — one leg half-off the bed, jaw sore from smiling too much. For a second, I just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to recalibrate. The morning light's soft through the blinds, spilling across my tiny apartment like something out of a film.

My jacket's still draped over the foot of the bed, and when I shift, I catch it — the faint scent of her perfume. It hits me in the chest like a backdraft; I close my eyes and murmur, "Okay... not a dream."

I fumble for my phone. It's been on my chest all night — the screen cold and blank. 7:42 AM. Too early, probably. My thumb hovers over her name in my contacts, heart already pounding like I'm gearing up to charge into another fire.

God, why is texting scarier than running into a burning warehouse?

I start typing. "Hey. Last night was amazing." Delete.

Try again. "Did you sleep okay?" Too vague. Delete.

Then: "When can I see you again?" Jesus, Harry. Delete.

I run a hand over my face, groaning — "Don't be weird, Harry. You're already being weird."

My eyes fall on the napkin tucked into the drawer of my nightstand — the one she scribbled her number on before the date. I'd folded it like something sacred. Her handwriting's a little messy, looping and hurried, but I've already memorized it; I pick it up, shake my head fondly.

"You just had to lean in, huh?" I say to the air, lips twitching into a helpless grin.

Back to the phone.

"I'm filing a formal complaint. You stole all the breadsticks." Funny? Too flirty? Delete.

I even consider a winky face: "😉" Hover. Delete.

"I'm too old for emojis," I mutter.

I give up and throw the phone on the bed like it personally betrayed me. That's when it buzzes. I nearly drop it grabbing it again — her name.

"Still smiling from last night :)"

My heart does a full somersault in my chest. I read it once. Twice. Three times. Then sit bolt upright like I've been electrocuted.

"No way..." I whisper, staring at the screen like it might vanish.

She texted first — she's thinking about last night. About me. I stare at the blinking cursor for longer than I care to admit. Then type:

"You and me both." Pause. I bite my lip. Then: "Pretty sure I dreamed about you stealing all the breadsticks." Send. Regret. Smile anyway.

I flop back onto the pillows, grinning like an idiot. Everything in the room feels golden — even the mess. My boots are still by the door; my shirt from last night draped over a chair; coffee pot untouched. I don't even care.

I almost open the crew group chat just to say something, but there's already a message waiting:

Jack: "So... did you blow it or what?"

I laugh and toss the phone aside. They'll find out soon enough. Right now, I'm just lying here — phone buzzing on the mattress beside me — already thinking about when I'll get to see her again. Because this doesn't feel like a one-time thing — not with her.

***

I'm early. Not by much, but enough that I'm the first one through the side door, letting it thud shut behind me as I step into the quiet firehouse. The place smells like last night's chili and the faint tang of engine grease — familiar, grounding. But none of it keeps my brain from immediately drifting. Her laugh still echoes somewhere in the back of my head.

I drop my gear by my locker and scrub a hand through my hair, trying to will myself into focus. It doesn't work. The second I check the chore board and grab the med kit to restock, I realize I've forgotten what I'm supposed to be doing halfway through unzipping it.

"You planning to save lives or confuse the hell outta everyone?" Jack's voice comes from behind me, and I jump, nearly dropping the trauma shears.

He raises an eyebrow as I glance down at the mess I've made. Gauze, tape, gloves, all in the wrong pockets.

"I'm... triple-checking inventory," I say, voice stiff with guilt and a little too much honesty.

From across the bay, Ben chimes in without even looking up, "Triple-checking your mental breakdown, more like."

I roll my eyes, crouching to repack the supplies properly. "I'm fine."

Jack smirks, leaning against the open door of the rig. "Sure you are. So, she your girlfriend yet, or what?"

I pause — too long — and that's enough for Ben to twist the knife: "Damn, he's hesitating. That's a yes. Firehouse official."

"It was one date," I mutter, trying not to blush, which of course guarantees that I do.

Jack snorts. "One date with cookies involved? That's practically a proposal."

Marcus walks by, pretending to check his phone and says casually, "Still nothing from her? Brutal."

"She texted first yesterday," I shoot back, a little too quickly. I glance around — they're all grinning like idiots. No backup in sight. I shake my head and shove the trauma shears back into place. "You guys seriously need hobbies."

"Oh, we've got one," Ben says. "It's called Watching You Fall In Love."

I ignore them as best I can, keeping my head down and my hands busy, but it's no use. The moment I stop moving, she's back in my head again — the soft sound of her voice when she teased me about breadsticks, the way she'd brushed her hand against mine outside her building and smiled like it was nothing — like it was everything.

That's when Marcus calls out from the kitchen window: "Yo, Styles — your girl's here. And she's holding baked goods." I freeze.

The others move before I do — predictable, rowdy — half jogging to the front like a pack of nosy teenagers. I trail behind, my pulse thudding in my ears.

She's just stepped into the bay, holding a cardboard drink tray in one hand and a Tupperware in the other. Her smile is warm and casual, like she's done this a dozen times before — like she belongs here.

"Peace offering," she says, lifting the coffee slightly. "Figured the engine room could use a sugar rush."

She's wearing jeans and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair a little windblown from outside. Effortless. Beautiful.

I stand up too fast. "Hey—hi. Uh. You didn't have to—cookies? That's... great. They're great."

Jack coughs loudly behind me, completely unsubtle.

Ben, of course, is the first to intercept her. "You sure you're not lost? This is a hazard zone, sweetheart."

She grins, unfazed. "You must be the guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait." She hands him a coffee without breaking eye contact.

Marcus leans in, teasing: "You got a sister?"

"Nope. Just me." She glances at me with a raised brow. "And I'm already spoken for — I think."

My ears are hot again. I laugh, breathless, and take the cookies from her hands because it gives me something to hold.

Jack grins, elbowing me. "She brings coffee, cookies, and sass. Styles, she's officially one of us."

She's already handing out the rest of the drinks, chatting easily with everyone — teasing Marcus for stealing the biggest cup, laughing at Jack's comment about naming the fire truck Mildred. She doesn't even blink when someone swears loudly in the background. Just shakes her head and jokes back, like she's done this before.

We sneak a second alone near the lockers.

"Are they always like this," she asks, nudging my arm, "or am I just a special occasion?"

I grin. "Honestly? This is them behaving."

She leans back against the wall, glancing around. "You looked like you might combust when I walked in."

"Wasn't expecting to see you." I shrug. "Not complaining."

She tilts her head, a little playful, a little soft. "Well, if you survive the sugar high, I might let you take me out again."

My mouth opens, closes, then I nod — too fast. "Deal. Yeah. Definitely. I mean, I'd like that."

She smiles and steps past me again, rejoining the chaos without missing a beat. And I just watch — watch the way she laughs with Jack, leans down to answer a question Marcus asks about her recipe, casually nudges Ben out of the way with her hip when he tries to sneak another cookie.

It's too easy. Too natural. She fits. She fits with them. She fits here. She fits with me. And that thought hits me harder than I expect — warm and weighty all at once.

When she finally heads for the door, she pauses just long enough to tap my shoulder.

"Try not to burn anything down, alright?"

I want to say something clever, but all that comes out is, "You got it."

Her hand brushes mine — not an accident — and then she's gone. The moment the door shuts, Jack claps me on the back like he's proud of a pet project.

"Yup," he says. "That's your girl."

I don't respond. Just stand there, cookie tin in hand, watching the door she just disappeared through. The firehouse noise starts to fade — Marcus and Ben bickering about the coffee-to-sugar ratio, the clatter of boots in the hallway — but I'm still planted, weirdly still, like the rest of me hasn't caught up yet.

Jack lingers beside me for a beat, then jabs his elbow toward the mess table. "You gonna keep cleaning that cup or marry it?"

I glance down — there's a paper cup in my hand, mostly empty and already wiped twice. I exhale a soft laugh and shake my head, embarrassed. "Least it doesn't flirt with my coworkers."

Jack smirks but doesn't press. He leans on the edge of the table, arms crossed, watching me fumble a bit more with the napkins and empty cups. My hands are moving on autopilot, brushing crumbs into my palm, trying to look busy.

"She fit here like she's been coming around forever," I say quietly.

Jack makes a noise in his throat — thoughtful, not teasing for once. "She's good for you, Styles. Don't overthink it."

That makes me pause. Just long enough for my hands to stop pretending. I look down at the table, nod once, then mumble, "Yeah."

We don't say anything else for a minute. Just clean in companionable silence — the kind that only exists between people who've worked too many 24s together and seen each other on both sides of fire and heartbreak.

Eventually, Jack jerks his head toward the back. "Come on. Air's better by the rig."

We settle on the tailboard — feet swinging, mugs in hand. The scent of diesel clings to the air, mixing strangely with the lingering sweetness from the cookies. It's quiet back here; the others have filtered off. Somewhere in the distance, the kitchen radio's low hum leaks through the walls.

Jack breaks the silence again, tone casual. "You thinking about getting serious with her?"

My fingers rub slow over the rim of the cup. I stare down at my boots, feeling that question settle too close to something I haven't named yet. "I don't know," I say, a little hoarse. "It's only been one date. But... yeah. I think I want to."

Jack doesn't laugh. Doesn't joke. Just nods like that makes perfect sense.

"With her," I add after a second, "I don't feel like I've gotta be 'the guy.' She looks at me like—like she already knows who I am. Like I don't have to prove anything."

There's a quiet between us, but it doesn't feel heavy. I sip my lukewarm coffee, stare out at the far wall — until my phone buzzes in my pocket. Two texts.

Hope Mildred behaves. That truck has chaos in her eyes.

Also, Jack owes me a rematch for stealing the last cookie.

I grin before I can stop it — wide and probably stupid-looking — then try to cover it with my mug.

Jack notices immediately. "Oh no," he mutters, "he's got the face."

"What face?"

"The one that says she could text you about brake fluid and you'd still print it out and frame it."

I laugh under my breath, tapping out a reply with shaking thumbs. Something light, probably dumb — Mildred says she takes offense, but accepts the critique.

Ben wanders by just then, catches sight of my expression, and deadpans, "If your face gets any dopier, we're sending her a warning."

"She says Mildred's got chaos eyes," I offer.

Jack just chuckles. "You'd be smiling too if someone brought you espresso and snickerdoodles."

I tuck the phone away, but the warmth in my chest lingers. Not just from her words — from the ease. The way she texted like it was the most natural thing in the world. No games. No waiting three days. Just... connection.

I glance at Jack. "Didn't expect to like someone this fast." He arches an eyebrow but stays quiet. "It's easy with her," I say. "Feels like breathing. Last time I tried something real, it ended before I even realized it was leaving. Quiet. No fight. I was too busy to notice, too tired to fix it. And when it was over... I didn't even feel it until the silence set in."

Jack hums. He knows that silence too.

"She walked in today and didn't flinch at the chaos," I say, softer now. "Just smiled and handed out coffee like she belonged."

There's no need to say more. Jack pats the rig beside him once, stands, and walks off without a word. Just leaves me there — sitting in it. Letting it all land. After a few minutes, I slip off the tailboard and wander back toward my locker. The bay is mostly empty now, hum of traffic outside drifting through an open door. My boots scuff quietly across the floor. I open my locker, pause, then reach into my pocket.

The napkin from the cookie container is slightly crumpled, a faint smudge of ink on the corner — her name in quick, familiar handwriting. I fold it once, gently, and tuck it behind a photo strip of the crew at last year's Christmas party. Don't say anything. Just shut the door slowly and stand there for a minute, head tilted against the cool metal.

"You're in trouble, Styles," I whisper to myself — but I'm smiling when I say it.

Somewhere near the front, the tone buzzes briefly — a call we don't have to take. Just a drill.

Still, I murmur, "Alright. Back to work. Romance hour's over."

But I don't move yet. Instead, I drift to the bay doors, folding my arms and leaning against the side of the rig, watching the late afternoon light pour across the floor. The sky's turning gold, streaked with hints of dusk. The engine clicks faintly as it cools. Outside, a breeze flutters through the gap, catching my sleeves.

It's not official. It's not serious. But it's starting to feel real and maybe that terrifies me — just a little — but mostly, it makes me feel steady in a way I haven't in years.

***

I'm still wiping down the rig when her name flashes across my screen.

"Survived the cookie chaos.

Want to try your luck with tacos this week?"

I'm grinning before I finish reading. Thumb poised, I type — delete — type again. "Only if you promise not to steal all the chips."

"No promises. I'm ruthless around guac."

"Wednesday? You, me, and a morally questionable amount of salsa."

"Deal. 7 p.m. Don't be late, firefighter."

Jack wanders by as I tuck the phone away. "Tacos, huh? Bold move. Try not to spill salsa on your soul this time." I mutter something eloquent, like shut up, and spend the rest of the shift humming under my breath.

***

Wednesday evening, the locker-room mirror becomes my worst enemy. Navy shirt? Too serious. Grey tee? Too casual. Somewhere between the fourth collar adjustment and the second dose of deodorant, Ben pokes his head in.

"Back at it again, Casanova. Ironing that thing or proposing to it?"

"It's a date," I say, flipping the collar down, "not a lifetime movie."

Jack passes behind him, flicking my shoulder. "Yet."

I ignore them both, slip the little station-patch into my jacket pocket – the one she joked about sewing onto her bar apron – and head out before they can load me down with more advice.

The park is threaded with fairy lights and the smell of grilled onions. Food trucks line the curb, each window glowing warm against the dusk. She's waiting near a picnic bench, sweater sleeves dragged over her hands, hair gathered in a loose knot. When she spots me her whole face brightens, like I'm the exact thing she hoped would appear.

"You showed up," she says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I come bearing peace offerings." I hand her the patch; my fingers brush hers, tiny jolt straight to my ribs.

She laughs, rolls the bit of embroidered fabric between her fingers. "You think you can bribe me with firehouse swag?"

"Absolutely."

We claim a table, load it with tacos, bottled sodas, chips that crunch loud enough to echo off the trees. Conversation flows the way it did in the station bay, only easier. She tells me about a bachelorette party that tried to order fifty flaming shots. I confess Ben once fell asleep in the hose bed and woke up mid-turnout, screaming like a theme-park ride. She snorts soda up her nose laughing, then blames me. I hand her a napkin, pretending not to stare at the tiny dimple that appears when she finally catches her breath.

Mid-meal she asks, "What made you want to run into burning buildings for a living?"

I pick at a tortilla edge. "I was terrified of fire as a kid. Couldn't even light birthday candles. One day a firefighter let me hold the nozzle on a controlled burn demo. Thought, Maybe if I can face it, someone else won't have to be scared. Turns out I loved the noise, the rush... and the quiet after."

She's silent a beat, studying me like I'm something worth learning by heart. "That's not what I expected."

"What'd you expect?"

"Something about big trucks and hero complexes."

I grin. "Trucks are a perk. Complex is a rumour."

She admits she never thought she'd settle in one city this long; the bar was supposed to be temporary. Then it became home without asking permission. "Still feels weird," she says, flicking salt from her fingers, "letting anything stick."

A breeze lifts the overhead lights; they sway, dotting shadows across the gravel between us.

I swallow. "I'm not great at this part," I say. "Usually keep things surface level. Less to lose that way. But with you I keep wanting more time. More... everything."

She draws a taco wrapper into neat folds. "Then take more. I'm here." A little smile. "No timelines. Just tacos and conversations."

The night hums around us – kids shrieking near the swings, a dog barking down the path, distant bass from somebody's car stereo – but in the space between her words and my next breath everything feels still.

"You always get this quiet on second dates?" she asks, voice lowered, half teasing.

"Only with people I want there to be a third one with."

Color rises in her cheeks; she reaches out, nudges my knuckles. "Walk me to my car, firefighter."

We take the long route under oak branches rattling softly overhead. Our shoulders bump once, twice; by the third time neither of us shifts away. We're laughing about the worst chips I've ever tasted when she stops beside a silver hatchback, keys dangling from her hand. She tilts her head, hazel eyes glinting under the streetlamp. She rises onto her toes before I fully register the movement, one hand sliding up my jacket lapel. The kiss is slower than our first, warmer, deliberate – like both of us choosing the same moment at the same time. When we separate, her thumb is still hooked on the edge of my collar.

"So what's next, firefighter?"

"Whatever you'll give me," I say, steadier than I feel.

She chuckles, presses the patch against my chest before slipping into the car. "Then start with dessert next week. I hear you bribe well."

The taillights burn red, then disappear around the corner, leaving the night quiet except for my ragged exhale.

Back at the station I shower, drop onto the bunk, and scroll to the top of our thread. Survived the cookie chaos glows at me, breadcrumbs to the moment all of this started. I read it twice, let the smile linger, then type:

"Next time I'm bringing dessert. You've been warned."

I set the phone face-down and stare at the ceiling, every muscle loose, every thought humming one refrain: "Okay. This is something. Not fast – just right."

Somewhere below, the bay doors creak as the closing shift checks the rigs. The sound floats up through the floor and settles over me like a blanket. I close my eyes, still tasting lime and cilantro, still feeling the press of her mouth, and let the night steady around the slow, bright thrum in my chest.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Hiii 🌷 I wasn’t planning on writing a second part to this one-shot but seeing so many of you reacting to it, I decided otherwise. I hope you’ll enjoy this one too! 💗

[ematini]

I think the biggest problem with Arcane season 2 is how disappointing the characters' personal arcs are. The writers seem to have missed the mark with what they were originally going for, aka what the entire concept of season 2 was.

We know that season 1 was mainly about the conflict between Zaun and Piltover and the conflict between Jinx and Vi. Those two main themes carried over (or at least they were supposed to, but the writers fumbled that), but what about everything else? The whole premise?

The intro sequence hints for it. The way all characters are dressed in very plain clothes, not their signature outfits, which signifies how the story aims to challenge their identities. Outfits, especially in animated shows, where characters often wear the same things, are very important. That's what makes them recognizable. Taking that away foreshadows how vital parts of their characters will be put into question, too.

Vi's scene confirms this. We see her wiping off her VI tattoo, which is a foreshadowing to her loss of identity, how much she struggles with who she is now that Jinx is gone. Also, her becoming an Enforcer, against everything she believed in.

Jinx waving a flag, a reference to Liberty Leading the People, showing how she will become a symbol to Zaun, an inspiration for the revolution.

Caitlyn stepping into the spotlight, and later, her pose, which is a reference to Macbeth. That's her taking on the role of a leader and later struggling with her choices.

The problem is, in the actual show, all those concepts are just briefly touched upon and essentially left unfinished, forsaken for the sake of the plot as a whole.

Vi becomes an Enforcers, but we barely see her struggle with that choice. It comes and goes, just like her pitfighter arc, and just like that, we're in act 3, and nothing happened. She has exactly two lines about her internal conflict, not just about being an enforcer, but EVERYTHING. I'm a die-hard Vi fan, so that breaks my heart the most because if you think about it, Vi was never allowed to be her own person. And that's how she remains. She doesn't come out of the arc as a new, changed person with a new identity she's confident in.

Jinx does become a symbol for the revolution, but aside from breaking people out of Stillwater, she does nothing. Her story is mainly connected with Isha, and after she dies, Jinx reverts right back to her broken down from. Instead of leading Zaun to freedom, she leads them to join the war between Piltover and Ambessa, which is not even connected to the Undercity. It's all about Hextech. Zaun's freedom isn't won by revolution, but because Piltover had a change of heart.

Caitlyn becomes a Commander, but we never get a glimpse into her internal conflict. All of that is quickly skimmed over with brief lines. In season 1, Cailtyn was a kind character. Privileged and a bit ignorant to Zaun's issues until she sees them herself, but ultimately, she's a good person. But by the end of season 2, we don't get to see that part of her return. Her values end up not as much being challenged as completely erased. That entire imagery would be a lot more meaningful if we at least got a glimpse of her helping the Undercity instead of claiming crimes can't be undone. We don't get that vital part of her character, which was her kindness and willingness to help back.

All that is not even mentioning how certain parts of the intro weren't even touched. What about Jayce? We see him shielding his eyes from the spotlight, reminiscent of how he steps on the stage during Progress Day in season 1.

What could this possibly mean? Him struggling with his identity as the face of progress because all he worked for essentially ended up turning against him? Him struggling with what he did while he was part of the Council? Wrong, he spends most of season 2 in a cave.

At least Mel does end up taking Ambessa's place, even though she's barely in this season, so I'll give them that. Reluctantly.

Those are mostly my personal complaints because I always care about the characters more than the plot.

[musubi05]

Could you please do winchester!sister where her and the boys are on a hunt and they all separate but she ends up getting hurt and starts to fall into a bad panic attack and dean ends up finding her against a wall injured and panicking

╰┈➤ Walls Are Closing In

Dean Winchester x winchester!sister

(ft. Sam Winchester)

Warnings: details of a panic attack/injury/claustrophobia (feeling of being trapped)/blood - hurt/comfort

The abandoned warehouse smells like rust and decay, every shadow seeming to pulse with malevolent energy. She adjusts her grip on the iron blade, trying to ignore how her palms have grown slick with sweat. The EMF reader in her other hand crackles intermittently, the needle jumping erratically as she moves deeper into the maze of machinery and forgotten storage.

"Alright, we split up," Dean had said twenty minutes ago, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Sam, you take the east wing. I'll check the offices upstairs. You've got the basement level."

Of course she got the basement. She always gets the basement.

The concrete steps descend into deeper darkness, and each footfall seems to echo forever. Her flashlight beam cuts through the gloom, revealing pipes that drip with condensation and walls stained with something she doesn't want to identify. The EMF reader's crackling grows more insistent.

She's halfway across the basement when she hears it—a low, guttural growl that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she spins around, blade raised, but there's nothing there. Just shadows and the steady drip, drip, drip of water somewhere in the darkness.

"Just a ghost," she whispers to herself, the words barely audible. "Just a ghost. You've done this a hundred times."

But this doesn't feel like just a ghost.

The temperature plummets so suddenly that her breath fogs in the air. The EMF reader shrieks, the needle pinned to the maximum reading. And then she sees her—a woman in a tattered dress, her face a ruin of decay and rage, floating just inches off the ground. Her mouth opens in a soundless scream that somehow fills the Winchester sister's head with the sound of breaking glass.

She raises the iron blade, but the ghost is faster than any spirit she's encountered. The apparition's form flickers and suddenly she's behind her, icy fingers wrapping around her throat. The youngest Winchester is lifted off her feet and slammed into the concrete wall with bone-jarring force.

The impact drives the air from her lungs and sends stars exploding across her vision. Her shoulder blade connects with an exposed pipe, and she hears something crack—whether it's the pipe or something in her back, she can't tell. The iron blade skitters across the floor, well out of reach.

She slides down the wall, gasping, tasting copper in her mouth. The ghost circles her like a predator, her form more solid now, feeding off her fear and pain. She fumbles for the salt rounds in her jacket pocket, but her fingers won't work properly. Everything feels disconnected, like she's watching this happen to someone else.

"Dean," she tries to call, but it comes out as barely a whisper. Her radio crackles with static, Dean's voice distorted and far away: "...nothing up here...checking the..."

The ghost lunges again. This time she manages to roll aside, but not fast enough. The spirit's claws rake across her ribs, tearing through her jacket and the shirt beneath. The pain is immediate and blazing, and she can feel warm blood soaking into the fabric.

She scrambles backward until her back hits the wall again, trapped in the corner formed by two massive support pillars. The ghost hovers in front of her, blocking her only escape route. The spirit's mouth moves in what might be words, but all she hears is that sound like breaking glass, getting louder and louder until it feels like her skull might split open.

Her chest is getting tight. Too tight. Each breath comes in short, sharp gasps that don't seem to bring any oxygen. The walls of the basement seem to be pressing closer, the shadows reaching for her with grasping fingers. Her heart is beating so fast it feels like it might burst.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't breathe.

The ghost's face looms closer, her ruined features filling her vision. But it's not just the spirit anymore—it's every monster she's ever faced, every hunt that went wrong, every time she's been hurt while her brothers were somewhere else, unable to help. The weight of it all crashes down on her at once.

Her hands shake uncontrollably as she presses them against the wall behind her, looking for something solid, something real. But the concrete feels like it's shifting under her palms, and she's falling, drowning, suffocating—

"No, no, no," she gasps, but the words feel foreign in her mouth. The basement spins around her, and she can't tell which way is up anymore. Her vision tunnels until all she can see is that terrible face, those grasping claws, that mouth opening in an endless, soundless scream.

This is how you die. Alone in a basement while your brothers are upstairs. They'll find your body and blame themselves, and it's all your fault for not being strong enough, fast enough, good enough—

The thoughts spiral faster and faster, each one worse than the last. Her breathing becomes so rapid and shallow that her hands start to tingle, then go numb. The ghost seems to sense her terror and draws closer, feeding off it, growing more solid with each panicked heartbeat.

She slides further down the wall until she's sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, making herself as small as possible. The iron blade is still feet away, might as well be miles. Her radio lies broken beside her, sparking occasionally. Even if she could reach it, she can't form words anymore, can't make a sound except for these horrible gasping breaths that aren't bringing any air.

Breathe, she tells herself desperately. Just breathe. Dean taught you this. Count to four on the inhale, hold for four, exhale for four. Simple.

But she can't count. The numbers slip away like smoke, and all she can do is gulp at the air like a drowning person while the ghost circles closer and the walls press in and her heart beats so hard she's sure it's going to kill her before the spirit gets the chance.

Time becomes elastic. It could be seconds or hours that she sits there, trapped in her own body, fighting a battle no one else can see. The physical pain from her injuries fades to nothing compared to the crushing weight in her chest, the certainty that she's going to die here in this basement, alone and terrified.

Then, cutting through the sound of breaking glass and her own ragged breathing, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Heavy boots, moving fast.

"Sweetheart?" Dean's voice echoes off the concrete walls. "Where are you? Your radio went dead and—"

His flashlight beam sweeps the basement and finds her huddled against the wall. She wants to call out to him, wants to warn him about the ghost, but she can't make her voice work. All that comes out is a strangled whimper.

"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes, and she hears him moving toward her, but the ghost turns at the sound of his voice and lets out that terrible shriek.

There's the sharp crack of a shotgun, and the spirit dissipates with an inhuman wail. Salt rounds. Dean always keeps salt rounds loaded when they're on a hunt.

His boots pound across the concrete, and then he's dropping to his knees beside her, his strong hands hovering over her shoulders like he wants to touch her but isn't sure if he should.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he says, his voice gentle but urgent. "I need you to look at me."

She tries to focus on his face, but everything keeps swimming in and out. His green eyes are wide with concern, and there's something else there—fear. Dean Winchester, afraid. That makes everything worse somehow.

"Can't... can't breathe," she manages to gasp out between the short, sharp breaths that aren't doing anything.

"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're breathing right now. I can hear you breathing. But we need to slow it down, okay? We need to get you breathing normal again."

He settles onto the floor beside her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Look at me. Just me. Forget everything else. It's just you and me down here."

His voice is steady, calm, nothing like the Dean who jokes and deflects and hides behind bravado. This is the Dean who patched up her scraped knees when she was little, who taught her to drive, who's pulled her out of more dangerous situations than she can count.

"I'm gonna put my hand on your chest, okay?" he says, waiting for some sign of permission. When she manages a tiny nod, his palm settles over her sternum, steady and warm. "Feel that? That's me. I'm right here. You're safe."

But she's not safe. The ghost could come back. There could be others. The walls are still too close, the air still too thin, her heart still beating like a jackhammer.

"She's gone," Dean says, reading her thoughts in the way only he can. "I salted and burned her bones while Sam was searching upstairs. Found them buried under the floor in the old office. That's why she was so strong down here—we were practically standing on top of her remains."

His other hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Breathe with me, sweetheart. In through your nose, slow and steady. Can you do that for me?"

She tries to match his breathing, but it's like trying to control a runaway train. Her body won't listen to what her mind is telling it to do.

"It's okay," Dean soothes. "Panic attacks are a bitch. Had my share of them after Dad died. Feels like you're dying, right? Like you're having a heart attack or something?"

She nods frantically, grateful that he understands, that he's not telling her to just calm down or get over it.

"But you're not dying," he continues, his voice never wavering. "Your heart's working fine. Your lungs are working fine. Your brain's just convinced there's danger when there isn't anymore. It's like a car alarm that won't shut off."

He shifts slightly, and she realizes he's positioned himself between her and the rest of the basement, his body a shield between her and any potential threats. The simple gesture helps more than all his words combined.

"Sam's upstairs keeping watch," Dean says. "No one's getting past him to get to us. And no ghosts are getting past me to get to you. You're safe. I promise you're safe."

Slowly, incrementally, her breathing begins to slow. It's still too fast, still too shallow, but it's progress. Dean keeps his hand on her chest, monitoring each breath, his presence an anchor in the storm of her panic.

"There you go," he murmurs encouragingly. "That's better. Keep going."

The tingling in her hands starts to fade, and she can feel her fingers again. The basement stops spinning quite so violently. She's still scared, still on edge, but the crushing certainty that she's about to die begins to recede.

"Dean," she whispers, the first clear word she's managed since he found her.

"Yeah, I'm here," he says immediately. "I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm sorry, I couldn't fight her, I dropped my weapon, I couldn't even call for help-"

"Stop." Dean's voice is firm but not harsh. "You don't apologize for having a panic attack. You don't apologize for being human."

He helps her shift position slightly, and she winces as the movement pulls at her injured ribs. His jaw tightens when he sees the blood on her shirt.

"How bad?" she asks, looking down at the damage.

"Probably need a few stitches," Dean says, gently lifting the torn fabric to examine the wounds. "But nothing life-threatening. What else hurts?"

"My back," she admits. "Hit the wall pretty hard."

Dean's expression darkens. "That bitch threw you around like a rag doll. Should've gotten down here sooner."

"You couldn't have known," she says, but he shakes his head.

"Should've known something was wrong when your radio went dead. Should've come looking immediately."

She can see the guilt settling over his features, the self-recrimination that's as much a part of Dean Winchester as his green eyes and his leather jacket. He'll carry this, blame himself for not being there, just like he always does.

"Hey," she says softly, borrowing his own technique. "Look at me."

His eyes snap to hers, and she sees her own fear reflected back at her, along with something fiercer—love, protectiveness, the bone-deep need to keep her safe that's driven him since the day she was born.

"This isn't your fault," she tells him. "I'm okay. We're okay."

Dean's throat works as he swallows hard. "When I heard that scream and then your radio went dead... Christ, kiddo. I thought I'd lost you."

"But you didn't," she reminds him. "You found me. You saved me."

"You saved yourself," Dean says. "You survived. That's all you, sweetheart."

Her breathing is almost normal now, though her heart is still beating faster than it should. The panic has receded to a manageable level, leaving her exhausted but clear-headed.

"Think you can stand?" Dean asks. "Want to get you out of this basement and somewhere with better light so I can patch you up properly."

With his help, she manages to get to her feet. Her legs are shaky, and the movement sends a sharp pain through her ribs, but she's upright. Dean keeps one arm around her waist, supporting most of her weight.

"Take your time," he says when she sways slightly. "No rush."

As they make their way slowly toward the stairs, Dean scoops up her dropped weapon and tucks it into his jacket. His radio crackles, and Sam's voice comes through clearly.

"Dean? Everything okay down there?"

"We're good," Dean responds. "Found her. She's hurt but mobile. We're coming up."

"Copy that. I'll get the first aid kit ready."

The stairs seem impossibly steep, but Dean takes them one at a time, never rushing her, his arm steady around her waist. By the time they reach the main floor, some of her strength has returned, though she's still grateful for his support.

Sam is waiting near the entrance, first aid kit in hand, his face creased with worry. His relief when he sees her is palpable.

"What happened down there?" he asks, falling into step beside them as Dean guides her toward the exit.

"Pissed off spirit with anger management issues," Dean says tersely. "She took a beating, but she'll be fine."

She knows there's more to it than that—the panic attack, the way she completely fell apart—but Dean doesn't mention it, and she's grateful. Sam doesn't need to know about every moment of weakness, every time she proves she's not as strong as her brothers.

Outside, the fresh air hits her lungs like a blessing. The warehouse had felt like a tomb, but out here under the open sky, she can breathe again. Dean helps her sit on the Impala's bumper while Sam sets up the first aid supplies on the trunk.

"This is gonna sting," Dean warns as he cleans the cuts on her ribs. She hisses at the bite of antiseptic, but it's nothing compared to the ghost's claws.

"Could've been worse," Sam observes, examining her back. "Bruising's already starting, but I don't think anything's broken."

Dean works with practiced efficiency, stitching up the deeper cuts and bandaging the rest. His hands are gentle but sure, and she finds herself relaxing under his care. This is familiar territory—patching each other up after hunts, taking inventory of injuries, grateful to be alive for another day.

"There," Dean says finally, taping down the last bandage. "Good as new. Well, mostly."

"Thanks," she says, meaning it for more than just the medical attention. For finding her. For talking her through the panic attack. For not making her feel weak or broken.

"Always," Dean replies simply, and she knows he understands.

As Sam packs up the first aid kit and Dean helps her into the passenger seat, she catches his arm.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, I get the offices upstairs."

Dean's mouth quirks in the first real smile she's seen from him all day. "Deal. But only if you promise to keep your radio on."

"Promise," she says, settling back against the seat as he closes her door.

Through the windshield, she watches her brothers move around the car, discussing the hunt in low voices. Sam glances toward her occasionally, still worried, while Dean's posture remains tense, protective. They'll hover for the next few days, she knows, finding excuses to check on her, making sure she's really okay.

And for once, she doesn't mind. The panic attack showed her something she'd been trying to ignore—that she's not invincible, that sometimes the monsters get the better of her, that sometimes her own mind is the biggest threat of all.

But it also showed her something else: that she's not alone. That when the walls close in and the darkness becomes too much, there will always be someone coming to find her. Someone who won't let her fall apart completely, who'll sit with her in the wreckage and help her put the pieces back together.

As the Impala rumbles to life and Dean pulls away from the warehouse, she closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Simple. Steady. Safe.

The panic attack is over, but the memory of it lingers—not the terror, but the aftermath. Dean's hand on her chest, his voice in the darkness, the absolute certainty that he would never let anything happen to her.

Sometimes that has to be enough. Sometimes it's everything.

[neochan]

FAULT LINE (M) - TEASER

PAIRING. ex!haechan x reader

GENRE. exes to lovers, toxic relationship, smut, plot of sorts, street racer au (barely)

WARNINGS. toxicity, smut mentions

WC. teaser is 1.1k

A. NOTE. so i needed a break from the pick me chronicles and stumbled across this type of hyuck characterization!

"where the fuck are you at?"

blearily blinking, you take a look around. when did you step outside? you think as hard as you can, but nothings coming too. you're drunk. very drunk.

people littered the front of the club - some waiting on ubers, others making out. but you - why were you out here? where were your friends?

"y/n. tell me where the fuck you are."

oh shit.

the phone pressed to your ear brings you back into a sort of semi-focus. you faintly remember crying to a random stranger in the bathroom about your recent break up. the poor girl had reassured you that everything would be okay, but you barely recall pushing her aside and mumbling something about calling your ex to make up.

that was until you had caught the attention of a guy at the bar and ended up doing green tea shots with him.

oh.

oh shit.

okay yeah, every memory was bombarding you now.

if the the still sticky cum dribbling down your thighs didn't serve as a reminder, than the memory of him pressing your hips against the porcelain sink while he fucked into you should have.

"y/n?"

and then you stepped outside to call your ex because. . . you felt bad? yeah you felt bad.

his voice was becoming more impatient with each passing silent second.

"hy-uck?" you hiccup.

he sighs, "god, i thought you passed out or something."

he didn't sound mad. had you already told him what you did? you can't remember.

"hyuck." the whimper trembles from your lips, "i need you."

"i know, that's why you called me." he seems to be fumbling around with something on his end, the muffled strain of his voice giving it away. "baby, where are you? i called you earlier but you didn't hit me back."

tears start to well in your eyes as you press against the brick wall of the club.

"i went out dancing and i did something bad. i-i'm sorry." your words are slurring together and it's becoming harder to breathe. "i didn't mean to, he- he just. . ." your voice trails off in a whisper.

"he? who the fuck are you with?" the jangle of keys sounds on the other line, a few seconds later accompanied by the slam of haechans front door. his temper is rising. he knows he should calm down. shit, he's probably scaring you bad right now, but the thought of you with another guy? you broke up two days ago. why the fuck would you be with another guy.

"i fucked up, hyuck."

"this isn't a game. send me your fucking address." the purr of his car engine rumbles through the phone.

shakily, you take the phone from your ear and send him your location.

"i'll be there in five." another sigh on his end... "if i see whoever this guy is, i'm not sure i'd be able to stop myself from killing him."

you hiccup, "yeah, i know."

four minutes and thirty eight seconds later a black ford shelby GT500 screeches to a halt against the curb.

through blurry eyes, you watch as grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt approach your slouched figure. his jaw is set, eyebrows drawn up - yet you feel nothing but relief.

"jesus, how much did you fucking drink?" he scoops you up in his arms to help you stand despite your wobbly frame. the earth is swimming in your frame with each step you take, but being pressed against his lean body grounds you. so does the cologne doting his chest - so familiar and warm, you press your nose into his t-shirt.

"you smell good." you hum.

"thanks." he peers down at you with a curiosity you don't notice. maybe the breakup affected you way more than he thought because he's never seen you this fucked up. "theres a curb right here, be careful."

deep in your muddled brain, you want to kiss him and thank him for coming to get you - for actually being worried about you for once.

but you don't.

instead, you climb into the rich leather interior of his car and settle back. it stings, being back in a place you once felt so comfortable in. tears pinprick the corner of your eyes for a quick second, but you blink them away. you just let hyuck reach across your chest and buckle you in.

"hyuck i'm sorry."

his gaze fall to yours, millions of emotions lurking deep in those luminous doe eyes. you look nearly innocent and he felt bad.

he swears underneath his breath, "your guilty conscious is gonna be the death of me."

a shaky hand reaches out to touch his cheek. a familiar gesture you can't yet get rid of - not when he's three inches away from you. "hyuck-"

"fuck this." he pulls back and cards a hand through his hair. "what were you doing with another guy?"

"we- we were doing shots and -"

"how many." he breathes.

"a couple? i don't know, maybe. . . maybe three?"

a forced huff leaves his chest, "three shots with a fucking stranger?"

"hyuck, i said i'm sorry-" your hands twist regrettably in your lap.

"yeah yeah, and then what?" he's leaning against the passenger doorframe, leg bouncing right next to you.

"and then he took me into the bathroom and we fucked."

a few seconds of silence. you try to face him. you can't. why did everything have to be so complicated.

"you fucked another guy but called me to come get you?" he sneers. he has to have lost all respect for you. there's no way he hasn't.

"i'm sorr-"

"i get it. you're sorry." he pushes off the doorframe and starts to pace. "what's his name?"

the lump in your throat grows when you realize you never caught his name. "i don't know."

"you don't know? so you fucked a complete stranger?" a laugh rips from his throat, "this is unbelievable."

"can we just go? please."

he ignores your question and presses you further, "what does he look like?"

"hyuck no. please, can we go."

each word is punctuated by the grit in his teeth. "what does he fucking look like."

it was futile to argue with hyuck when he got this way. he was gonna find out who this guy was either way.

"pink hair, silver button down, black pants, expensive watch. probably drinking green tea shots." the details of the night might have been distorted, but you could have picked out this handsome stranger in a line up.

"stay right here. i'll be back."

"no! hyu-" your cry is cut off by the slam of your door. anxiously, you watch his lithe figure move past the bouncer and into the club. a sinking feeling falls in the pit of your stomach.

what the fuck did you do.

ANOTHER NOTE. is this worth continuing? let me know if it is :)

[pascaloverx]

Moonlight

Summary: You and Edward Cullen used to have a romantic relationship. But fate seemed not to believe in the possibility of a vampire and a potential she-wolf being together. Years after your separation, you return to Forks. Edward is committed to Bella Swan, and Jacob Black has his own pack. What happens when, upon your return, you begin to transform into a she-wolf and both Edward and Jacob seem eager to revisit the past with you?

Author's Note: The characters in this fanfic do not belong to me but to Stephenie Meyer and the Twilight universe. The story blends events that happened in the Twilight saga movies with invented ones. If you're enjoying the fanfic, please interact. This story will contain inappropriate language, a possible love triangle, scenes of violence, and romance. This is the possible ending. If there are no further interactions or if no more chapters are desired, consider this the conclusion. I hope you enjoy it.

ELEVEN THIRTEEN

TWELVE (FINAL)

Surprisingly, your pack agreed to attend your wedding with Edward. Most of them seem intent on going to ensure your safety in case anything goes wrong, but nearly all are curious to witness your union with a vampire. You pace nervously through Jacob's house, waiting for him and Mr. Black to get ready. Leah left with Bella to find an outfit for her, as going all the way to her house would take too long.

"Jacob, you're taking longer than I normally do to get ready. Are you trying to outshine the groom?" you call out from the living room, your tone laced with mock exasperation.

"Don’t make me laugh, Y/N. I’m already better than your groom without even trying," Jacob responds, stepping into view as he finishes adjusting his shirt.

You can't help but laugh at how clumsy he looks, fumbling with his tie and jacket. "Come here, you idiot. Let me help," you say, moving closer to fix his tie and smooth out the creases in his suit. Jacob stands still, watching you with a smirk as you fuss over his appearance. "What would I do without you?" he teases, his tone light but warm.

"Probably die without me. Fortunately for you, I'll be around for a very long time," you say with a smirk, though you suddenly feel a wave of dizziness wash over you. Jacob quickly steadies you, his hands firm yet gentle as his expression shifts to one of concern. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?" he asks, brushing a thumb against your cheek in a rare display of tenderness.

"I'm fine," you reply, forcing a smile. "I think it's just nerves. Marrying a vampire isn't exactly low-stress, you know," you add, trying to steer the conversation away from your discomfort. The truth, however, gnaws at you. Something feels off. Not just nerves—something deeper, something unfamiliar. But for now, you push it aside, unwilling to alarm Jacob or admit even to yourself that it might be more than pre-wedding jitters.

"There’s no need to worry. Everything will work out, and if it doesn’t, I’ll take you far away from Forks myself. Your safety is my priority," Jacob says, pulling you into a warm embrace. His unwavering support tugs at your emotions, and for a fleeting moment, you feel tears welling up.

"You’re my family, Black," you whisper, your voice thick with sentiment. "And you’re mine," he replies, tightening his hold on you.

Clearing your throat, you step back and try to lighten the mood. "We need to leave soon. I still need to get ready, and Alice has already sent me about ten thousand texts. Apparently, she’s got the perfect dress for me, and even Rosalie is helping." Jacob rolls his eyes dramatically. "Just so we’re clear, you’re the only family I’ve got. The Cullens aren’t included in that deal."

You laugh, playfully smacking his arm. "Fine, fine, but you’ll have to behave at the wedding." Your laughter is interrupted as Bella walks in, wearing one of Leah’s dresses. Her hair is done, her makeup simple but elegant, and the transformation is enough to render Jacob momentarily speechless.

"Wow, Bella. You look... amazing," he says, his voice softer than usual. Bella blushes slightly under his gaze, giving a shy smile. You can’t help but feel a little amused watching the dynamic unfold, but time is pressing. "Alright, let’s go before Alice starts threatening to come here herself," you say, ushering everyone toward the door.

"Leah asked me to let you know she'll be a bit late because Seth disappeared to find something blue for you to wear. She had to go after him," Bella says, her gaze lingering on you and Jacob with a thoughtful expression.

"I think we should get going; Seth and Leah can catch up," Jacob says, and you agree. You need to head to the Cullens' house to get ready for the ceremony.

"I feel like you're forgetting someone, Black. Your father isn’t even finished getting ready yet," you say, raising your voice just enough for Mr. Black to hear. Moments later, he appears in the living room, seated in his wheelchair, dressed in formal attire.

"Tell him, Y/N, that he should remember his father instead of trying to rush out," Billy Black says, gently tapping the wheel of his chair against Jacob's leg. Jacob quickly apologizes for overlooking his father.

"Dear, I’m certain that if your parents were here, they’d be proud of how far you’ve come," Billy says, holding your hand, and you feel a lump rise in your throat, almost bringing you to tears.

"Well, Dad, I’m not so sure they’d be all that proud, considering she’s about to marry a vampire," Jacob says, shattering the emotional moment. Bella smacks him on the back of the head and snaps, "Shut up, Jake."

"I think we should head out already; Alice has sent me another thousand messages asking when I’ll arrive," you say, holding your phone. Shortly after, most of your pack begins making their way to the wedding near the Cullen house. Leah texts to let you know she still hasn’t found Seth but will make it to the ceremony soon.

You arrive quickly, and before you know it, Alice and Jasper whisk you away to a room in the Cullen house where you’ll be getting ready for the wedding. In no time, you’ve showered and are dressed in a stunning wedding gown while Alice applies your makeup and Rosalie works on your hair.

"I don’t see the need for all this fuss, but I do appreciate your help," you say, trying to stay still as Alice finishes your makeup.

"I’m only doing this because my family asked me to. Honestly, I think you should just back out," Rosalie says as she ties up the final touches of your hairstyle.

"Rosalie, give it a rest!" Alice snaps, shooting her a slightly irritated look. "The rest of our family is eager to welcome you as part of this wonderfully dysfunctional family," Alice says, pulling you into a side hug, careful not to ruin your makeup.

"It's all right, Alice; Rosalie’s comments only make me feel like we’re truly family. After all, no family always agrees with everything you do," you say, noticing that you’re finally ready to get married. Honestly, you look like a princess.

"Edward is a lucky man," Rosalie says abruptly before leaving the room.

"I think she’ll warm up to you eventually," Alice remarks as the two of you watch Rosalie step out.

"I hope so," you reply, standing up from the chair as Alice picks up the veil to place over you.

"Let’s go. Edward must be anxious," Alice says as she carefully sets the veil and accompanies you to where the ceremony will take place.

Everyone is there, seated on wooden benches, the aesthetic simple yet beautiful. Everything feels improvised yet sophisticated. Jacob offers you his arm to walk you to Edward, as if he is officially giving his blessing for your union. Edward’s face lights up with a radiant smile as you walk toward him, passing by the wedding guests seated along the aisle.

"You look beautiful," he says as soon as you reach him, placing a soft kiss on your cheek. You feel the urge to cry from sheer emotion as everyone settles in, preparing for the start of the ceremony.

"We are all gathered here to celebrate the union of two beings destined for hatred, who, amidst rancor and discord, found love. Not merely love that was rushed or fleeting, but a love that Edward and Y/N chose to nurture and allow to mature, waiting until they knew it would only enrich their lives," Carlisle says, his voice calm and steady. You and Edward can't take your eyes off each other.

"Edward Cullen, do you take Y/N to be your wife?" Carlisle asks. "I do," Edward replies, his smile unwavering as he finds your hands and holds them gently.

"Y/N, do you take Edward to be your husband?" Carlisle asks, his tone as warm as ever. "I do," you respond, leaning in to kiss Edward as a wave of pure joy washes over you.

But just as your lips meet, Leah bursts onto the scene. Her dress is torn and bloodied, her face a mask of rage. "You damned Cullen, what did you do to Seth?" she screams, her voice echoing through the space. Before you can react, Leah throws Edward with immense force, sending him flying across the clearing. Chaos erupts as gasps and shouts fill the air.

"Leah, calm yourself," you say, moving toward her with some difficulty due to the weight of your wedding dress. "Do you want to start a war here?" you murmur, gripping her tightly to stop her from advancing toward any other Cullen.

The Cullens are visibly on edge. Jasper has already disappeared to check on Edward, who was thrown far across the clearing. Rosalie stands defensively, her expression a mix of anger and wariness.

"They—those damned vampires—started this war, Y/N!" Leah growls, struggling against your hold, her gaze locked on Rosalie.

"What are you talking about?" Jacob interjects, stepping in to help you restrain Leah as she begins to calm, though her breathing remains ragged with fury.

"Seth was attacked. By a vampire," Leah snaps, her voice laced with rage. "Sam took him to the hospital, but the worst part? He muttered 'Cullen' before he lost consciousness." The accusation hangs in the air like a dark cloud. A stunned silence falls over the crowd, broken only by the sound of Rosalie’s sharp inhale and Esme’s quiet gasp.

"I understand that you want to avenge your brother, but think for a moment. If you attack any of them, you'll start a war, you don't know if you can win. Please remember that your brother needs you," you say, locking eyes with Leah. The tension around you is palpable, as if everyone is on the verge of striking.

"Are you taking their side, Y/N?" Leah growls, nearly baring her teeth as she steps toward you. "Leah, she's just trying to keep you alive," Jacob interjects, positioning himself protectively between the two of you. The three of you stand together, almost like a united front.

"I will stand by you, Leah; we are a pack," you say firmly, your voice unwavering. "But think this through. I don’t want anyone getting hurt. There's a human here."

Leah narrows her eyes, her rage simmering but tempered by your words. "Fine. I’ll leave, but this is far from over. And you—" she points at you with conviction, "I hope you truly stand by me, Y/N." With that, she turns and stalks away.

"Jacob, take the pack out of here. I’ll follow you shortly," you say to Black, the weariness in your tone unmistakable. Jacob hesitates for a moment but, realizing this isn’t the time for arguments, nods and begins ushering the others away.

When you turn back, the Cullens are all standing still, watching you in silence—everyone except Emmett, who is nowhere to be seen. Bella is speaking quietly to Edward, whose expression is a mixture of worry and frustration.

"Tell me you don’t believe I hurt Seth," Edward finally says, his golden eyes fixed on you as he steps forward, the world around you seemingly forgotten in his determined stride.

"What I believe is irrelevant," you reply, your tone steady yet firm. "A wolf was attacked by a vampire, and your family’s name is involved. Until Seth can clarify what happened, we can’t take any risks." You barely finish your sentence before Edward’s hands gently cradle your face, as though he’s searching your expression for any trace of doubt or mistrust.

Edward moves toward you and presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sudden; yet, for some inexplicable reason, you push him away, almost as though defending yourself from a threat that does not exist.

“Sorry, I…” you begin, searching for the right words, but he raises a hand, signaling that no justification is needed.

“You’ll choose them over me, as you did before,” Edward murmurs. It’s not a question, but a statement—one laced with disappointment.

“That’s not the point here,” you protest, adjusting yourself and reaching for him, but he steps back, putting space between you.

“I want you to leave,” Edward says firmly, his decision clear. You don’t fully understand him, but you don’t think anything you say now could undo the damage done.

"There's no need to say it twice," you respond to Edward, a certain anger lacing your voice. It feels like the end of your relationship, but it is far more significant than that. The end of love.

"Edward, Y/N, I believe you are both acting in the heat of the moment. Surely, by tomorrow..." Carlisle attempts to mediate, but you can only glare at Edward, fury burning in your eyes. He was the one who sent you away, after all.

"There will be no tomorrow, Carlisle. Thank your family for their hospitality, but from this moment on, we are all enemies," you declare as you turn to leave. What had become an almost definitive goodbye—or so you thought.

Edward's disappointed gaze lingered with you throughout the year you spent away from Forks. You had to flee what had started to feel like home for a reason far greater than Seth being attacked. During that year of absence, you maintained no contact with any of the Cullens, while both the wolves and vampires found themselves in their most chaotic period. Until Seth could awaken, the Quileutes and Cullens struck a fragile agreement to avoid each other. From what you heard, Leah despised the arrangement. But as far as you know, it worked. Once you left, you heard nothing more of Edward or his family.

"Look who’s awake, " Jacob says, rocking Jace in his arms as the baby sucks on his tiny fingers. Your son, Jace, only a few months old—a hybrid of vampire and wolf—is the very reason you had to flee Forks and never returned to see his father.

"Your uncle disturbed your sleep, my son. Such a mean uncle," you say, swatting Jacob's arm lightly before taking Jace from him and holding your baby close. Jace smiles, amused by the interaction. You glance at Jacob, noticing his expression has turned serious, as though he’s hiding something."Spit it out!" you demand, cradling your son.

"I got a message from Sam. Apparently, Seth woke up, and he wants to talk to you," Jacob says, his voice tinged with nervousness, knowing the weight of what it would mean to show up in Forks now—especially with Jace. You had moved to a small house in Brazil, all in an effort to stay far away from anyone.

"This will put Jace's safety at risk, but if Seth needs me to go there to put an end to all this animosity, then that’s what we’ll do," you say to Jacob as the two of you watch baby Jace babble nonsensical sounds.

"To the rest of the world, Jace will be our son, and we’ll leave Forks just as quickly as we arrive. Agreed?" you confirm with Jacob. He gently takes Jace’s tiny hand in his own and replies, "Agreed."

END OR NO...?

[celestialseawitch-ff]

🌹🌹🌹 I'm not sure if I'm doing this right but I really love your harry potter stories!!

Thank you so much!!

For context: Leta is Hermione, but James does not yet know her name is actually Hermione 😉

“I'm allergic!” she exclaimed and James’ heart dropped into his stomach. 

He surged forward and helped her pull the soiled robes off. 

“Fuck. Padfoot, you're such a fucking idiot,” he hissed as he tossed her robes away. 

Leta made a noise of distress. “It soaked through.”

“Fuck!”

James stripped off his own robes. Her tie was tossed aside and then she was undoing her school blouse. James’ stomach twisted at the red and irritated skin that was revealed. He pressed his robes against her skin and tried to mop up the excess liquid. 

Leta hissed. “The fabric. It's too rough.”

James dropped his robes and undid his tie. He pulled his shirt over his head and the two of them pressed it against her irritated skin.

“I know a spell that will help.”

She nodded quickly. James fumbled for his wand and cast the spell his mother taught him for the rashes he used to get when he went and played in the grass fields surrounding Tetwell Town.

Leta released a breath of relief.

“Better?”

She nodded and lowered the fabric. A lace white bra was revealed and for the first time, James realised that she was half naked in front of him. He almost swallowed his tongue as he took in her soft, tanned skin. She had beauty marks on her chest and shoulders. One on her waist that he wanted to taste. Christ, he could see her nipples through her lace bra. 

She looked up at him. “Thanks,” she said weakly, cheeks pink.

“Don't thank me. My best friend is an idiot.”

“He has a unique way of showing he cares,” she allowed.

James snorted. “That's putting it extremely kindly.” James glanced down at her chest again before looking away as he ran a hand through his hair. “Let me transfigure you something to wear. You can go to the hospital wing and get that checked out.”

“Oh, I'll be fine.” She offered him his shirt and he took it, face hot. 

The door opened suddenly.

James’ head whipped around and felt his stomach drop at the gasps of students beyond the door. 

“Mr. Potter!” Professor Slughorn exclaimed. “And Miss Lestrange? My word!”

James stepped in front of Leta to block her from view. 

“Put your clothes on! Alright. Alright! Go on then! Back to class! I think you've all seen enough.”

“Professor, this isn't what it looks like,” James insisted.

Professor Slughorn raised his eyebrows. “I think it's quite clear what this is. Quite clear!”

James shrugged on his shirt, hearing Leta do the same behind him. She pushed his robes into his hand and the two of them exited out into the hallway. The students were still dispersing. They whispered and giggled loudly at the sight of the two of them. 

James glanced over at Leta and winced. Her face and neck were flushed from the potion and her hair was anything but its usual perfect coils. She looked like she'd been getting up to no good in that closet with him. 

Merlin, what a mess.

[leiawritesstories]

Mom, Please!

@throneofglassmicrofics August prompts "Lake" & "Splash"

Word count: ~1k if you squint 😂

Warnings: swearing, teenage antics, Rowan getting grey hairs from stress

Enjoy!!!

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

"I hear footsteps," Aelin mumbled, half-drowsy.

"Go back to sleep, Fireheart," Rowan mumbled back, burying his face in her hair. "It's probably just a rabbit or something."

"At---" She cracked her eyes open and stared at the fuzzy numbers on the clock across the bedroom. "One in the morning?"

"Mmmh, fine." Her husband attempted to push himself upright and flopped back into bed with a groan. "Dammit!"

She kissed his shoulder. "Don't throw your back out, old man. I'll go check on things." Aelin pushed herself out of bed and tucked the covers up over her sleepy, grumpy husband, who grumbled something about I'll show you a thrown-out back as she stepped into her slippers and crept out of their bedroom.

The hallway of the lakeside cabin was dark and silent, broken by strips of silvery moonlight filtering in through the skylights. Aelin came into the living room and paused, wondering why the hell the sliding door that led to the patio was cracked open. Had one of the kids forgotten to close it?

And there were those damn footsteps again.

Slowly, she crept up to the windows and nudged the curtain aside just enough to peer out and find---"Gods above, Mom!"

"Holy shit, Lana!" Aelin and her oldest daughter screeched at each other at the same time, and Aelin leapt back from the window as if it had slapped her, wishing she could scrub the sight of Lana and her boyfriend playing tonsil hockey out of her eyes. "Fucking hell," she groaned, rubbing at her eyes with both hands. "It's too damn late for this."

There was a rustling outside the house, and a very sheepish Lana snuck back inside through the patio door to find her mother sitting on the couch with her head buried in her hands. "Mom?" she ventured. "Are you...okay?"

Aelin grumbled something incoherent in reply.

Lana discreetly tugged her sweatshirt's hood up, relying on the shadows it cast over her neck. "Um, Mom?"

"I'm fine," Aelin mumbled. "Just gonna have to tell Yrene about this. You could've at least mentioned that Cal's family was here too."

"I didn't know he'd be here," Lana whispered, blushing an adorably bright pink. "He surprised me."

"Pebbles on your window and all that romantic shit?" Aelin teased.

Lana grinned, her smile a mirror of her mom's. "Yeah."

"Can't hardly blame you, then." Aelin stood up. "Well, I'm going to bed before your overbearing father decides I've been gone for too long and hurts himself trying to find his way down the hall in the dark. G'night, sweetheart."

Rowan, of course, was awake when she came back into the bedroom, fumbling for his glasses. "Stop that, buzzard."

He sighed and flopped back into bed. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, just Lana and Cal tangling tongues out behind the patio." She turned onto her side and fluffed up her pillows.

Strangled wheezing erupted from Rowan, and Aelin flipped back over to rub her husband's back until his shock dissipated. "The fuck?" he croaked.

She chuckled and handed him his water. "You know, Lana's boyfriend?"

"I know who," Rowan grumbled. "When? How? Why?"

"Ro, honey, you really don't want me to answer any of that." She kissed his forehead. "Go back to sleep, love."

~

The summer sun shone brightly over the lake, and Aelin lounged comfortably in her chair, enjoying the warmth and the laughter surrounding her family.

"Owww! Get away from me!" The shrill shriek was accompanied by a pair of feet sprinting towards Aelin and a smaller body taking refuge behind her chair. "Mom, Bran keeps shooting his stupid water gun at my face!" It was Charlotte, their third child.

"It's not my fault you're afraid of your stupid lashes falling off!" Bran, who was nearly sixteen, yelled back at his younger sister.

Indignant, Charlotte gasped and stood up, planting her hands on her hips. At fourteen and a half, she was the most strongly opinionated of the Whitethorn kids, and she wasn't afraid to show it. "You take that back!" she demanded, and when Bran told her to make him, she picked up a nearby bucket and headed for him.

Aelin opened her eyes and watched her wildfire daughter dump a whole bucket of lake water over her oldest son's head, which resulted in him screaming like a little girl because a frog had happened to be in the bucket and had now found a new home in the back of Bran's swim trunks. She chuckled to herself.

"Kids these days," Lana fake-sighed as she walked past, three more baby frogs cradled carefully in her hands.

"Says the kid who snuck her boyfriend over in the middle of the night," Aelin deadpanned.

Lana's face went scarlet. "Mom, please! Everyone can hear!"

"Just like last night," Aelin added. She winked. "Uncle Fen would be so proud of you, sweetheart."

"Oh my gods," Lana groaned. "You're the---"

"Are those frogs?" A younger voice broke into the conversation, eager eyes peering at Lana's hands. Rielle Whitethorn, the older of the twins by three and a half minutes, jumped up, trying to see the little frogs as Lana put her hands up higher. "I wanna see the frogs, Lana!"

"Shhh!" Lana shot a look over towards where Bran and Charlotte had moved their water gun fight into the lake, joined by Cal and two of his brothers. "I'm gonna dump them on Bran's head." She winked at her little sister. "Wanna join?"

"Hell yeah!"

Aelin lowered her sunglasses. "Rielle Enna Whitethorn!"

"Sorry, Mom." Rielle was ten, and she and her twin brother Declan were like sponges around the older siblings that they idolized. She ran off, following Lana down to the lake, and Aelin watched with her smile hidden behind her book as the two of them crept up behind Bran and successfully released the frogs onto his head.

He howled and scrambled frantically, arms flailing, until he finally gave up and ducked beneath the water to get the frogs off of his head. Aelin snickered, beyond pleased that her children had inherited her fondness for fun little pranks.

Down in the lake, Cal slung his arm around Lana, and she rested her head on his shoulder and smirked up at him. He leaned down, whispered something in her ear that made her shake with laughter, and pressed his---

"Gods above," Aelin groaned, shoving her face into her book.

Not again.

~~~

TAGS:

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@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

[sexisbetteronthemoon]

i was rereading this fic and i love that i included Hunk and Shay in this. best decision ever.

“Uh, I'll try to have your car ready soon,” Keith told Lance.  He seemed to press his hands more deeply into his pockets.  Lance thought he might tear right through them.  “If you've got any questions, you can just call the shop and ask for me.” “Sure,” Lance said.  “Thank you for this.  For bringing me.  And for earlier.” “Of course,” Keith said earnestly.  His dark eyes were fixed upon Lance's, unwavering and deep.  “Anytime.” Lance wanted to believe he meant that. “What if I've got a question while you're not at work?” Lance asked, deciding he might as well try. Keith blinked at him. “There's an answering machine,” he blankly replied.  “Or someone'll take a message.” “Right,” Lance said.  “But what if it's urgent?” “Urgent car questions?” Keith said, brow creasing in confusion. “Never mind,” Lance said, laughing in embarrassment.  “Right, so I'll just leave a message if something comes up.” “Sure —” Keith cut himself off and something seemed to click.  His eyes widened and he seemed to lean closer to Lance, a smile beginning to pull at the edges of his lips.  “Or, well, actually, maybe I could give you my number —” An abrupt chirp interrupted him, and Keith went still before his jaw tensed considerably and he reached into his pocket.  He pulled out his phone and frowned at it as it continued chirping.  He looked at Lance, back at his phone, and smiled tightly. “Sorry, I gotta take this,” he said.  “Excuse me.”  He stepped aside and jabbed at his phone.  Then Lance heard him hiss, “Shiro, I swear to god, someone better be dying —”  And then he grew too far to overhear. “That was painful to watch,” Hunk muttered, and Lance blushed as he turned to pout at him.  “What?” Hunk said.  “It was.  It was like watching two high schoolers fumble around with their feelings.  You just met this guy today?  How are you this smitten already?” “Hunk!” Lance gasped in betrayal.  “You're supposed to be my bro!” “And as your bro,” Hunk said, “I'm telling you that was hilariously embarrassing to watch.” Lance gasped, mortally offended. “I think it is adorable you have a crush,” Shay said, lightly teasing and patting his shoulder.  Lance turned betrayed eyes onto her as well, but did not have the heart to scold her.  Shay was so sweet and she meant every word she said with utmost love and kindness.  He just could not say a word against her. Lance sighed, and before he could say anything, Keith was rushing back to them, expression serious. “I'm sorry, I have to go,” he said as he climbed onto his bike and slapped on the helmet.  He started the engine at once, not even waiting for an answer.  “It was great meeting you all.  Sorry, again.”  And then he sped away so fast, he was a blur.  Lance was pretty sure motorcycles were not supposed to be that fast that quick.  He blinked after him, feeling at a loss. “Oh, that is a shame,” Shay said.  “Are you alright, Lance?” “I'm fine,” Lance sighed.  “Bummed out, but fine.” “What's with the jacket?” Hunk said then, and Lance looked down at himself, blinking. “Oh, he forgot his jacket!” Lance said, pulling it off and holding it out like Keith would race back for it.  He pouted when there was no sign of him. “Oh, but he will want it returned,” Shay said, a smile blossoming across her face.  “He may come back for it!” “And if not,” Hunk added as he started picking up Lance's things from the sidewalk, “you can always use it as an excuse to see him again!”  Shay walked over to take the books. “You're right,” Lance said, smiling to himself.

[mistkissedmoon]

Rebuilding Azarath

Raven visits azarath sometimes, to wander in between the wreckage of what used to be buildings, for a reason she doesnt know. Nostalgia? Punishment, and reminder both? Either way, she is obedient to her duties on earth and always precise in her timing, telling starfire how long she will stay beforehand and returning when she says she will, so starfire permits it with a worried frown that eases whenever robin asks to join her. Raven would accept his company for that alone, even if she didn't find his silent presence at her side grounding. He made time for her without complaint, even when she only gave him a few rushed minutes notice, until one day she knocked on his door and he opened it to reveal a packed bag on his bed.

Raven's stomach dropped, and Damian read her expression and frowned, stepping aside to let her in. "It's a mission in Gotham," he explained. He packed the last of his clothes and turns back to her. "I won't be gone for long." His eyes betrayed his concern, and raven straightened to reassure him. "I'll be fine. I'm just going to walk around for a bit, then I'll teleport back." 

She repeats it to herself firmly as her feet touch azarathian soil, but it's so much lonelier without Robin. She hadn't noticed how much easier it was to breathe, and take up space and make noise with him beside her. Slipping through the broken streets, raven felt as though she were choking on the silence. Her footsteps ring out unbearably loud in contrast to the silence, yet the noise didn't help her at all. It feels as if she is being rude by disturbing the silence, as if Azarath itself disdained her presence here. 

She frowns at the thought, before seeing if flying silently would help her feel a fraction of the serenity she felt with Damian's strength to lean against.

It doesn't.

She's wasting his time. 

Raven hovered outside Damian's door, willing herself to knock.

Why would he come with her, if he has anything else he could be doing? When before she hadn't even given him an hour's notice, certain she wouldn't mind if he joined her or not? 

She shuffled in place, before deciding, miserably, to leave. As she turned, his door opened, catching her off guard. Damian, looking unsurprised to see her, raised an eyebrow at her and she flushed, realising he had been waiting for her to knock.

"You must have something to say, after waiting so long at my door." Damian said dryly. Raven flushed deeper, and he leaned against the door, studying her expression as though he wanted to memorise it. His inspection made it harder for her blush to recede and she fumbled for an answer, before clearing her throat to compose herself. 

"Would you mind visiting Azarath with me?" It came out meeker than she intended, and she cleared her throat again in embarressment. There were so many explainations on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't want to pressure him into agreeing by telling him how much safer she felt when he was with her. Caught between the urge to defend her unexplainable need to visit azarath and the desire to tell him why she wanted his company, she wrested with her tongue and stared at the floor between them, too many thoughts in her head to say something coherant. 

"Of course I wouldn't mind." Raven peeked at his face and found his eyes softened and gentle. "If you give me enough warning, I'll try to rearrange my duties to go with you."

Raven felt warm. "Why did you come with me every time, even when I didn't give you warning?" She murmured. Although they were alone in the corridor, this moment felt intensely private and she leaned closer to him without thinking.

"You needed me." He said simply. "I won't let you down when you need me." Damian reached around her waist and gave her a quick hug that she leaned into. 

Though it takes courage, it becomes easier to ask for his company after that. He makes it so obvious that she's a priority. Damian is far too stubborn and perceptive to let her slip away. Raven loves him so much.

Raven waited patiently for damian to stand after he kneeled to check something in the dirt. It was commonplace, as her wanderings grew more like wanderings and less like feverish hauntings, for him to stop and inspect something he saw; a piece of rubble, a ruined sign in the dirt.

"Raven. Your father…" Damian hesitated before continuing, his voice toneless in a way that told her he was hiding nervousness, and she turned, alert and wary. He was still inspecting, or pretending to inspect the soil, and with his back turned to her she couldn't see his expression. "The soil may be useable a few centimeters below the surface. I believe the years have been enough time for it to recover, only the seeds were all destroyed. We could replace them, if you like." Raven froze, shocked. Azarath, blooming with life, again? After what she did to it? Could it recover - No. Nothing could ever make the ruins clean again. Would the monks have thought she was trying to absolve her guilt by growing a garden on their graves? Cowardice. She seethed with self loathing. "Raven. Breathe." Raven became aware of Damian's, warm, calloused hands cupping her face and her own panicked breathing. Tears pricked at her eyes and despite her best efforts, a few rolled down her cheeks. Damian's eyes stayed fixed to hers and in a bid to calm herself, she slowly leaned towards him until their foreheads were pressed together. Damian didn't move, though his eyes showed uncertainty, and after a few tear soaked minutes she took a deep, heaving breath and stepped away, honoured by his trust in her and embarressed that she broke down in front of him.

"Let me think about it." Raven croaked. Damian waited patiently as she tried to order her thoughts. She didn't know what the monks would have wanted. Years of guilt and avoiding thinking about them had made their memories so blurry she could barely remember their faces, and only the repeated lectures their stern voices drilled into her. Their lessons hadn't been enough to halt youthful foolishness, though they had tried their best to ensure she understood the inherent value found in living things. "A garden. I think they would have liked that." She rasped, finally. Damian didn't pry about who she was talking about, and stayed with her silently, sensing she needed a minute. A garden for them. They would want to be in a garden. It won't be for me, and I won't forget what i did. If you can hear me, she prayed, thank you, and I'm sorry.

The rows of potato plants looks strange against a backdrop of collapsed columns and crumbling stone stairs, but after so long with nothing but the ruin left in trigon's wake, raven is glad to see any life growing on azarath. It's a far sight from the elegantly draped flora that used to grace Azarath, but she was too young to remember the names of any plants before they were incinerated to look for them on earth and after, all that remained of them was ash. The thought of making the hollow corpse of Azarath into a copy of what it used to be makes raven shiver, anyway, and she hasn't figured out how to remember the old azarath without seeing her mother dying. Restoring azarath to what it was exactly would not help her; she already suffers through visions of the past superpositioned onto the present - where this monk died, and or that monk was cut down as he ran - where buildings survived enough to facismile an appearance of before and during. Damian's offer to ask swamp thing for any plants that might have been on Azarath was sweet, though, and Raven takes it as the offer of support it is, and breathes through the guilt he didn't mean to elict.

Instead, a sprawling, tangled web of pumpkin vines that neither of them remember buying shove their neighbors to make themselves comfortable in a large corner of the messy plot she and Damian had cleared of rubble to prepare for a small garden. They had tilled the soil, damian easily working through his half while she panted through hers. Her patch of ragged, overturned soil and untouched earth looks both freshly overturned and strangely methodical and uniform when she comes back from her break, and she shoots Damian a wry look that he pretends not to notice. She supposes she won't turn down his help on her side, though it hurts her pride, since her shoulders ache worse.

She silently planted Purple hyacinth for regret, and a few days after find blooming zinnias (remembrance, goodness, friendship) amongst her flowers. They bring a smile to her face, although she privately thinks damian esteems her too highly (he thinks the same of her).

She considers planting asphodel (my regrets follow you into the grave) but Damian has been determinedly trying to persuade her to grow spices for cooking with a ferocity that Raven privately finds adorable, and she aquieses in anticipation of the food he will feed her. She hopes the departed monks won't notice the difference between the plants.

Damian has been bringing Daylillies to fringe the edges. Raven admires the way the golden petals look in the sunlight, and adds her own seeds and saplings, until the garden has been expanded twice and the vegetables make regular additions to the titans fridge. The garden looks overgrown, huge and healthy but riotous, individual plants boundaries' ill defined and sloppy from where the plants had grown beyond their boundaries and she hadn't had the heart to clip them. It was a wonder they were growing at all - how are plants supposed to flourish in half melted, seared soil? Whatever mixture Damian has been pouring into the soil (It might be magic), Raven is grateful, knowing he does it for her sake. She doesn't think she could bear it if her garden died now. She wouldn't try to grow anything here ever again.

Ravens aware it's irrational, but she'd been secretly convinced in a guilty, superstitious way, that nothing except her and her father would be able to breathe the air without slowly dying. Raven never tells anyone her fears, even though she suspects Damian already knows. The first time Damian asked to plant something there, she froze, after all. When she realised they had been on azarath for hours every weekend, she trembled, and fiercely hoped that damian would remain as strong and lively as ever. Raven would do anything, anything at all, to make sure what happened on Azarath wouldn't happen again (especially not to Damian). Damian didn't remark on the days when she doesn't leave his side, giving her tasks to do and things to hold when he kneels to inspect the soil. Although it doesn't - shouldn't change anything, the grief and fear in her eases when she sees the garden, and even the guilt is sometimes replaced by a contented peace. She wishes that serenity would be less rare; she knows enough psychology to know her self flagellation hadn't helped anybody, but she doesn't know how to stop loathing herself even as she tried not to nurture these feelings. She wants to stop feeling awful about herself. "Thank you. For - everything." He stands to face her, and Raven bit her lip, wondering if she should leave it at that, but he's done so much for her. "For being so patient. And keeping me from drowning here. And the plants and the food and -" The words flood out until she runs out of air, and sucks more in noisily, cringing in embarressment, but he's been looking at her with a gentle, tender look in his eyes since she started talking, so she continues. "You're a good - great friend. I'm so glad to have you in my life." And if she's been silently admiring the way his hair looks in the sunlight more than paying attention to the plants when he's not looking at her, he'll never know. Damian blushes uncharacteristically and looks away. "I'm glad you're in my life, too, Rae." He mutters, clearing his throat. He looks like he wants to say something more, but looks away again, pretending to look over their garden. An unfamiliar tension coils between them, and she stares at him trying to make sense of it until his ears burn red. Feeling pleased at his blush, and embarressed that she was pleased, raven broke the tension by turning away to put away her tools for the night so they could leave.

The air seems fresher then before, the land less imposing (haunted) with a garden, so when Damian suggests bringing Titus to Azarath, she agrees, thinking of dog produced fertiliser and bringing his water bowl.

Titus gambols around, flattening springy stalks. "Titus. Heel." Damian commands. Titus, aware that his master can be charmed into forgiveness with the application of puppy eyes, huffs playfully and races off to chase a dragonfly. Damian grumbles in exasperation, waiting for his dog to return as he always does, which makes raven smile, charmed.

Raven takes her rambling garden all in and hopes the plants won't die. Although she is a poor gardener (not for lack of effort, but skill and experience), she trusts Damian to step in where her attempts aren't enough. There are times where she retreats into herself and does nothing more than hauling bags of fertiliser around for fear that the plants will somehow sense her relation to the demon that scoured all life from this planet, as if they will wilt the moment she touches them. One day, Raven sees a plant drooping and drops whatever she was holding (she cannot remember what it is and does not register if it breaks), gripped by the a wild panic that she is killing this planet again - but no. It is a plant, it does not care of her heritage, and simply needs more water. Damian presses a watering can into her nerveless fingers with a knowing, gentle look and goes to pick up what she had dropped before she can protest and persuade him to tend to it. Days later, it is as green as it's neighbors and Raven decides that it is her favourite plant. She pats it's broad leaves every time before she leaves sheepishly, aware of Damian's amused eyes on her. They had been more amused when she'd dropped a kiss on the leaves before knowing it was covered in spines.

She doesn't bother to define what kind of love she feels for Damian, and she won't until they're ready. She does love him; she can't deny that. All that matters is he is the most important person in the world to her and by the look in his eyes and the shy smile and the unfailing loyalty and support he gives her when he stays with her instead of patrolling, she can tell he feels the same way.

[rinphantom1718]

Chapter 5

Memory.

10 November 1981, Hogwarts.

Severus awoke this morning to the sharp ringing of his alarm clock. Blindly fumbling for his alarm clock, he tapped it, and it stopped ringing. Today was the first time in his week-long ‘probation’ that he was to spend the entire day with Rachel. With that in mind, the young professor sat up in bed and rubbed his face intensely with his hands. He need to get her now, before everyone woke up. Sighing heavily, the potionist got off the bed and walked over to the wardrobe to change.

There he was already walking up the stairs, traversing flight after flight. Reaching the fifth floor, the young man walked along the corridor before reaching the very door through which he had been getting to his sister's room for the past week. Entering the room, Severus noticed that neither his sister nor Madam Pomfrey were asleep. The girl was sitting quietly on the healer's lap as she brushed her short hair. When she heard the door creak open, she turned her head with interest and immediately recognised her brother.

“Se-u-us,” she said cheerfully, pulling her hand towards the Potions Master.

“Good morning, Madam Pomfrey,” the young man stood nearby, waiting patiently for Madam Pomfrey to stop fiddling with his sister's already perfectly smooth hair. “Hi, Rachel.”

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” the healer finally put the comb aside and tucked it into the small bag that held all of Rachel's things. She then handed the child to the professor. “She had only recently woken up, so she hadn't eaten yet.”

The potionist nodded, taking his sister in his arms.

“I'll take care of it. Thank you for looking after her.”

“You're welcome, if there are any complications, you know where to find me.”

Severus nodded again, then took Rachel's things and went out into the corridor. The castle was still empty - everyone was asleep. There were still two hours until breakfast, just enough time to attend to his sister. Wrapping the girl in his cloak, Snape slowly followed the corridor to the stairs to return to his office. Once inside, he locked the door securely behind him and moved towards his desk, near which was a hidden passageway to his small bedroom and sitting room. The little girl looked round the unfamiliar room with interest.

“What is this?” she asked inarticulately, pointing a finger at the space around her.

“My office,” Severus opened the secret door and stepped into the smaller room.

“And this?”

“The bedroom.”

Still holding his sister in his arms, Snape placed the bag of her belongings on the armchair and untied it, then used his wand to arrange everything in its place. Then he took Rachel to the snack area, where there was a small tabletop with room for a kettle and a small pan for, say, frying bread, and an equally small pot.

“I'm hungry,” the girl said excitedly when she saw that her brother was going to make her porridge.

“Yes, yes, right away,” Severus murmured quietly, stirring the porridge in the already boiling water.

After breakfast, the potionist busied himself with setting up a safe zone for Rachel in his office. She was still too young to be left alone unattended for forty minutes, so the young professor would have to keep her close to him. It's terribly uncomfortable, perhaps even humiliating, but he has no choice. In the end, he organised a small space for her at his desk, away from the students' eyes, consisting of a mat and high enough mesh fences to keep her from crawling away. Piling all sorts of toys there, Severus set his sister down on the mat to get her used to the new place. Rachel stood up and clumsily walked around the perimeter of her new play area, exploring every corner with interest. Not hearing any crying or tantrums from her, Snape realised she liked the place and sighed with relief.

A couple of hours later, the first class began. While Severus was marking the class, the students were glancing at the little girl's glimpsed figure behind the mesh fence and whispering amongst themselves. When he was done with the list, the potionist looked round the class with a wry glance.

“Now I want you to hear me. I won't say it a second time,” he began in a cold tone, standing up from the table and walking to the centre between the rows. “The child, who of course you have already noticed, will be here forever. Why she is here and who she is is none of your business. But,” the professor paused for a second, looking round the classroom with a stern gaze, “if your noise or naughtiness scares her and makes her cry, I'll take ten points off each of you without a second thought. Do you understand?”

The young wizards and witches nodded.

“Good, now we're working.”

Severus didn't have to explain the rule again to the next class. The news of a small child in the professor's office had spread faster than he'd anticipated. But that was even better: he didn't need to repeat the same thing to every class like a broken record. Rachel, on the other hand, was fairly quiet in class, at first gawking at the new faces and then engrossed in her toys.

When dinner time came, Snape had to take his sister with him to the Great Hall. He would have preferred not to leave his office with Rachel, but he still couldn't go without eating all day. The Potions Master thought long and hard about what he should do, but in the end he found no other option. The students, of course, were staring at him in surprise, and it pissed him off. His colleagues refrained from commenting, though none of them knew of Rachel's existence. Dumbledore paid little attention to it, though Snape could have sworn he saw a strange smirk on the Headmaster's lips on the way to the teacher's table.

Taking his seat next to Professor Quirrell, accompanied by his surprised look, he placed Rachel on his lap, pushed his plate away and set down another - with special food for Rachel - and gave the girl a spoon. When she began to eat contentedly, Snape took his own plate in his hands and began to eat his dinner as well.

“Where did you get a child from, Severus?” Quirrell asked with interest. Professor Sprout, sitting nearby was looking at them fascinated, listening to the conversation.

“She's my third cousin,” Severus said, stifling a sigh as he looked at Rachel's shaggy head. - She lost her mother, so now I'm looking after her.

“What's her name?” Professor Flitwick intervened.

“Rachel Powell.”

After dinner, Snape was sitting in his office checking out a pile of potions samples and written work. Rachel was in her play area at the time, playing with cubes and other interesting toys. At some point she got bored, so she clumsily stood up and walked over to the mesh fence.

“Se-u-us,” she called out to her brother, who was head over heels in his work.

“Severus,” the young professor corrected his sister, turning back to her. “What?”

“Up,” the girl reached for the potions master with both hands. He took her and sat her on his lap without much objection. Rachel looked at her brother's desk with interest, piled with books and parchment. “What's this?” she pointed a finger at the writing.

“Parchment.”

“This?” The girl poked towards the potions samples.

“Potions,” Rachel silently shifted her gaze to the quill in Snape's hand, but before she could say a word, he answered. “The quill.”

That was how they spent the rest of the evening. Contrary to his habits, the Potions Master didn't stay up late into the night so as not to disrupt his sister's regime. Walking into the bedroom with Rachel in his arms, he suddenly felt incredibly tired and, unable to find the energy to even change his clothes, lay down on the bed, placing the girl beside him, having no other place for her to sleep. Rachel crawled under her brother's side and snuggled against him, falling asleep immediately. Severus followed his sister into sleep, cuddling her in his arms.

[rainintheevening]

🍁🍁Comfy-vember🍁🍁

Day 10: Sharing a bed | Lullaby

Grant Ward & Rose Ward, Agents of SHIELD, Saving Grant Ward AU, implied/referenced abuse

-----

He didn't sleep for two nights after The Well. He paced instead, a caged animal, unable to quiet the frantic questions, the wild fears, the burning hatred that battled in his mind.

His father believed Christian, of course. Mother had threatened to kill him, but settled for locking him in his room as much as possible. And Thomas would not look at him.

But on that third night, Rose came, all tiptoes and whispers and key fumbled in her little hands. She slipped in like a burglar, and shut the door behind her, leaning back against it for a second, all wide blue eyes and quick breathing. She was wearing one of Grant's Star Wars t-shirts as a nightgown.

He didn't quite believe it at first, too worn and wild to trust what he was seeing in the night. And how had a four-year-old gotten the key?

"Rosie?" he murmured, sitting down suddenly on the bed, and she came running, leaping to hug him, and knocking him backwards.

She was so small and warm and soft in his arms, and she clung to him like a koala, burying her face against his neck.

He lay there, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, stroking a hand over Rosie's back, thoughts gone suddenly quiet.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he murmured.

"Can I sleep with you?"

He snorted softly—as if he would say 'no' to that tiny voice.

"Sure, Rosie-Posie."

She giggled a little, rolled off him to sit up and stare down at him. "Why aren't you in your pyjamas?"

"Because I haven't gone to bed yet?" He squinted up at her, poked her gently in the belly. It had to be a game for her, that was the only way to keep her safe. "I'll go change in the closet. You check under the bed for spies and aliens."

"Okay!" Her giggle was enough to make him relax, even as he thought again how careful he had to be to make sure she never got hurt. "Go!" She shoved him toward the closet, and he went, laughing quietly.

They knew how to be quiet.

There were no spies or aliens or even dustbunnies under the bed, and before he could come diving under the blankets to join her, Rose waved a hand toward the lamp on his desk.

"Turn off the light. It's safer in the dark."

He knew what she meant, he agreed, so why did that make him sad? Why did it feel wrong? He padded back to his bed, stepping sure in the dark, crawled under the blankets next to Rosie.

"Grant?" She came snuggling in tight to his side, heavier and warmer than his teddy. He was too old for a teddy bear, but he was old enough and big enough to protect his sister. And no one would ever hurt Thomas again.

"Yeah?" he whispered.

"Can you sing?"

He yawned, tried to push aside the idea of something pressing down on him, crushing him. Nothing could find them in the dark. "Okay." He didn't feel like singing, he was so tired, but Rosie... Rosie needed him.

What should he sing? He didn't really know any lullabies. He thought of his piano teacher, her little smile as she sang along with his playing...

You are my sunshine

My only sunshine...

He felt Rosie sigh against shoulder, relaxed and safe.

You make me happy

When skies are grey...

He shut his eyes, wrapping an arm tighter around her.

You'll never know, dear

How much I love you

Please don't take my sunshine away...

-----

She heard him singing from the kitchen, as she wiped the table down. The dishwasher hummed, and Earl was whistling somewhere upstairs. But she heard Grant's voice, drifting from the living room, soft and slow.

The other night dear

As I lay sleeping

I dreamed I held you in my arms...

Damp cloth in hand, Rose walked to the archway that led into the living room, peered in.

The Christmas tree shone softly, surrounded by a jumble of unwrapped presents. Coulson dozed in the armchair, feet up on the ottoman. And Grant lay stretched out on the couch, with Jason curled on his chest.

When I awoke, dear

You were beside me

So I held you close and smiled...

Tears filled Rose's eyes, and she had to turn away for a moment. Jason was so tiny under Grant's hands, folded so gently and protectively over him, and she remembered with sudden clarity the sense of safety and warmth she had known, curled up against her big brother's side in the dark, many times throughout their childhood.

You are my sunshine

My only sunshine...

A great jumble of emotions welled in her heart, as Grant sang now to his nephew, the little one they'd both sworn would have a better life. And it starts here, she thought. It starts with Christmas laughter, and a man back from the dead, and my brother singing a new song, a better one.

Grant sang on:

You'll never know, dear

How much I love you

You have been my sunshine today...

[cloudymistedskies]

"Flower Origamis"

Marimui - "When these flowers wither, I'll stop loving you."

The sounds of small audible giggles can be heard as Mari watches Muichiro fold origami papers. The little brunette was encouraging her friend as he folded a flower origami. He has already made a few prior.

"You really are talented at this, Mui...!" Mari exclaimed while watching Muichiro fold the origami paper in fascination. The ravenette gets immediately flustered by her praise, tensing up before quickly focusing back on folding the next flower origami.

"T-Thank you, Mari..." He mumbled, trying to not look back at the brunette, especially with his cheeks turning red. After a few minutes, he was done with the fourth one. The two beamed, celebrating over it.

"Yay! You did it!" The green-eyed girl cheered, helping him get up so the two would jump together in joy. Both were giggling and laughing as Mari scoops him up and spun him around, which was her way of showing affection.

"I did it! I did it...!" Muichiro repeated his dear friend's words, giggling as Mari kept spinning him around before putting him back down to his feet, giving him a cheeky smile. As Mari sits back on the floor and Muichiro was about to do the same and prepare the fifth origami flower, they were suddenly interrupted by his father calling out for Mari.

"Mari, Muichiro, It's getting late. I'll have to take you back to your home now." Muichiro's dad said, chuckling as he looks at the two pouting children who obviously weren't thrilled of their playdate being over. The brunette just nodded, standing up and walking up to the taller figure and holding his hand.

As the two were about to head off to the small village, Muichiro would run up to them, holding the origami flowers in his hands.

"M-Mari...! Wait!" The young boy would nearly fumble as the two paused so he would catch up to them, which he eventually did. Muichiro then handed out an origami bouquet to the brunette with a red blush coating his cheeks. Mari blinked, not realizing what he was trying to imply...until now. Her green eyes widened as her cheeks heat up too. Was he...

"I-I love you, Mari! When we get older, I wanna be your husband!" He declared his love, slowly making eye-contact with her. Muichiro's father would step aside, not wanting to disturb this heartwarming moment. Mari would slowly take the origami bouquet from the ravenette, looking down at it with her eyes softened and a smile forming on her lips.

"I love you too, Mui. And I wanna be your wife too!" She would return his feelings, and the two shared the same joy together. Bidding their goodbyes, Mari would then make a declaration that she'll keep to her heart.

"When these flowers wither, I will stop loving you."

As she walks away with his father accompanying her to her home, she would hear Muichiro yell out once again.

"I'LL ALSO STOP LOVING YOU WHEN THEY WITHER!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, and that caused his older twin brother to come out of their estate and smack him, scolding him for disturbing his nap. Both Mari and his father just giggled at hearing their little squabble.

That was something they promised together.

No matter what, they'll never stop loving each other.

No matter what.

No matter...-

...

The cloud hashira would sit before Muichiro's grave, still holding onto the origami bouquet that was made long ago. She still kept it with her after all these years.

"Good evening, Mui... Sorry I wasn't able to get your favorite food today... My siblings ransacked the whole kitchen while my parents and I were away..." Mari chuckled as she gently caressed the tombstone before her. She would usually bring his favorite everytime she visited him.

"I hope you're doing well up there... Things have been not going well for me, however..." The brunette continued speaking to her late-lover. She would apologize to him every visit.

She's sorry that she wasn't able to help them out enough.

She's sorry for leaving him and Yuichiro behind.

She's sorry she couldn't get along with his twin brother after his passing.

She has so much to apologize to him, and it hurts her that she would never be able to actually apologize to him...

Despite his passing, Mari still kept loving him. She was somebody who often was asked out often, but she would always decline their love.

No matter what, she'll keep her promise.

She'll even drag herself to her own grave if it meant never breaking the promise.

Even if he's dead, she'll make sure that when they reincarnated in a place where demons ceased to exist, they'll met again.

And this time, they'll get married together.

"I love you..." Mari mumbled, before standing up and taking her leave. A few hours already passed and it was her time to do her night patrols.

// Hey guys!! I hope you all enjoy eating ANGST for dinner. Like and follow for more YEAH!!!!! //

Oh yeah, speaking of which, this fic is mainly based on the bow-less mari au.

[kanerallels]

@zushigirl Sorry it took me so long to respond to this one!!

42. Frank Travels the US and meets all my blorbos. This au is self indulgence at its finest-- it's basically me just going "what if after S1 of the Punisher when Frank left, he met this person and this person and this person--" almost none of whom are actually from Marvel

I've written a few things for this (including a Madam Secretary crossover, which remains one of the most deranged but actually super fun things I've ever written) but I think I'll share this one, which is kinda a side au of this au.

(Full disclosure, this is a Star Wars Rebels crossover. I started thinking about it at work and absolutely lost my mind over it about a year ago, so I had to write this scene. Pretty sure this is actually the first Kastle fic I ever wrote. Let me know if you need context, but I think I explain it pretty well!)

There was someone in her apartment.

That was the first thing Karen registered as she fumbled for the key in her purse, then spotted the light under the door. She froze— but only for a second. Okay, don’t panic. Karen, she told herself. It could be you just left the light on. And if it’s not… well, I can handle that, too.

Releasing her key, she went for her gun instead, sliding it outside of the confines of her purse. With her free hand, she tested the door handle— and it opened easily, with only the slightest creak.

Crap. She knew for a fact that she’d locked the door before she left. Which changed things considerably. Moving deliberately, she slipped through the doorway, weapon at the ready.

Three steps into the apartment, she paused, straining her ears. At first, there was nothing— then Karen heard a rustle, and the murmur of someone’s voice. There’s more than one person, she guessed, and took another step. Bracing herself, she started to step out into the open, when someone spoke.

“Karen.”

Her heart jumped in surprise, and then the voice registered. “Frank?”

Cautiously lowering her weapon, Karen moved out into the open, taking in the view of her living room.

The lamp on the coffee table was switched on, dimly illuminating a small patch of the room, while the rest was shrouded in shadows. Frank Castle was kneeling on the ground, his gaze locking on her. His eyes moved to the gun in her hands, and a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before it vanished. “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but we didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“We?” Karen asked, and then she saw the teenage boy on the couch, clutching a bloody rag to his arm and looking pale. “Oh.” 

He managed a grin and waved at her, then turned slightly green. “Ow. Uh, nice to meet you, Miss Page. I’m Ezra. Frank has had a lot of good things to say about you. Also we’re very sorry we broke into your house.”

“I would have gone somewhere else, but the kid wasn’t going to make it much farther—”

“Oh— no, you’re fine,” Karen told him, sliding her gun back into her purse. “Hold on one minute, and I can give you a hand.”

She went back and closed the door, then returned to the living room, setting aside her purse. Frank had pulled out his medical kit, and was sorting through the contents, which Ezra was eyeing warily.

“Why are there so many pointy things in there?”

“In case there’s a bullet stuck in you,” Frank said, not looking up. “Lucky for you, you just got stabbed. But we’re still gonna have to stitch you up.”

Grimacing, Ezra said, “I don’t feel lucky— wait. What do you mean, stitch?”

That actually made Frank look up. “What do I mean? What, you never been stitched up before?”

“Yeah, they don’t have that where I’m from.”

Wordlessly, Frank held up the needle and thread, and Ezra’s eyes widened. “Uh, I think I’d rather bleed, thanks.”

“Not gonna happen. Give me your arm.”

Groaning, Ezra said, “Shouldn’t you at least explain to Miss Page why we’re in her house?”

“That would be appreciated,” Karen agreed.

Frank hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. But you’re still getting stitched up.”

“I can make coffee while I’m waiting,” Karen offered. She had a feeling it would be a while before either of them got any rest.

“Yes, please,” Frank said, shooting her a grateful look. A look that sent a flash of warmth through her, which dispelled the last of the shock and pulled her headfirst into the realization she’d been trying to avoid.

Frank Castle. Was in her apartment. Was here for the first time in months. And she’d missed him, more than she cared to admit.

Focus, she told herself, heading into the kitchen and switching on the coffee maker. Don’t think about that, not right now.

As she worked, pouring water into the reservoir, she heard Ezra speak.

“So that’s Karen? Who you’re always talking about?”

He talks about me? Karen banished the thought before it made it more than a few inches into her mind, even as Frank responded.

“I don’t talk about her that much.”

“Oooh, that should be the title of the book you write. “I Don’t Talk About Her That Much, And Other Blatant Lies By Frank Castle”.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re real smart. Why don’t you save some of that for next time you decide to block a knife with your arm?”

“Well, we can’t all be Frank Castle— OW!”

Ezra cut himself off with a cry of pain, and Karen winced in sympathy as she finished making the coffee. She heard a few more following yelps and curses, with Frank intermittently speaking in a low, soothing voice, ordering him to stop moving.

As she finished, and moved to get three mugs from the cupboard, Frank stepped into the kitchen. Heading to the sink, he flipped on the faucet, sticking his hands under the stream of water.

“Is he going to be okay?” Karen asked him quietly. 

“Who, the kid?” Frank nodded, his gaze focused on his hands, scrubbing them clean. “Yeah, he’ll be fine. Tough kid.”

“Hmm.” Karen filled one of the mugs, adding a dash of cream. Starting to pour into the next one, she said, “Are you going to tell me how you two met?”

An amused look crossed Frank’s face. “It’s a long one— you got time?”

By way of response, Karen handed Frank the mug of coffee she’d poured for him. “How does Ezra like his coffee?” she asked, turning back to the counter.

“Better make it about half cream,” Frank said, taking a sip of coffee and letting out an appreciative grunt. “Kid still can’t handle real coffee.”

“I heard that!” Ezra called from the living room. “It’s not my fault everyone likes to drink it all hot and bitter and tasting like you licked the road.”

Frank looked offended, and Karen bit back a laugh, adding a stream of bright white cream to the mug, and a little sugar. Scooping it up along with hers, she headed out into the living room and passed it to Ezra. “I used to hate black coffee, too,” she told him, taking the chair next to him.

 Leaning back against the cushions, Ezra grinned. “Told you it was terrible, Frank,” he said triumphantly as the older man came out of the kitchen.

Dropping onto the couch next to him, Frank swatted lightly at the back of Ezra’s head, and Karen couldn’t hold back a smile. “See if I stitch you up next time, with that kinda talk,” he grumbled. He turned his gaze on Karen, raising an eyebrow. “And I expected better from you— sticking up for him?” 

His tone was teasing, and the laugh Karen had been holding in slipped out. “Hey, don’t judge— I came around eventually,” she said, lifting her mug.

“Attagirl.”

He sent her a smile— the real one, lopsided and warm, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It wasn’t one she’d seen often, but Karen started to suspect she’d seen it more often than almost anyone else still living. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but respond to, one that warmed her to the core and made her want to draw closer. Closer to him, which was… impossible. 

That didn’t stop her from wanting it.

Pushing away the thought impatiently, Karen took a sip of her coffee. “I think you promised me an explanation,” she told Frank. 

“That I did,” he agreed, his brow furrowing. Glancing at Ezra, he said, “This one is… kinda a tough one to start on. Umm…”

“I’m from space and there’s a blue maniac trying to kill me?” Ezra offered, and Frank let out a long sigh.

Karen’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

Grimacing, Frank rubbed a hand across his face. “That’s not helpful, kid. Even if it is true. Uh, I guess it started at that truck stop in Missouri.”

Coffee almost forgotten, Karen leaned forward in her seat as Frank began his story, telling her about how he’d bumped into a kid with strange clothing and the look of someone being hunted.

Unsurprisingly, he was right— Ezra Bridger was being hunted by powerful enemies, ones that were from a different world. So was Ezra, as it turned out, and he wasn’t exactly an ordinary teenager, either.

When Karen had asked for clarification on that point, Frank nudged Ezra, who’d dropped back against the couch with his eyes closed. “Hey. Explain.”

Letting out a grumpy noise, Ezra reluctantly opened his eyes. “I can tap into the living Force, which is this thing that surrounds and encompasses living beings. That means I can float stuff, sense living beings and their intentions, and do a sick backflip. Among other things.”

Karen’s jaw dropped, and she glanced at Frank, who nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen him do it. It’s as crazy as it sounds.”

“Much like your life for the past five months, right, Frank?” Ezra said, grinning.

Snorting, Frank took a sip of coffee. “No argument here. Where was I?”

Continuing the story, he explained how after he had helped Ezra escape from his enemy’s troops (“Thrawn”, Frank had said, a scowl crossing his face. “He’s smart, and he knows it. Love to meet him in a dark alley.”) and the Department of Damage Control, the two of them had gone on the run.

“Evaded a couple Avengers, hid out on a derelict farm for a while, and then we heard about the killings here,” Frank said. “Thought we should come check them out.”

“Oh, you mean the killings you supposedly did,” Karen said dryly. “I saw those. Someone’s trying pretty hard to get you locked up, aren’t they?”

A look of relief flashed across Frank’s face, for just a moment. “Yeah, well, Ezra says it’s probably Thrawn. Apparently he’s some kinda genius.”

“You don’t think so?”

Shrugging, Frank said, “Even geniuses can bleed if you hit ‘em hard enough.” He paused, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his cup. “So, uh. You didn’t think it was me?”

Karen took a drink from her mug, and grimaced when she found it had gone cold. Setting it to the side, she said, “No, I didn’t.”

“Why not? I mean, a coupla drug dealers— seems like my style, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Karen said. “But when you wrote to me last, you said you weren’t going to kill anyone else if you could help it.” She paused, waiting until he looked at her again, and continued, “And you don’t lie to me.”

He didn’t smile, exactly, but his features softened in a way that was almost as rare as a real smile. “This isn’t gonna be the exception.”

“Good,” Karen said simply. She got to her feet, picking up her coffee mug. “You want any more coffee?”

Shaking his head, Frank said, “Ah, better not. Should probably get a little rest.” Standing, he grabbed his mug as well as Ezra’s— the boy had fallen asleep not long ago, the half empty mug dangling perilously from his hands— and followed her into the kitchen.

The two of them spent a few minutes cleaning up— Frank dumping out the leftover coffee and washing the mugs, Karen drying them at his side.

It felt oddly normal. Him being in the apartment, handing the mugs to her one by one. Standing so close to her that their shoulders would occasionally brush. Karen tried desperately not to overanalyze every touch, every time their fingers would meet when he handed her a cup, and knew she was failing.

I’m absolutely hopeless, she thought, holding back a defeated sigh. But there wasn’t anything she could do to fix that now. One problem at a time.

Aloud, she said, “It looks like you’re staying the night?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Frank said, sending her an apologetic glance. “Didn’t really plan on it— not much of tonight has been planned, though.”

“No trouble at all,” Karen promised him. “Let me find you two some blankets.”

When she returned from digging through her cupboards, armed with two blankets, she found Ezra curled up on the couch, still asleep, and Frank settled in the chair facing the door. He rose at her entrance, accepting the blankets from her with a grateful nod. “Thank you. For all of this— I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your evening.”

“Since when has anything gone according to plan in either of our lives?” Karen said. She hesitated, then added, “I’m glad you came, actually. It’s good to see you, regardless of the circumstances.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Frank said, voice low, with a note of something Karen couldn’t quite read. It sent a slight shiver up her spine, one that she didn’t exactly dislike.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” she asked on impulse. She knew what the answer was likely to be, that she’d likely wake up to an empty living room, blankets neatly folded on the chair. 

But then he hesitated, and hope lit up bright in her chest. “Depends on how the kid’s feeling,” he said slowly. “And he’s not much of an early riser as it is, which doesn’t make traveling easy.”

“I’m sure,” Karen said, trying to pretend that her heart wasn’t pounding. “So… will I see you tomorrow?”

Before Frank could answer, Ezra’s sleepy voice came from the couch. “Say yes and then we can have breakfast for once. You know you want to, Frank.”

Frank rolled his eyes, but Karen could see the fondness in his gaze as he tossed one of the blankets at Ezra. “Go back to sleep.”

“Only if we stay and have pancakes,” Ezra mumbled, yanking the blanket over him. From under it he added a muffled, “Thanks, Miss Page.”

“Call me Karen,” Karen responded automatically. Looking back at Frank, she raised an eyebrow. “So? Will I see you at breakfast?”

Another heartbeat passed, then Frank chuckled, low and wry. “Don’t think I could avoid it even if I wanted to, between you and Ezra.”

“You got that right,” Karen said, finding herself smiling. “It’s been a long time, after all.”

“It has,” Frank agreed. “Okay. Breakfast it is.”

“Okay,” Karen repeated, relief sweeping over her. She’d see him again, before he left. That was enough for now.

Sending him a final smile, she said, “Good night, Frank.”

As she turned and headed towards her bedroom, she caught him say, “Good night, Karen.”

What she didn’t hear was right afterwards, when Ezra said, “Dude, your crush is showing.”

And a very tired Frank responded with, “Shut up, Bridger.”