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[fasteners-bolts]

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[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Bunny

───��ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Seo Changbin x fem!reader

Summary: No one spoils their girl like Changbin does. No one eats like he does either.

Warnings: Oral fixation. Gym sex. Tiffany. Dolce. Strength kink. Breeding Kink.

A/N: THERE YOU GO CHANGBIN GIRLIES PLEASE BE HAPPY. HAN WILL BE THE FINAL SPOILED PART !

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin

୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

He liked her pretty.

Not just in the way other men meant it. Not in the bare-minimum, tight-dress, perfect-lips sort of way. Seo Changbin liked her cute—bows in her hair, soft ruffles on her sleeves, frilly collars, little heart buttons she thought no one noticed. But he did. He noticed everything.

He’d buy the bows himself—silk, velvet, ribboned in his favorite colors. He’d frown if her hair wasn’t pinned back just right. He’d adjust it with careful fingers, always murmuring, “There. My pretty girl.”

And when he shopped, it was never random. Never thoughtless.

He didn’t just spoil her. He curated her.

A body-hugging Dolce & Gabbana dress for her wardrobe—he’d had it delivered with a handwritten note: Wear this for me next time we fight so I can forgive you faster.

A silk robe, pale pink with “Bin’s Bunny” embroidered in champagne thread across the back—she wore it when waiting for him to come home from practice, curling up on the couch with his cats.

Two floors of her apartment slowly filled with handpicked things—ruffled skirts, lace-trimmed blouses, designer slippers, glass teacups shaped like blossoms. Things he’d never seen on anyone but her, things he wanted only her to wear.

Even her favorite rose tea wasn’t safe from his affection.

She’d mentioned it once—once—and now, every Thursday, a box appeared. New blends from quiet Parisian brands. Seoul boutique exclusives. Ones with handwritten notes from the tea house owners addressed to Mr. Seo’s fiancée.

But her favorite gift?

The necklace.

He hadn’t said a word when he gave it to her.

Just placed the blue box in her hands one soft evening, while she was sitting cross-legged on his bed in one of his old shirts.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.

Inside—simple, but so intimate—a fine Tiffany gold chain, so delicate it shimmered with every breath. At its center, two tiny initials, crusted in diamonds: S.C.

He took it from her before she could speak, hooked it gently around her neck, then tilted her chin up with one strong finger.

His eyes were soft. Melted. Full of something heavier than lust.

“Now they know who you belong to.”

She didn’t even get the chance to answer.

Because he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Like he meant it. Like he’d always mean it.

And later, when he pulled away, her bow had come loose and his name sparkled at her throat—and he looked at her like he was never letting go.

  ────୨ৎ────

He loved the way she fit against him. Small, pliant, perfect. Like she was made to be lifted.

And in his private gym, no one could see them. No cameras, no mirrors except the full-length one bolted to the wall. Just him, her, and the sound of skin meeting skin.

“1… 2… 3—good girl.”

He had her hoisted up, legs locked around his waist, her back pressed to the mirror hard enough to fog the glass behind her. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, Dolce lace panties long discarded, and her heels still dangling prettily off her toes. She’d gasped when he lifted her—by now she knew the routine—but the way he moved inside her still left her breathless every time. Deep, controlled, possessive.

Sweat glistened on his temples, dripping down the curve of his neck, his chest flexing with every thrust. She whimpered when his biceps tensed, his grip tightening just a little more under her thighs as he slammed her down on his cock, hard enough to make her cry out. The weights on the floor clinked as he stepped back, bracing her against the wall like she was nothing.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ragged. “You look so good like this—look, baby.”

She forced herself to look. In the mirror, it was obscene: her hair a mess, her lips smeared with Chanel gloss, her body trembling from the force of each roll of his hips. But there was also Changbin… thick arms around her, his other hand sneaking down between her thighs—greedy, relentless. The sight of him—sweaty, flushed, thick cock splitting her open while he held her up like she weighed less than a barbell—it pushed her right to the edge.

“You gonna come, bunny?” he panted, his breath hot against her neck. “Come with me, yeah? Show me how good I spoil you.”

And she did. Shaking. Eyes locked on his. A doll for him to play with, and he loved her just like that.

  ────୨ৎ────

But none of the gifts compared to this.

Not the limited edition handbags.

Not the Tiffany diamonds.

Not even the gym.

Because nothing could beat the way Seo Changbin ate.

He loved food. The whole world knew that.

But only she knew how much he loved her.

He had her laid out across sheets he had flown in from Italy—deep red silk that pooled under her like wine. Candles flickered in the corner. She was bare, thighs already trembling, chest rising and falling too fast as he pulled her knees over his broad shoulders and looked up at her like she was dessert.

“Stay still,” he whispered, voice rough, almost reverent. “Be good and let me taste.”

And then his mouth was on her.

His hands stayed firm on her hips, fingers digging into her like he was afraid she’d float away. He groaned into her pussy like he was fucking starving, tongue lapping at her in slow, deliberate strokes that made her eyes roll back. She was soaked—dripping for him—and he loved it. Loved how she squirmed. Loved how she tried to clench her thighs around his head and he pushed them wider.

“I want it all, bunny,” he murmured. “Every sound, every drop.”

Sometimes he moaned louder than she did.

Sometimes his cock was so hard it throbbed untouched.

But he wouldn’t stop. Not until she came all over his tongue—once, twice, again. He knew her body too well. He tasted every twitch. He knew how to ruin her.

“B-Bin—ah—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he growled, lips dragging up her inner thigh. “I’m starving.”

And then he buried his face deeper, like he could live there.

  ────୨ৎ────

Later, she couldn’t move.

Not even enough to lift her head from the silk pillow. Her lips were puffy, her eyes dazed, thighs sticky and open beneath the crumpled sheets.

Changbin came back from the kitchen, shirtless, with a tray in hand.

Strawberries.

Warm cream-filled bread.

A bowl of soup, still steaming.

He placed the tray beside her, and knelt at her side like she was royalty and he the most devoted servant. She made a soft, sleepy noise—but her mouth didn’t open.

He smiled. Picked up a spoon.

“Eat for me, pretty girl.”

She obeyed. Bite by bite. Spoon by spoon.

And when he fed her the first strawberry—held between his fingers, gently pressed to her lips—he kissed the juice from her chin and whispered, “You know I’d give you the whole world, right?”

The necklace glittered against her collarbone. Her bow was still crooked in her hair.

And in his arms, she looked like the only thing he’d ever chase.

 ────୨ৎ───

She’d fallen asleep on the couch again.

Half on her side, one leg dangling off the edge, the throw blanket barely covering her thighs—and not the fluffy blanket he told her to use either. The TV was still on, some rom-com playing in the background, and her phone lay face-down on the floor like it had slipped from her hand mid-scroll.

He sighed softly. Then smiled.

“You’re gonna get a cramp like that, bunny…”

But he didn’t wake her.

He set down the bag—the bag, the one with the fluffy pink cardigan she mentioned once in passing while shopping. He’d had it sent from Japan because they sold out in Korea. The matching slippers were in his backpack. And tucked in the crook of his elbow: her favorite dinner in takeaway boxes, still warm.

Carefully, like he was lifting something sacred, he scooped her up. Thick arms around her back and knees, her head naturally tipping into his chest. She stirred but didn’t wake, just blinked blearily and hummed, nose nudging into the soft black fabric of his shirt.

“Smells like gym,” she mumbled.

He chuckled. “Rude.”

But his voice was so gentle. So stupidly soft for her.

He carried her into the bedroom like nothing. His arms didn’t even shake. Laid her down on the duvet and pulled the cardigan from the bag, helping her into it like she was made of glass. She blinked again, eyes sleepy-sparkly, lips pouty.

“Were you out?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Got your stuff. Dinner too.”

“…You’re always buying me things.”

“Because I love spoiling you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “And you always look so cute in the things I pick.”

She tried to argue, but her yawn cut her off.

So he sat at her bedside, opening the boxes and gently scooping up a bite of warm rice, lifting it to her lips.

“Eat for me, pretty girl.”

She blinked, took the bite. Then a second. And a third.

“You didn’t eat yet?”

“I’m eating now.” He smiled. “Watching you counts.”

And later, when she was full and warm and fuzzy in her new cardigan, she laid against him, one palm on his chest, fingers tracing his muscle like it soothed her.

“You’re so big,” she mumbled.

He grinned, cocky—but his voice betrayed how shy he got when she touched him like that. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Feels safe…”

And he tucked the blanket tighter around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.”

 ────୨ৎ────

She was already breathless, legs trembling around his thick waist, hands gripping the slope of his shoulders like she could hang onto sanity through him.

Fuck he made her a fan of Missionary. He Loved gift giving, even if it was just his cum.

One hand beneath her thigh, the other braced beside her head, all of him wrapped around her. His biceps caged her in, his chest pressed firm to hers, and his voice—deep, wrecked—growled right into her ear.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispered, thrusting up again. “How deep I am?”

She whimpered, back arching.

He was so strong like this. Like she weighed nothing. Like her body was made for this—for him. Every movement made her feel owned, spoiled, ruined by the boy who treated her like treasure in daylight and like his personal plaything at night.

“You take me so well, always do,” he murmured, kissing down her jaw, her neck. “Fuck—I might just give it to you for real.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Bin—”

“You want it, don’t you?” His hand slid between her thighs, rubbing gently where she needed him most. “You want me to fill you up, make you mine forever.”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could only nod as he grinned, so smug, so in love.

“My pretty little wife,” he breathed, kissing her again, messier this time. “Gonna look so good with a bump. All soft. All mine.”

She moaned, clinging tighter, and he laughed—ruined and breathless himself.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Like I always do. You won’t lift a finger. Just let me love you, spoil you, fuck you full.”

And when he finally came—deep, with a gasp of her name—he didn’t move. Just wrapped her tighter in those stupid, beautiful, strong arms of his and kissed her forehead like she was the most precious thing he’d ever held.

Because she was.

And even if she never did end up full of him, he’d still treat her like she was carrying his whole world in her belly.

 ────୨ৎ────

But it wasn’t just that he gave.

It was how much he loved.

He never let her walk on cold floors.

He kept a box of warm socks just for her in his car, in case she forgot hers.

He called her bunny all the time.

He picked her up from every schedule with her favorite snacks in the cupholder.

He massaged her legs when she was tired, made her protein smoothies, ran her bubble baths. He was softer than he looked.

And when he was tired—really tired—

She took care of him too.

She tucked him in when he fell asleep on the couch. She kissed his calloused hands and told him he was the best man she’d ever known. He never said much when she did that, only blushed, blinked, and held her tighter.

He came home once, late.

And there she was, curled up, waiting for him in one of his old shirts.

“Binnie,” she whispered sleepily.

His chest cracked open with warmth.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“You really are my best gift.”

[headspace-hotel]

This year has, so far, been for me a series of rapid realizations of what I have been unlearning.

I went to the library. This was a couple weeks ago. I knew I needed to read a book, fiction. I hadn't done so in over a year and it was the longest period of time I had ever gone without doing so. I made a rule: I would only pick books I had never heard of, by authors I had never heard of, and I would not do any preliminary research or even bother to look at what the book was about. I would make my decision on whether to read or not purely on my impression of the title, cover and opening lines.

The book was The Connoisseur by Evan S. Connell. It was kind of a random selection. I sat down with it in a corner of the library and straight up devoured it. I tore through the book within a few hours, without taking a single break. I was captivated. I couldn't put it down.

It is a book about a guy who buys a Mayan figurine in a knickknack shop while he's on a business trip. and becomes obsessed with pre-Columbian sculptural art. There isn't really much of a plot apart from this. He goes to sketchy antique shows, has conversations with museum curators, wealthy art dealers and forgers, and seeks to learn how to distinguish a genuine pre-Columbian piece from a fake one. It was written in the 1970's, so the views on Native Americans are antiquated and sometimes offensive, and there is the troubling thread of the very concept of looting another culture's treasures and treating them as collectibles, though the book is not without commentary on this.

All the same, it was a completely intoxicating read. The vicarious experience of becoming fascinated with a topic and having it unfold a whole world for you was ferociously gripping, and so was the intrigue of the art collecting world itself. The frauds, forgeries, smuggling, museums, academics, aristocrats, auctions and seedy flea markets. Will he ever be able to tell if a piece is "real?" Does it matter if it's "real?" Why does he want to own and possess a piece of art, and how does its "realness" affect that desire? The book leaves you not knowing what to think.

It is a book about curiosity, portrayed in the narrative as a totally unreasonable lightning bolt that strikes a man who has never been fascinated by anything and changes him forever. Why? Why does a Mayan figurine, in particular, speak to him? Why does any piece of art, or any fascinating thing in the world, speak to anyone? It is unknowable.

I went to the library again. I picked a new book using the same rules. This book was Fragile Beasts by Tawni O'Dell. Just like the last time, I was totally captivated. I couldn't put it down.

Did I have a couple major problems with the portrayal of some important aspects of the story? Yes. (It would make the post much longer to discuss.) Was I completely captured by and invested in the story for the time I was reading it? Also yes. The book braids together several very different strands-- the story of a legendary Spanish bullfighter and a wealthy American woman that he loved, two brothers stuck in an ugly family situation after their father's death in a car accident, and a rich old heir to a Pennsylvania coal mining fortune and to the sinister underbelly of her family's business.

There was a lot about baseball, which I know nothing about, and bullfighting, which I know nothing about, and I certainly don't know anything about being a teenaged boy who resents and mistrusts his estranged mother, or an aristocratic old lady who lives in a mansion and eats fancy Spanish food. It was fun to experience so much unfamiliar stuff and to care about things I wouldn't normally care about. Once again I couldn't stop reading until I had finished it.

I don't know that either book was "good," though I thought they were both well written; I just know that reading them was like being hooked up to an IV of something essential and life-giving and feeling it reanimating my body.

It had been a year since I had read any fiction, but it had been much, much longer since I had loved to read. As I became an adult I had become picky and critical about books, and developed a highly sophisticated sense of my taste and the books I considered good- which were very rare. My taste in books became so sophisticated, eventually, that I didn't like books at all anymore.

I had almost withered away from deficiency of that essential nutrient known as STORY. I'd almost crumbled myself into dust from pretentiousness! I may have been terribly wrong about the kinds of things I liked to read, on top of it. And I certainly hadn't realized that story was such an essential nutrient.

"Just entertainment" the pretentious sorts of people might say of a book they think is useless-- but what is entertainment but to absorb your mind in something, and what is absorbing your mind in a book but to experience things you would never have experienced? It expands you and makes you more complicated. It is the study of human existence itself.

Now all I have been able to think about today is finishing my work and going to the library again...

[pinkie-quinns]

(posting some old twitter threads here for posterity's sake)

Chrissy and Eddie breakup. She's a lesbian, apparently. Has finally come to terms with it. It's half a decade of Eddie's life in the dust. He... he doesn't exactly handle it well.

But Steve's there for him, offers Eddie a shoulder to cry on.

They’re drunk when Eddie says no one’s ever been in love with him. Not really. So Steve kisses him.

But Eddie’s straight.

He always has been.

He freaks the fuck out. Bolts. Lets the calls go to voicemail. He’d lost his partner and one of his best friends in the span of a week and it’s not fair and he’s pissed off beyond belief at Steve for doing it. 

But he’s also confused. And he also can’t stop thinking about it. 

He stews on it for weeks. Avoids mutual friends like the plague. The band lets people know he’s alive, apparently. Between losing Chrissy and Steve, he feels like there are chunks of him missing. So he gets drunk. Hooks up with blondes who kiss him all wrong. 

He’s five whiskeys deep and when he finds himself banging at Steve’s door. Steve answers with his hair mussed and his voice sleep-rough. And Eddie tells him he’s really fucking pissed at him. And Steve apologizes again. And it should be enough but it’s just fucking not. 

So Steve apologizes again and again and again, all blubbery and guilt-ridden. It's only making Eddie more angry. And he doesn’t know why. And he’s too drunk for this shit.

So he shoves Steve against the door and kisses him stupid. 

He wakes up in his own bed the next morning and he's sure he dreamt it. (He’s been dreaming it a lot lately.) But his lips are all stubble-scrapped and his mouth is cotton but he remembers how his friend's tongue tasted and he just.. Wants to cry.

Cause he’s not gay. He’s not. Other people are. Most of his friends are. And he’s fine with that! He’s been a good ally.

Well, maybe not to Chrissy. But only cause it broke his goddamn heart. Only cause he loved her so much. Only cause he'd never felt that way about anyone before or anyone since.

Except well— Fuck. Shit fucking fuck.

So he calls her. He’s kind of hoping it’ll ring through but she picks up straight away, lets out a soft little hey. And it breaks his heart all over again to hear her voice. But he takes a breath and says, “I kissed Steve.”

And she pauses. “You kissed Steve?"

And then he says, “Well, he kissed me first. But yeah. I got drunk. Jeez Chris, I got wasted. And then I— yeah, I kissed him.”

And she's quiet for a long time, just soft breathing and static. Then she says, “Thank you for telling me, Eddie.”

And oh. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?

So they talk about it. All of it. And he really listens to her this time. He couldn’t the last time, couldn’t hear over the sound of his heart fuckin’ shattering. Then he’s the one blubbering apologies cause his girl was going through all this shit totally alone and he is now way too familiar with how bad it sucks.

And then they talk about It. The big It. All the stuff her mama drilled into her brain since she was in diapers. All the names that got spat at him between hall shoves. Shit they couldn’t be 'cause then they’d be wrong, shit they couldn’t be 'cause then they’d be right. 

And when they’re done and the conversation turns into How’s the band? and Is Marcel still driving you crazy? Eddie feels ten pounds lighter, almost whole again. Like he was but better, all glued together in gold. Well, almost altogether.

He really needs to talk to Steve. 

He knocks on his door again that night. This time not at 1 AM, this time sober and remarkably dehydrated.

And Steve answers. This time put together, this time hair done and voice in its day pitch (Eddie kinda misses the sleep rasp). And he looks.. fuck. He looks perfect, doesn’t he?

Eddie’s spent all day mulling this conversation over. But standing here now he’s coming up blank. He mutters, “I- I was an asshole.”

Steve opens his mouth but Eddie just trucks on.

“–you were an asshole too, man. But me, uh, probably more?” 

And he ignores the way his stupid traitor eyes start to water, always do when the moment feels too big. “–Sorry about that. Sorry that I freaked, sorry that I was pissed at you for the shit I was just pissed at myself for. Sorry for, uh. Yelling at you. Sorry, um. Yeah. Sorry for kissing you. That definitely wasn’t cool. It’s been uh... a confusing month. Shit. I’m so sorry Steve.”

Steve just leans against the door. Normally he wore everything on his face. Couldn't win Texas Hold 'Em to save his life. Not now though. Now it feels like Steve could have a sleeve full of aces and Eddie wouldn’t know a thing.

But then he says “Eddie” so quiet it sounds like he hadn't even meant to. Like it just slipped onto his tongue.

Eddie can’t do anything but blink, “Yeah?”

“Let me um-” Steve swallows, “Let me get this straight. Where’d you land?”

God, this shit was humiliating, “Not that. Straight. Not straight.”

“Ok. Cool.”

“Yup.”

“And me–” Steve scratches at the back of his neck, “where did you land on me?”

Eddie feels like he’s gonna explode. But he can’t bolt. Not again. Even though every bone in his body wants to. So he plants his feet, coughs, “Well, I pretty much assaulted you, didn’t I?”

Steve rolls his eyes, snarks a laugh. “Sure. Yeah. I’ve been totally gone on you since, I dunno, forever. You were straight. You were basically married to your high school sweetheart. All it took was one of those things no longer being true for me to totally nosedive. But sure, you threw yourself at me.”

This was. It was a lot. 

“Steve–”

Steve waves a hand, stops him. “‘No one’s ever been in love with you. Not really.’ That’s what you said, dude. Meanwhile, shit, cards on the table here? Every relationship I’ve had in the last five years has been a pointless attempt to get over you. So yeah, it was weird to hear, Eddie.” 

Steve won’t look him in the eye. His neck is craned towards the ceiling.

Eddie whistles through his teeth, “Maybe, uh… maybe give me a bit more time?”

“Oh.” Steve finally glances up. His poker face is all gone. He looks like a kicked puppy. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“I’ll probably just need a week or two? I mean, fuck man, that’s a whole other, like Phylum of pornography I’ve been missing out on for the last 25 years. I gotta get myself acquainted before I can, you know–” He reaches out, rubs at Steve’s bicep with a wink, “Get myself Acquainted.”

Steve’s whole body is shaking. Eddie can feel the relief flitting out of him. “Jesus Christ, Munson.”

“Then I’ll take you out, Harrington! Show you the town.”

“Dude, will your dick even work at that point?”

“On the first date?” Eddie gasps, “Lord Harrington, how improper!”

Steve just shrugs, “Rules are different for guys.”

“What? Wait seven years and then hope you land a sexuality crisis?” Then Eddie’s leaning in, closing the space between them. Trying to ignore the pounding in his chest, thinks maybe he's never been so terrified. 

Steve smiles into the kiss. “Yeah, Munson. It's something like that.” 

[gaddaboutgriffon]

Red X Redemption

Based on this thread post.

Dan hadn’t set out to become the teen nitwits newest rogue. But using an already built name got him customers a lot faster then if he had to start from scratch. And the annoying bird wasn’t using it anyway. Though in hindsight maybe if he hadn’t stolen the Red X suit and name he wouldn’t have gotten the baby heroes attention so fast. Oh well, he had needed money fast at the time, and there was no changing it now.

Instead he focuses on ditching the chumps. He had the artifact in his bag. Once they’re off his tail he can make the drop, get paid enough to last three months and be done for the night.

He doges a reaching shadow tendril and throws a sticky X at the goth girl. It landed right over her mouth where he had aimed startling her into ending the spell. She was good but still relied on occasionally speaking her encantation which was his first clue she wasn’t that experienced. Still she was the main reason why he never used his ghost powers while out on a job. Little miss half demon would be able to sense it a mile away, but she didn’t notice anything when he was in human form.

Ugh that he hated being reminded that when his future timeline faded he would have too, if his younger self hadn’t convinced Vlad to make a clone body to be fused with. He will never thank the old creep but that human half that came with the clone body was really helpful now.

Dan slipped under a green star bolt. Then used a net X to tangle up the green shapeshifter and tin man. He grinned under his skull mask as they yelped from the electric shock. He landed on a roof top and went to jump again when his cape snagged. I cost him a precious second to pull it free of the “bird-arangs” that had pinned it. Now brat wonder was engaging him with a boe staff, and slowing him down so the others could catch up.

“You really don’t know when to quit.” Dan grunts as he tries to tangle Robin’s feet with another sticky X.

“Don’t know the meaning.” Robin quips back dodging the sticky X with experienced grace. But it left him open for a punch.

Dan may have used a bit of his ghost strength to send the bird flying since that doesn’t register to the magic user. He took off again, dodging Cyborg’s sonic blasts, but his own ghost sense went off. He skidded to a stop and backflips to avoid Desiree suddenly appearing in front of him.

“Give me the eye of Iris!” The ghost genie shouted at him, lunging for the duffle bag on his back.

“Sorry, already got a buyer, and I know your credit’s no good.” He spun out of her way and ran back towards the Titans. If he was lucky he could get them fighting her and he could slip away before his younger self showed up.

His plan worked. The titans predictably began fighting the load mouth ghost after she yapped about the eye of iris would give her unlimited power or whatever. Red X made it to the drop point nearly three blocks away and got his cash passing the item off to the buyer. He then made his way back to the back to one of his cache points and retrieved his duffel bag. That is when his luck finally ran out for the night, when a pink wave went past and caused some bolts to fly off the the hook holding steel girders and fall in from of Dan blocking the alley exit in front of him.

“Ugh, seriously not my night.” Dan groaned as pulled the Red X mask back on that he had just taken of not two minutes ago.

“The headmaster really doesn’t like his generous invitation to be unanswered. Not everyone gets offered a full scholarship to the Hive after all.”

Great, it’s the pink witch and her techs and brute sidekicks. He flipped the duffel bag strap over his shoulder so it was secure and ready to run, and answered “I already told him this Solo act wasn’t interested in joining his clown school.”

He turned with a ready grappling hook to leave, but a long metal spider leg shot out and Pericles the brick wall next to him. Purposefully missing by inches as an unsuccessful intimidation tactic.

“Doesn’t work like that, fart sniffer.” The annoying techy sneered.

Butter biscuits! These guys were going to make him late picking up Ellie from the sitter’s. Months ago Dan had found Danielle destabilizing and used his own ecto and what little he knew of ghost medicine to save her. But he must have done it wrong since she for some reason aged down to a two year old. Which lead to his Red X career, cause while he could live fine backpacking cross country by himself he needed a more stable home and food for Ellie.

Now he contemplated using his ghost powers to break the Hive lackeys, but he knew someone else from the hive always watched from a distance and if they saw his real powers they really wouldn’t leave him in peace.

His ghost sense then warned him of unwanted guests coming in fast. He used the grapple to get up to the roof barely dodging as Desiree crashed into the Hive nitwits in the alley. Now on the roof all the titans were surrounding him.

He took a ready stance to jump back into the alley and hope he could use the same truck twice getting his enemies to fight each other again. But then he spotted the worst thing his rotten luck could throw at him. His timeline doppelgänger flying in from the horizon.

He ignored whatever bird boy was saying and turned back to the alley. Only to see the Hive idiots and Desiree coming up to join the party on the roof.

“Alright Desiree! I chased you across country, and had enough! Time for you to go back to the ghost Zone!” Phantom shouted as he stopped to hover over the group.

Just when Dan thought things couldn’t get bad enough he felt the duffel bag on his back move and the zipper opened for Ellie to pop her head out. “Why so loud? ‘M Seepy” she grumbled. Guess he wouldn’t be paying the baby sitter after all.

“Wha- Ellie! A Oh my ancients, You’re alive!” Phantom zipped down to them. Now he was too close in range for Dan to hide the ecto signature. “Wait, Dan?! You saved our little sister! Have you been taking care of her this whole time?” Phantom then hugged both of them.

Dan wanted both more then to disappear right then. His secret identity is blown and he was going to have to start over from scratch with a new one.

“Dude, I think we really mis judged Red X” he heard the Green titan say. Confirming his reputation was now shot to Swiss cheese.

Deep underground Slade watched the whole thing on his many monitors. “Well if Robin won’t be my apprentice. I’ll see if this one is more agreeable.

(Ok small note. I went with the name Ellie, cause I like it better and Dani, Dan and Danny gets really repetitive…. Anyway I look forward to seeing what you guys add on!)

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 20

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 20

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: You spend the day surrounded by laughter, chaos, and the warmth of the women closest to you, swept up in the whirlwind of wedding preparations. But beneath the celebration, a quiet undercurrent reminds you that marrying into the Shelby family means bracing for more than just lace and flowers.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

--

The sitting room had been transformed into a flurry of fabrics and lace, bolts of satin draped across armchairs, ribbons strewn along tabletops, and the faint scent of tea and perfume lingering in the air.

You stood before the mirror in one of the dresses Polly had picked out– simple but elegant, ivory with delicate embroidery along the hem. Esme was curled in one of the chairs, one leg crossed over the other as she sipped from a teacup, offering the occasional blunt commentary that made Ada snort with laughter.

Ada, meanwhile, was holding up a dress of her own, turning it this way and that with a scrunched nose. “This one makes me look like a bloody doily,” she muttered.

“It’s lace,” Esme said dryly. “That’s the whole point.”

Polly, standing just behind you, adjusted the shoulders of the gown before smoothing the fabric along your back. Her eyes met yours in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You look beautiful, love,” she said, quiet and certain.

Your throat tightened a little, the weight of it suddenly real. You nodded faintly, gaze still fixed on your reflection.

“Marriage can be such a lovely thing,” she said, smoothing the fabric along your arm with care. “A joining of lives, not just names. The comfort of having someone to come home to. Someone who knows your breath before you speak, someone who reaches for your hand before you even realize you need it.”

You met her eyes in the mirror, heart fluttering at the gentle cadence of her words. For a moment, you let yourself imagine it in full. Tommy’s coat draped over the hook by the door, the sound of his voice in the next room, quiet laughter over shared cups of tea in the early hours of the morning.

“But,” Polly added, her voice dipping slightly, almost imperceptibly, “it’s not always peace and quiet mornings.”

Her hands drifted away, settling at her hips. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Especially not when you’re marrying a Shelby.”

The weight of her words settled heavily in the room, unspoken truths threading through the warmth like a quiet wind shifting the curtains.

You didn’t say anything at first, and neither did Polly. She didn’t need to explain it further, you could feel it. You’d lived it already, in whispers and scars and the quiet worry that never fully left Tommy’s eyes.

Ada tried to brush it off with a scoff. “Bloody hell, Pol, you sound like you’re giving a eulogy.”

Esme chimed in from the corner, “She’s not wrong though. Loving a Shelby’s a bit like dancing in a minefield. Full of bloody surprises."

Polly arched a brow but said nothing more.

You turned back to the mirror again, eyes falling on your reflection– on the soft ivory dress, the delicate stitching at the sleeves, the slight curve of your shoulders beneath the fabric. You looked like a bride.

But you knew, beneath the pretty silk and the dainty lace, you’d need to be tough too.

Polly stepped forward again, smoothing your veil gently over your shoulder. “You’ll be alright,” she said, more softly now. “You’ve already been through worse. And you came out of it with your head still screwed on straight.”

“I don't know about that,” you murmured, catching her eyes in the mirror again. “Is it a bad sign that I'm a little worried about everything that comes with this? With him?”

“No,” Polly said, matter-of-fact. “It means you’ve got some sense. And you’re not walking into it blind.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Pol. Can’t you just say she looks beautiful like a normal person?”

“She does,” Polly said without missing a beat. “Beautiful and brave. The best combination a woman can be in this life of ours.”

You turned toward her, lips parting to thank her, but she caught your hand before you could say anything else. “But listen to me, there’ll be days when you feel like this family will swallow you whole. Like you’re drowning in the weight of his name. On those days, you come to me. You understand?”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick.

“I mean it,” she added, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. 

Ada clapped her hands together, breaking the quiet. “Alright, if we keep going down this road, I’m going to need a drink. Or five.”

Esme grinned. “I want in on that, too.”

Polly smirked faintly but said nothing, turning back to the rack of dresses.

You glanced at yourself one more time in the mirror, and despite the nerves curled in your stomach, you let yourself smile. 

“Alright,” you said quietly, lifting your chin. “Let’s go celebrate.”

…

Later that evening, the Garrison was alive– raucous music blasting from the old record player someone had dragged into the back room, heels tapping against the floor, glasses clinking, and laughter echoing off the walls. Half-empty bottles of champagne and gin littered every table, a trail of discarded gloves, shawls, and jewelry scattered like breadcrumbs from the front bar to the back lounge.

Someone, probably Esme, had jumped up on one of the tables to dance not five minutes after arriving, kicking over a tray of drinks in the process. Ada had nearly fallen out of her chair from laughing, and Polly had only rolled her eyes, sipping her whiskey with an unimpressed sigh.

“Tell me again how this is supposed to be a classy evening,” Polly muttered dryly, lifting her glass.

“This is classy,” Ada said, slurring just a little, grinning like a madwoman. “It’s just Garrison-classy.”

“You’re all bloody animals,” Polly said, but there was a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

You were perched near the bar, clutching your drink and trying not to choke on your own laughter. Your stomach ached from it– actual, deep, belly laughs that left your eyes watering and your head light. You hadn’t felt that kind of lightness in months.

Ada flopped beside you, catching her breath. “You still sure you wanna marry into this chaos?”

“I’m starting to think this whole thing has just been an elaborate warning,” you said, still laughing.

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Esme chimed in, lifting her glass. “But too late now, we've already claimed you as one of ours.”

“Poor girl,” Polly deadpanned, sipping her whiskey. “You’ll need thicker skin.”

“We should get her a survival kit,” Ada said. “You know, whiskey, earplugs, a helmet-”

“A list of insults translated from Arthur.,” Esme added, nodding solemnly.

You couldn’t even respond, you were laughing too hard.

“To the bride,” Esme shouted suddenly, raising her glass so fast she nearly knocked it over.

“To surviving the Shelbys,” Ada added.

You raised your own drink with a wide, flushed smile, cheeks warm from gin and laughter and something softer you couldn’t quite name.

You were breathless with laughter, leaning against the bar for support. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, your ribs sore from laughing too hard, and your stomach ached from too much champagne and not enough food.

Finn had poked his head in earlier to check on things and promptly turned around again when Esme shouted something wildly inappropriate about needing more gin and fewer men.

There were women singing loudly, off-key, of course, Ada tossing her shoe at Esme for stealing her drink, and Polly holding court at the corner table like a queen with her cigarette perched delicately between her fingers, completely unbothered by the chaos unraveling around her.

"I'm just saying," Ada declared, climbing onto the bar stool and sloshing her drink slightly, "if Tommy doesn’t cry at the altar, I think I'll throw my shoe at him. But if Arthur does cry, I'll also throw my shoe at him..."

"That’ll give him something to cry about," Esme wheezed with laughter. "But then you'll be barefoot before dessert."

"You’re all bloody mad," you gasped, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from the chaos and giddiness of it all.

"And you’re marrying into it," Polly said, raising her glass with a knowing smirk. “Poor girl.”

The night didn’t slow down– it only got rowdier. And you were well past tipsy by the time the next round of drinks landed on the table.

Your cheeks were flushed, your laughter louder than usual, and you’d somehow ended up slouched sideways in your chair with one arm flung dramatically over Ada’s shoulder, giggling uncontrollably at a story Esme was trying to tell, but kept interrupting herself by laughing too hard.

“I swear– he had no idea the horse was behind him!” Esme gasped, wheezing between words. “Poor bastard turned around and bam! Hoof right to the arse!”

You practically wheezed. 

“He flew! I swear, I saw it! Like a bloody rag doll!” Esme said. 

Ada clutched her drink and buried her face in your shoulder, laughing so hard she nearly spilled it. Even Polly had cracked a grin, though she sipped her gin with practiced composure and simply shook her head.

You tried to sit upright and failed, nearly toppling into Esme’s lap instead. “Easy!” Esme said. 

 “I’m fine,” you replied, waving a hand vaguely. “I’m totally, completely, absolutely–”

“Pissed,” Polly cut in, arching a brow.

“Yes,” you confirmed cheerfully. “That’s the word!”

The doors banged open then, and you nearly toppled off your seat at the sound.

Arthur’s voice thundered before he was even through the doorway. “Oi! What the fuck’s goin’ on in here?! Sounds like a goddamn circus!”

John followed close behind, eyes scanning the chaos before landing on Esme, and then you in your slouched, flushed, smiling state. He smirked instantly. “Well, well, well. Look who’s halfway to dancing on the bar.”

“Halfway?” you slurred, blinking blearily at him. “Excuse you, I’m a very graceful bar dancer.”

Arthur chuckled as he poured himself a drink. “Jesus Christ, someone cut her off.”

“No,” you protested, clinging to your glass and shielding it like a precious relic. “I’m celebrating life, Arthur.”

John dropped into the seat between you and his wife, nudging your shoulder. “You’re off your face.”

“I am elegantly tipsy, thank you.”

The room erupted into more laughter just as the door opened again, this time quieter, steadier.

The moment Tommy walked in, the room seemed to shift just a little, like the volume dimmed, the chaos softened, everything settling into place around his presence. His eyes scanned the room quickly, then locked on you.

You blinked at him, smile still half-stuck on your lips, and tried to straighten up in your chair. “Tommy!” you greeted far too enthusiastically.

His brows lifted slightly, lips twitching at the corners as he took in your flushed face, the flushed mess you were sitting in. 

Ada raised her glass. “Welcome to the circus.”

Tommy exhaled through his nose, almost smiling now. “So I see.”

He crossed the room, slipping behind your chair, and rested a warm hand on your shoulder. You leaned into the touch immediately, more out of instinct than balance.

“Hi,” you whispered up at him, eyes a little too wide, a little too fond.

“Hi,” he said, low and amused. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m celebrating,” you corrected, lifting your glass in a wobbly little toast.

He shook his head, brushing a hand along the back of your neck. “You’ll regret this in the morning.”

“Sounds like future me’s problem,” you chirped.

You leaned into Tommy’s hand a little more, your cheek brushing his knuckles. The noise around you was still roaring, Arthur’s booming laugh, John trying to retell a joke he’d already butchered twice, Ada teasing Polly about guest lists, but Tommy stayed quiet, eyes still steady on you.

Then, softly, low enough that only you could hear it, he asked, “Should you really be drinking with your head still healing?”

You turned just enough to look up at him, brows lifting in exaggerated innocence. “I stopped taking tablets days ago. You worry too much.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite. 

“What about tomorrow?” he added, voice low and steady, fingers brushing absently at the base of your neck. “We’ve got cake tastings and flower arrangements to deal with, remember?”

You blinked, lips parting slightly. “That’s tomorrow?”

“That’s tomorrow,” he confirmed, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

You groaned dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “Well… if I’m hungover, you’ll just have to make all the decisions for me.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured dryly. “You’re not sticking me with flower colors and cake tiers on my own.”

“I promise I’ll go,” you muttered, already half-melting into him. You reached for your glass again– slow, wobbly, determined. “C’mon, it’s one drink.”

"Pol, how many drinks has my lovely bride-to-be had tonight?" he asked above the noise.

"Three," Polly said back.

"Four!" Esme chimed in, correcting her.

Your jaw dropped. "Traitors," you muttered under your breath.

Tommy arched a brow.

“I meant it’s one night,” you said cheekily, raising the glass and giving him your most disarming smile.

Tommy sighed, but it was the kind of sigh that came from affection, not frustration. His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing softly at the base of your hairline in a way that made your eyes flutter for a second.

“Just don’t overdo it,” he murmured. “Let me know when you’re ready to head home.”

Just when you were about to lean further into him, you felt the shift in his stance. His hand slid from your neck, fingers brushing your shoulder gently as he stood.

You blinked up at him, momentarily startled. “You’re leaving?”

He gave a small, half-smirk. “Don't want to interrupt. You lot looked like you were planning to take over the world just a minute ago.”

“We were,” Ada called from across the table. “Still are.”

You reached out and caught his wrist before he could move away completely. “Stay,” you said softly, eyes searching his.

Tommy hesitated. “Thought you’d want a night without me hovering.”

“I don’t mind hovering,” you said quickly, your hand still around his wrist. “I like it better when you’re here. Besides, Arthur and John have already ruined our girl time.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, just slightly. “Fair point,” he muttered, casting a glance toward Arthur and John, who were now loudly bickering over whether Arthur could simultaneously arm-wrestle two men at once.

“See?” you said, gesturing toward the chaos. “You might as well stay.”

He looked at you for a long second, his eyes softening, the sharp lines of his face easing with something quieter– something just for you. Then, finally, he let out a low breath and pulled the chair back beside yours.

“Alright,” he said, settling beside you again. 

You smiled, shifting slightly so your shoulder brushed his. His arm draped over the back of your chair again, fingers grazing your shoulder in that familiar way that always seemed to calm the noise in your head.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked softly, voice low enough only you could hear.

You nodded, leaning into him just a little. “I’m sure.”

The rest of the evening carried on in a blur of laughter and noise– Ada and Esme trying to convince Polly to dance, Arthur insisting on singing a half-forgotten pub song, Finn nearly dropping a tray of pints and earning a round of cheers when he somehow caught it.

But through it all, Tommy stayed beside you, steady and quiet. Every so often, his hand would find yours beneath the table, a quiet squeeze, a grounding touch.

At one point, Polly’s voice rang out from near the bar, clear and commanding as she lifted her glass. “One more toast,” she declared, her eyes twinkling with fondness. “To the bride and groom. May your love be fierce and your years be long.”

A chorus of cheers echoed through the room as everyone raised their glasses high, voices overlapping in celebration. You caught Tommy’s gaze through the crowd, and he smiled, small, private, but full of something steady and certain that warmed you straight through.

Later that night, the Garrison had begun to thin out, though the buzz of music and laughter still pulsed behind you as Tommy guided you gently toward the car, his hand firm around your waist.

You were giggling about something that had made perfect sense in your head, but came out in an incoherent stream of slurred words that even you weren’t sure you understood.

“I’m telling you,” you insisted, stumbling slightly as your boot caught the edge of the pavement. “If Polly would just let Esme stand on the stool, the whole thing would’ve– it would’ve worked out.”

Tommy exhaled a laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he caught you before you could tilt too far sideways. “Christ,” he muttered, “you’ve had too much.”

“I’ve had just enough,” you countered proudly, poking his chest with your index finger. “You… you worry too much. All tight shoulders and serious face. You should try giggling more.”

He chuckled, low and fond, steering you toward the car with one arm snug around your waist.

"That would be something, wouldn't it?" you sighed. "I don't think the world would know what to do with itself if Thomas Shelby giggled."

"I’ll add it to the list," he said unseriously.

You paused at the car door and turned to him with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re very handsome, you know? Too handsome, now that I really think about it. It’s quite distracting.”

He gave you a look– half amused, half exasperated. “Right. In you go.”

“No, wait,” you said, holding up a wobbly hand. “One more thing– very important. I think… I think the ground might be moving.”

Tommy opened the door, helping you in carefully, hands gentle as he guided you down into the seat. “That’s your head spinning, sweetheart.”

“Ah. Right. That makes more sense.”

As he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, you slumped against the window with a content sigh, your eyelids already fluttering.

“You’re very good at this, by the way,” you mumbled, voice drowsy.

"You mean corralling my very drunk, soon-to-be wife?"

You hummed, as if contemplating it. “Yes," you said eventually. "You’re grumpy, but you’re a gentleman. A grumpy gentleman.”

Tommy glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re going to feel this in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you said, then squinted at him with mock seriousness. “You’ll take care of me… right?”

His hand slid from the gearshift to rest briefly on your knee. “Course I will.”

You smiled at that, eyes slipping closed for a second as the rhythm of the car lulled you. “Good. ’Cause I don’t think I ever told you this, but I don’t handle my liquor well. I’m pretty sure I’ll be dying. Might need you to preemptively write my will.”

Tommy chuckled low under his breath. “Not sure there’s much to write. You’ve got half a bottle of gin and a hairpin in your coat pocket.”

“I was saving that hairpin for you,” you said dramatically, cracking one eye open. “It’s sentimental.”

“Right,” he said, amusement curling at the edge of his voice. “I’ll make sure it’s passed down through generations.”

“Make sure our children give it to their children,” you said, before you could filter the thought. 

The air in the car suddenly felt heavier, thick with something unspoken. The laughter from moments before faded into a silence that stretched just a little too long.

You swallowed, glancing out the window like the answer might be waiting in the dark streets passing by. Maybe if you hadn’t been drunk, maybe if the words hadn’t tumbled out so easily, you would’ve had a better response.

But Tommy spoke first.

“You’re drunker than I thought,” he said, voice light. Like he was offering you a way out. A way to pretend you hadn’t said it.

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to settle. “Maybe,” you murmured, shifting slightly in your seat. “Or maybe I just like the idea of hoarding hairpins for future generations.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but his fingers tapped against the steering wheel– once, then twice. He didn’t say anything else.

Another silence settled between you, not uncomfortable, but thick with meaning neither of you dared touch. You could still feel your words lingering in the air, like smoke curling between you. Maybe he was waiting for you to say something more. Maybe you were waiting for him to do the same.

But he didn’t. And neither did you.

Instead, Tommy’s hand shifted, brushing against your knee for only a moment before returning to the gearshift. The warmth of it lingered.

Your eyelids grew heavier with every mile. The warmth of the car, the gentle hum of the engine, and the quiet that had settled between you made it easy to drift. You weren’t sure exactly when your head tilted against the window or when your thoughts turned into the soft fog of sleep, but the next thing you felt was a hand brushing lightly against your arm.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was low, gentle. “Come on, love. We’re home.”

You stirred, groggy and slow, blinking at the dim streetlamp outside the house.

“I can walk,” you mumbled, already fumbling for the door handle.

Tommy opened your door first, offering his hand, but you waved it off stubbornly. “I said I can walk.”

He hesitated, but stepped back with a sigh, watching you with that skeptical half-smirk that never quite reached his eyes when he was worried.

You swung your legs out and stood, only to feel the ground shift beneath your feet, your balance tipping just enough for your knees to wobble.

“Shit–” you muttered, reaching out blindly.

But you didn’t fall.

Tommy’s arm was already around your waist, strong and sure, catching you just before you could stumble. His other hand braced your elbow, steadying you with practiced ease.

“Told you,” he muttered, pulling you gently against him. “Drunker than you thought.”

You didn’t argue this time. You just leaned into him for a second, letting the dizziness pass, your cheek resting briefly against his chest before you grumbled, “I think the ground’s just got it out for me.”

That earned a short, low laugh from him, the kind that rumbled faintly through his chest as he steadied you again. “Right,” he repeated with a smirk. “Let’s get you inside before you go face-first into the pavement.”

“It’s a vendetta. I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, well I’ll have a word with it in the morning,” he said dryly, guiding you up the steps with patient ease. “Sort it out properly.”

You reached the door, and he helped you inside without another stumble, his hand steady at your back. The moment the warmth of the house wrapped around you, a wave of exhaustion hit again. You sagged slightly in his arms, and he steadied you without a word, already reaching to take off your coat.

“You’re going to feel like hell in the morning,” he murmured, voice low against your temple as he slipped your shoes off one by one.

“M’fine,” you mumbled, swaying slightly as you tried, and failed, to toe off the second shoe yourself. “Just need… a nap. A long one. That lasts all night.”

Tommy chuckled under his breath, catching your elbow before you could lose your balance again. “That’s called going to sleep, sweetheart.”

“Semantics,” you muttered, eyes barely open now.

His arm slid beneath your knees before you could protest, and in one fluid motion, he lifted you off the ground.

You let out a small noise of protest, but your head was already leaning against his shoulder. “I could’ve walked.”

“You would’ve ended up in the flower garden,” he said, carrying you through the quiet hallway with practiced ease.

“I don’t even like flowers that much,” you mumbled, your words slurring into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll remember that for the wedding,” he teased softly, his lips brushing the top of your head.

Your only reply was a sleepy little huff as he nudged open the bedroom door with his foot.

He eased you down onto the mattress with gentle hands, pulling the blanket up over your legs. You were already halfway gone, your head turning toward the pillow with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

Tommy paused, standing beside the bed for a moment, watching you settle. His expression softened, the hard edges of him easing just slightly.

Then he leaned down, brushing your hair back from your forehead, pressing another kiss there.

But before he could pull away, you reached up and caught the front of his shirt, fingers curling loosely into the fabric. “No,” you mumbled, tugging him down a little further. “Stay.”

“I am,” he said gently, but you shook your head, pulling harder until his face was inches from yours.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered, lips brushing close to his. “Come to bed, Tommy.”

He let out a low breath, but didn’t move. “You’re drunk.”

You smirked, eyelids heavy but gaze steady. “I’m drunk and still know exactly what I want.”

Tommy tried to hold his composure, but your fingers were already slipping beneath his collar, warm against the base of his neck. He caught your wrist gently, stilling your hand, but you only used the other to curl into his shirt, holding him tighter.

“Don’t walk away,” you murmured, your cheek brushing his jaw, your voice barely a breath now. “Just… stay here. With me.”

Your arms wrapped around him fully then, clinging with soft insistence, pulling him down toward you. Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his vest, splaying across his back like you needed to feel every inch of him, to keep him tethered to the bed.

He sighed, and you could feel the tension in his frame, the way his muscles coiled beneath your hands, the way his restraint flickered under the weight of your touch.

“You’re making this very difficult,” he muttered, voice low and strained, one hand bracing on the mattress beside you.

“You make everything difficult,” you whispered with a crooked grin, curling closer to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “But I love you anyway.”

Tommy’s breath caught at that, just slightly, but enough for you to feel it. His hand moved again, this time smoothing down your back, pausing at the curve of your waist.

“You won’t even remember saying any of this tomorrow,” he murmured, but the words lacked bite. He said it more to convince himself than you.

You tightened your grip, pressing your nose to his collarbone. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Sweetheart…” His voice was raw now, more vulnerable than he meant it to be. He buried his face in your hair for the briefest moment, just breathing you in.

And still, somehow, he found the will to gently ease you back onto the pillow.

“I love you, but you’re drunk,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “Even if you’re bloody irresistible when you’re like this.”

You clung to his wrist, eyelids fluttering. “Fine, but you owe me,” you mumbled again, voice slurring slightly with sleep. “Can you at least stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “I’ll be right here.”

Your grip loosened slowly, sleep tugging at you until the weight of your eyelids was too much to fight. Tommy stayed there beside you until your breathing evened out, until your fingers slipped from his wrist and your body went slack beneath the blankets. Only then did he ease himself down beside you, propped against the headboard, one arm draped protectively across your waist, just like he promised.

You slept soundly, curled into him like you belonged nowhere else.

...

It was the pounding in your skull that woke you first– a steady, pulsing ache behind your eyes, sharp and relentless. You groaned, rolling over into the pillow and immediately regretting the movement. The world spun just slightly, and your stomach gave a slow, warning churn.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, wincing. “Oh, God…”

“You alive, over there?”

Tommy’s voice came from the doorway– dry, amused, and just a bit too loud for your current condition.

You cracked one eye open, glaring weakly at him. “Barely.”

He smirked, already crossing the room with a glass of water in one hand and something in the other. “Told you you’d feel it in the morning.”

“Please don’t be smug. It’s painful,” you groaned, sitting up slowly and clutching your temples.

Tommy handed you the water and some tablets, sinking down on the edge of the bed beside you as you gulped them down with a wince. He reached out, brushing your hair back from your clammy forehead with careful fingers.

“You look like hell.”

“You know how to charm a girl.”

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Think I’m well passed charming you after what you said last night,” he murmured, tone light and teasing now.

You froze slightly, eyes narrowing. “What… what did I say?”

“Nothing too brash. Something about hairpins and passing them down through generations,” he said casually, stretching back a bit. “Something about our children.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I want to die.”

“Then there was the part where you tried to seduce me,” he added with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself now.

“I really want to die.”

Tommy chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and gently pulling you into his side. “You were charming,” he said. “Clingy. And ridiculous, of course. But charming.”

You groaned again, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I said all that.”

“Well…” he said, glancing down at you. “You meant it, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between you again.

“Good,” he said softly, brushing his lips against your hair. Then, Tommy stood up to grab the cup of tea he’d left on the nightstand. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

You squinted at it suspiciously. “Is it tea or some secret Shelby hangover cure?”

“Bit of both,” he said, handing it over. “Polly swears by it. Kept Arthur alive for nearly half of his twenties.”

You took a sip, grimacing slightly. “Tastes like dirt.”

“Aye. That it does.”

You glared at him over the rim of the mug, but he just grinned and disappeared briefly into the wardrobe. When he returned, he was tossing one of your sweaters toward the bed.

“Get dressed.”

“What?” Your brow furrowed. “Where are we going?”

Tommy shrugged, too casual to be trusted. “Got a few things to take care of.”

“Define a few things.’”

“Wedding festivities, remember? Flowers. Cake tasting. Something about centerpieces.” He waved a hand in vague circles. “Apparently, Polly said there’s a schedule now.”

You blinked at him. “You’re dragging me to do wedding planning while I’m half-dead?”

“I tried to get you home last night, but you insisted on that last drink,” he said with a shrug. “You brought this on yourself.”

You flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “This has to be some sort of punishment.”

“Come on,” he said, tugging the blanket back. “You’ll live.”

“Debatable.”

“C’mon then. Get up. I’ll bring a bucket just in case. Don't need you getting sick in my car.”

That earned him a glare, but you forced yourself up, groaning the whole way. The ache in your head still pulsed behind your eyes, but at least now it felt manageable. You shuffled into your clothes slowly, every movement exaggerated by your hangover-induced misery.

Outside, the air was sharp and cool, and it helped clear the fog just a little. Tommy kept a hand on your back as you walked, steady and quiet, and you leaned into him gratefully, your headache slowly loosening its grip. It still throbbed faintly at your temples, but this time it wasn’t from what you'd been through, it was your own doing. Self-inflicted, ordinary, even a little stupid, and strangely, that made it easier to bear. There was something almost comforting about it, something that reminded you you were healing. That pain like this, a hangover from too much laughter and champagne, was yours. Not his.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of floral arrangements and fabric swatches, of bakers offering samples and women with notebooks chattering about linens. You could hardly keep up, your head still tender and your brain moving at half-speed, but every time you felt yourself drifting, Tommy’s hand would find yours under the table or brush against your back in that grounding, comforting way of his.

When you finally sat down at the last stop– a bakery full of the smell of sugar and vanilla, you looked at him across the table with bleary eyes.

“You owe me a full day of doing absolutely nothing after this.”

Tommy smirked. “Whatever you’d like, love.”

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at your lips.

Even with the pounding in your skull, even with the ache in your ribs and the exhaustion dragging through your limbs– there was something soft about it all. Something grounding. Something that made the thought of becoming his wife feel a little less like a dream and more like the most real thing in the world.

By the time you finally stepped through the front door, your entire body felt like it had been wrung out. You’d spent the day shoulder to shoulder with Tommy, sampling cakes until your teeth ached, listening to a florist go on about arrangements you barely understood, getting fitted for shoes you’d probably kick off halfway through the reception. Somewhere in between, you’d picked linens, reviewed seating charts, and argued about how many tiers a cake really needed to be.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d sighed, muttered that you were over it, and threatened to elope. But every time you looked at him, every time he’d leaned in with a subtle smirk or slipped his hand into yours, you forgot how tired you were.

But later, back at home, you had one thing on your mind: the couch and silence.

You were curled across it in your favorite robe, hair a little messy, feet tucked under a blanket, a book resting half-forgotten in your lap. Your eyes were heavy, your limbs slack, your head finally free from that dull ache that had lingered since the morning. You’d earned this.

You heard him before you saw him, the quiet creak of floorboards. And then, Tommy appeared in the doorway.

He paused, taking in the sight of you completely relaxed for the first time all day. A slow, amused smile curled at his mouth.

“You look comfortable,” he said, his voice low, tired in that way that made it even deeper.

“I am comfortable,” you said smugly. “And I intend to stay that way. You, on the other hand, owe me foot rubs, hot tea, and an apology for making me choose between peonies and gardenias.”

Tommy stepped forward with a glint in his eye, loosening his tie. “I don’t remember signing that agreement.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then he was suddenly climbing onto the couch, half kneeling, half crawling, until his weight settled gently on top of you, arms bracketing your head, his face inches from yours.

Your breath caught.

“I did the noble thing last night,” he murmured, lips brushing just above your cheekbone. “Had to say no, despite my beautiful fiance throwing herself at me.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I did not throw myself–”

“Practically begged,” he teased, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nearly dragged me to the bed.”

“That was clearly the gin talking.”

“And tonight,” he continued, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “You’re sober.”

Your heart thudded as his mouth found the hollow beneath your ear, slow and purposeful. One of his hands slid beneath the robe, fingers brushing lightly along your hip.

“Tommy–”

“You said I owed you,” he murmured. “I’m just here to deliver.”

You tilted your head back slightly, meeting his eyes– warm, intent, absolutely, devastatingly yours.

“Then you better not keep me waiting,” you said.

Tommy’s lips curved faintly at your words, but there was nothing teasing in the way his eyes flickered over your face now, just a slow, simmering heat that made your breath catch all over again.

“Is that so?” he echoed softly, voice rough at the edges. 

You nodded, but it was the kind of small, breathless movement that barely made it past the nerves gathering in your chest. His mouth brushed yours before you could even respond again, just a featherlight kiss, a taste, more a question than a claim. But when you leaned up into it, the answer was loud and clear.

His next kiss was deeper– firm, deliberate, his hand sliding up along your side, fingers parting the fabric of your robe with careful ease. His body pressed gently but fully against yours, warmth sinking into your skin like something you’d been aching for all day.

You gasped softly against his mouth, feeling his other hand slide beneath you to cradle your back, keeping you pressed flush to him.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped against your jaw, lips trailing kisses down the side of your neck. “Coming home, seeing you like that– curled up, like you’re already mine.”

You were dizzy in the best way, every inch of your skin awake under his touch. His fingers brushed against your thigh, slow and patient, making you shiver beneath him.

“I am yours,” you murmured, barely able to get the words out.

His head dipped lower, lips grazing the hollow of your collarbone. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He hummed low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin like a promise. His hand slid further up your leg beneath the robe, his thumb brushing in slow circles along the inside of your thigh.

You arched into him instinctively, your body already answering before your mind could form another thought. He kissed you again, slower this time, like he meant to memorize the shape of you, the taste of you, the way you sighed into him when his hand finally found the soft, sensitive skin just below your hip.

And through all of it– his hands, his mouth, his body warm and firm against yours, there was a tenderness beneath the heat. A kind of reverence in every kiss, every movement, like he wasn’t just claiming you, he was grounding you, reminding you again and again that you were safe. Wanted. Loved.

His mouth found yours again, slower now, softer, like he couldn’t get enough of just holding you close. You tangled your fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling your breath hitch as his thumb traced delicate circles against your waist.

“Still want that quiet night in?” he whispered against your lips, his voice a little hoarse now, full of heat and affection all at once.

You smiled, breathless, your heart full and fluttering. “I want this. You."

And you could feel him smile against your skin– soft, knowing, completely undone by you.

“Good,” he murmured.

His arms curled around you more securely, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t bear to let you go. You melted into his warmth, into the solid strength of him, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

Outside, the world kept spinning, chaotic and loud and unforgiving, but in that quiet space, wrapped in his arms, it all faded away.

For now, there was only this.

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[alltheeya]

"Just one—OW!" | s.jy

genre: established relationship, fluff, crack, suggestive

word count: 1.9k

notes: this wasn't planned i swear but i just wanted to get it out lol it was funnier in my head, contains jake being a titty lover but it doesn't really go over to being smut , i also just realized that this is like perv!jake part 2 lol

It all started with Jake mindlessly scrolling through his phone, a lazy arm draped around you as you two lounged on the bed. He was reading fan comments, his expression neutral until one particular thread caught his attention.

"Can we PLEASE get Jake shirtless for once? We know he’s been working out—just ONE glance at the abs, that’s all we ask 😩🙏"

Jake furrows his brows. Abs? He blinks, then, as if suddenly remembering, he tugs on the neck of his oversized shirt and peeks down at himself.

You, sitting beside him, immediately notices and tilts your head. "What are you doing?"

Jake ignores you, his lips pursing as he assesses his own body. Do I even have abs right now? He twists a little, peering down deeper into his shirt, looking for any sign of definition.

You squinted, your curiosity piqued. "Wait, wait, let me see."

Without hesitation, you lean over, slyly peeking down his shirt too.

Jake startles, looking at you in amusement. "Baby, do you wanna ask before invading my privacy?"

You raise a brow. "Privacy? Oh please, you're the one pulling at your shirt in the middle of our conversation—"

Then, before you can finish your sentence, Jake smirks. "Oh? You wanna peek?"

In one swift motion, he hooks a finger under the collar of your shirt.

Your eyes widen in horror. "YAH!"

"FAIR GAME, BABY!" Jake cackles, pulling slightly to peek, but you screech, swatting his hand away and curling into yourself protectively.

"You PERVERT!" you yell, face heating up as you clutches your shirt.

"YOU STARTED IT!" Jake fires back, still laughing, completely entertained by your flustered state.

You huff, crossing your arms. "You were literally checking yourself out first!"

"Yeah, because I was curious! But you? You just wanted to sneak a look at your boyfriend's hot bod." He smirks smugly, leaning back. "I get it, baby, I’m irresistible."

You throw a pillow at his face.

You glare at him, grabbing another pillow. "No. You're full of yourself."

Jake only smirks wider, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. “On second thought,” he hums, tapping his chin, “I’ve seen what they look like already since I’ve seen you naked before and damn, do they look fuckin’ gorgeo—”

THWACK.

Another pillow slams into his face, muffling the end of his sentence.

"HEY!" Jake exclaims, pushing the pillow off as you grab yet another one, ready to attack. "I was giving you a compliment!"

"SHUT UP, JAKE!" you shriek, throwing the next pillow at full force.

Jake barely dodges, laughing his ass off as he scrambles away. "I’m just saying how blessed you are and how I’m also blessed with the sight of your—OW!"

You had chucked yet another pillow at him, this time with more force. “YAH!” you exclaims, face burning. “Do you ever shut up?!”

Jake, still dying of laughter, shields himself with his arms. "Okay, okay! No more!" he wheezes, trying to catch his breath. But his mischievous smirk betrays him.

You narrows your eyes, suspicious. "You’re still thinking something stupid, aren’t you?"

Jake grins. "Noooo…"

She raises the pillow again.

"Okay, fine, YES—" Jake bolts up and runs, but you are right behind him, swinging the pillow like your life depends on it.

"IS IT EVER A CRIME FOR A GUY TO JUST WORSHIP HIS GIRLFRIEND FOR HAVING THE BODY OF A GODDESS?!" Jake yells dramatically as he dodges yet another pillow.

"YES!" You shriek, lunging at him with full force.

He barely has time to react before you tackle him onto the bed, straddling his waist as you smack him with the pillow repeatedly. “TAKE! THAT! BACK!”

Jake is howling with laughter, weakly trying to shield himself. "NEVER!"

"SIM JAEYUN, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

Before you can land another hit, he grabs your wrists, flipping them over so you're trapped underneath him. He smirks down at you, his face inches from yours. "Damn, baby, you’re aggressive."

You glare. "Let me go."

"Say you forgive me."

"No."

"Say I’m the best boyfriend ever."

"ABSOLUTELY NOT."

Jake pouts. "Then I guess we’re staying like this forever."

You groan, wiggling under him. "Fine. I forgive you. Now get off, you big oaf."

Jake grins victoriously but doesn’t move. "And the other part?"

She glares harder. "Don’t push your luck."

Jake easily pins both of your wrists above your head with just one hand, his strength making your stomach twist in anticipation—and maybe a little regret for starting this whole mess.

His gaze slowly drags down from your face to where he’s been most obsessed with today, eyes darkening with mischief.

"It’s calling out to me," he murmurs, fixated.

You gulp. " babe..."

"You started it, baby."

" Babe… no."

"One tiny peek?" Jake tilts his head, feigning innocence.

"No."

"One squeeze?"

"Only if you let me run my hands over your abs."

Jake pauses. His expression shifts as if he’s actually considering the offer.

Then, with a defeated sigh, he releases your wrists. "Deal."

You blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know you’ve been curious, baby." Jake smirks, tapping his stomach. "Go ahead, have your moment."

She immediately presses your hands against his torso, fingers spreading over the firm ridges of his abs. "Damn," you mutter under your breath. "You’ve been working out."

Jake chuckles, eyes glinting. "You like?"

You hum, still feeling around. "Mhm…"

Then, without warning, you pinches his waist.

"HEY—!" Jake jerks back, eyes wide as you erupt into laughter. "That was NOT part of the deal!"

"Oops~" you sing, giggling as you dodge the pillow he throws back at you.

"Baby~ my turn of the deal!" Jake grins as he lunges toward you, his long legs easily closing the distance between them.

"WAITWAITWAIT—" You squeal, scrambling off the bed and making a run for it. You dodge left, then right, but Jake is faster, effortlessly blocking your escape like a predator cornering its prey.

"You can’t escape me, baby~" He sing-songs, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

" Babe, let’s talk about this—"

"Nah, deal’s a deal."

You freeze, your breath hitching as Jake’s arms tighten around your waist, locking you in place. Your back is flush against his chest, and you can feel his low chuckle vibrating through you.

"Gotcha, baby~" he purrs, his lips dangerously close to your ear.

"Babe…" you warn, your voice already losing its strength.

"Hmm?" His grip tightens just slightly, his hands warm against your waist, fingers teasingly flexing. "What was that? You were saying something?"

You swallow. You can feel his hands inching up, moving so deliberately slow that it makes you squirm.

"Jake, no—"

"Jake, yes," he counters immediately, laughing when you whine in frustration. "A deal’s a deal, baby."

"I HATE YOU—"

"No, you don’t."

His fingers finally reach their destination, giving a gentle squeeze.

You yelp, your entire body jolting at the sensation.

"PERVERT!" you screeches, your face burning as you elbow him—hard.

"Oof—!" Jake staggers back, laughing through the pain as you escape his hold, whipping around to glare at him with a flustered pout.

"Was it worth it?!" you demand.

Jake grins, rubbing his ribs. "One hundred percent."

You huffs, watching Jake rub his ribs with that stupid smug grin still plastered on his face. Even though he totally deserved that elbow to the gut, a tiny pang of guilt tugs at you. Maybe—just maybe—you elbowed him a little too hard.

Still, a tiny pang of guilt creeps in. With a sigh, you step forward, grabbing his face gently between your hands.

"Baby," you murmurs, your thumbs softly brushing over his cheeks.

Jake blinks at you, momentarily caught off guard. "Huh?"

Before he can say anything else, You lean in and press a lingering kiss to his lips. It’s slow, warm—comforting, like an unspoken apology.

His hands instinctively find your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, completely forgetting whatever “pain” he was in before.

When you finally pull away, Jake’s lips chase after yours, whining slightly at the loss of contact. "Baby…"

When you pull back, your gaze flickers to where his hands rest at your sides. A mischievous idea pops into your head, and before you can second-guess yourself, you turn around, grab his wrists and—

guides them back to your chest, letting him cup you from behind.

Jake freezes.

"W-Wait, what—" His breath catches as he feels the familiar warmth of your soft curves beneath his palms.

Jake short-circuits. His mouth falls open, and for the first time in a while, he’s completely speechless. His hands instinctively give a tiny squeeze, and when he realizes what just happened—

"You like doing this, right?" you mumble, tilting your head. "Does this make you feel better?"

"Oh, my God," he breathes. "Baby, you’re the best girlfriend ever."

You snort, amused at how easily he crumbles. "Yeah, yeah. Happy now?"

"So happy." Jake grins, eyes locked at where his hands are. "You’re never allowed to elbow me again, okay? Just do this instead."

"Ok times up, you're touching too much” you swat his hands away.

Jake pouts dramatically as you swat his hands away. "Aw, come on! That was, like, two seconds!"

You raise a brow, crossing your arms. "Two seconds too long."

"Baby," he whines, attempting to sneak his hands back, but you smack them away again.

"Nope. Times up. You got your comfort, now behave."

Jake huffs, flopping onto the bed with a defeated sigh. "Can’t believe my own girlfriend is putting a time limit on my happiness."

You snorted, settling next to him. "Your happiness is too handsy."

"I just appreciate you, that’s all!" Jake grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "Like, really, really appreciate—"

You grab another pillow and smack him with it. "Go to sleep, you sicko."

Jake just laughs, pulling you into his arms. "Fine, fine. But you owe me next time."

"In your dreams, Babe."

Jake grins, his voice mischievous. "Hopefully, they do appear in my dreams—free from their entrapment, all soft and perfect to the touch—"

He starts making squeezing motions in the air, eyes glazed over in fantasy.

SMACK!

"OW—OKAY, OKAY!" He clutches his arm where you hit him, wheezing through his laughter. "I WAS JUST SAYING!"

"Go. To. Sleep." You glare, pointing at him with the pillow like a threat.

Jake cackles. "Okay, okay! I’ll stop!"

"You better!" You glare, hugging a pillow to your chest like it’s your only defense against his nonsense.

But Jake, being Jake, just grins. "I mean, I was just saying—"

You grab another pillow and WHACK him again.

"OW! OKAY, I GET IT!" He laughs, shielding himself. "No more boob talk! No more boob talk!"

"Good." You huffs, finally lying down to get comfortable.

A few seconds of silence pass.

Then, from beside you—

"I’m just saying, baby..." Jake’s voice comes out softer, almost like he’s thinking out loud. "They look... really... really good."

With every pause, his gaze inevitably drifts downward again.

You grab his face, forcing him to look straight into your eyes. "SIM JAEYUN."

Jake gulps, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips—then inevitably drifting down again.

"YAH!" You shake him slightly, snapping him out of it.

"SORRY, SORRY!" He chuckles, hands raised in surrender. "But, baby, can you blame me? They just—"

You clamp a hand over his mouth. "Not. Another. Word."

Jake nods obediently, though his eyes still betray him.

"I see you looking—!"

"No, you don’t!" He blurts out, trying to look anywhere but there.

"I CAN FEEL YOUR GAZE, YOU MENACE!"

Jake laughs, finally giving in and pulling you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Fine, fine. I’ll behave... for now."

"You better, or next time, I’m tying a blindfold around your eyes."

Jake smirks against your skin. "Kinky."

"OH MY GOD—"

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Lead By Example 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Trafalgar Law x gn!reader (pre-relationship) ♡ Warnings: Snarky/dark-humored reader, kusarigama-wielder (no fight scenes here, reader just carries it around), quiet emotional intimacy, late-night tension, mutual insomnia, mutual pining, heavy banter, dimly lit library vibes, slow burn energy ♡ WC: ~2k ♡ Notes: I didn’t want to default to the usual sunshine-soft pairing Law often gets (as much as I love that dynamic), so I tried something with a sharper edge. This reader’s a little more serious, kind of snarky, and carries a kusarigama like it’s part of their spine—but I still wanted it to feel like a reader insert rather than a full OC. I’m not always confident with banter writing, so fingers crossed it flows okay. It ended up more tender than I expected, but honestly? I think Law needed that.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The Polar Tang’s library was a cramped little haven carved into the submarine’s steel skeleton, a rare pocket of quiet at 1:00 AM when the crew was dead to the world. 

No creaking wood here—just the low hum of machinery thrumming through the hull, the occasional metallic groan as pressure shifted outside, and the faint clank of pipes settling. 

A single lantern dangled from a bolted bracket, its amber glow washing over shelves stuffed with medical texts, charts, and a few battered novels Bepo probably smuggled in. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, rust, and that sharp tang of recycled oxygen. 

You’d claimed a rickety chair hours ago, one leg kicked up on a crate, your kusarigama hooked at your hip—chain coiled tight, sickle gleaming like a promise of trouble. 

You were slogging through a medical journal on regenerative cell theory, eyes glazing over, when you felt him before you saw him.

Soft boots on metal, a shift in the stale air, that heavy presence Trafalgar D. Law hauled around like a loaded gun. 

You didn’t look up. 

“Late night again, huh?” he said, voice rough, scraped raw from too little sleep and too much coffee. 

You flicked a page, smirking. 

“Look who’s talking, Captain. You stalking me now?” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the deck. 

“Noticed you weren’t in your bunk,” he shot back, dry as bone. 

“What, you doing bed checks?” you said, finally glancing up, brow arched. 

“Keeping tabs on my crew,” he corrected, sharp and fast, like he’d been waiting for that jab.

He loomed there, framed by the hatchway, all loose black sweats and an unzipped hoodie, no shirt—tattoos stark against lean muscle, shadows cutting across his collarbone. His hair was a disaster, dark strands jutting out like he’d wrestled with it and lost, and those gray eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, pinned you with that infuriating mix of menace and calm. 

“Can’t sleep either, I take it?” you said, leaning back, letting your kusarigama’s chain clink against your thigh. 

“Obviously,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

You nodded at the chair across from you, its faded upholstery patched with mismatched thread 

“Sit, then. I won’t rat you out.” He eyed it, then you, before dropping into it with a grunt, legs sprawling like he owned the damn place.

The lantern swayed faintly, light bouncing off the riveted walls. You went back to your book, pretending to read. 

“You’re gonna crash if you keep this up,” you said, casual but pointed, eyes on the page. 

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he fired back, voice dripping with that smug edge he wielded like a blade. 

You snorted, flipping a page you hadn’t even skimmed. 

“I’m not the one holding this crew together. You go down, we’re fucked. Lead by example, Captain.” 

The hum of the sub filled the silence, a low drone underscoring the weight of your words. He didn’t bite back right away, just let it hang.

“You think they’d follow me that far?” he asked after a beat, quieter, like he was testing you. 

You met his stare, gray clashing with yours in the dim glow. 

“Think? No. I know they would. I would.” His eyes narrowed, searching your face—maybe for bullshit, maybe for something else. 

The silence stretched, thick with the clank of a distant pipe and the faint buzz of the lantern’s filament. 

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. 

“That’s a hell of a bet,” he said, voice low, dry. 

“Not a bet if it’s a sure thing,” you countered, smirking just enough to rile him.

He huffed—a ghost of a laugh—and you caught the flicker of it in his eyes before he masked it. You closed the book with a snap, tossing it onto the crate. 

“Medical alchemy crap. Boring as shit,” you said, stretching your arms until your shoulders popped, kusarigama swaying at your hip. 

His gaze tracked the motion, lingering on the weapon’s glint, then up to your face. 

“You’re still reading it,” he pointed out, deadpan. 

“Masochism’s my specialty,” you shot back, grinning. 

“Explains why you’re still awake talking to me,” he said, and there it was—banter with teeth, sharp enough to cut.

You stood, pacing the tight space, the chain of your kusarigama rattling against your leg. 

“You’re one to talk, caffeine fiend. Those bags under your eyes got bags.” 

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching you move. 

“And you’re a ray of sunshine, huh?” 

“Only when I’m annoying you,” you said, stopping to lean against a shelf, facing him. 

“Which is always,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying him. 

“Good. Keeps you sharp,” you said, tapping the sickle’s handle at your hip. 

He didn’t argue, just kept staring, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You don’t have to play lone wolf all the time,” you said, softer now, cutting through the snark. 

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. 

“That a suggestion or an order?” 

“Take it how you want, Law. Just saying—you matter more than you think.” 

The words landed heavier than you meant, and his jaw tightened, just a flicker, before he smoothed it over. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, but there was no venom in it—more like he was testing how far you’d push. 

“And you’re a stubborn asshole,” you replied, stepping closer, close enough that the lantern threw your shadow over him. 

“Rest sometime, yeah? Don’t make me chain you to your bunk.”

He smirked, faint but real. 

“You’d like that too much.” 

“Maybe,” you said, matching his grin, then turned for the hatch. 

“Night, Captain.” 

“Night,” he called after you, voice lingering as you slipped out, the metal clang of the hatch shutting behind you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Law stayed put, slouched in that shitty chair, staring at the spot you’d been. The library felt colder now. Urgh, what a load of crap. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. You’d gotten under his skin, and he hated it—hated how your words stuck, how that damn kusarigama of yours glinted like it was mocking him every time you moved. 

He’d noticed it again tonight, hooked at your hip like an extension of you, all fluid menace and style. 

He didn’t touch it—wouldn’t, not when it was yours—but he’d thought about it, the weight of it, the way you swung it like breathing. Fuck, he was losing it.

He stood, pacing the tight space, boots scuffing the deck. 

The sub groaned, metal flexing under pressure, a reminder of where they were—trapped in this steel coffin, chasing a fight they might not win. 

Lead by example. 

What a joke. 

He wasn’t some shining beacon. He was a bastard with a plan and a crew dumb enough to follow it. But you’d said it like you meant it, like you’d seen something he hadn’t. 

He stopped, leaning against the desk, staring at the hatch. 

You’d left, but he could still feel you—the weight of your stare, that smart-ass mouth. He muttered a curse, low and vicious, and sank back into the chair. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were back in your bunk, sprawled out, kusarigama propped against the wall within arm’s reach—never out of sight, never left behind. 

The room was a steel box, bare except for a locker and a porthole showing nothing but black water. The sub’s hum vibrated through the mattress, steady, relentless. 

You couldn’t shake him—Law’s tired eyes, that half-smirk when you’d pushed his buttons, the way he’d gone quiet when you’d said he mattered. 

Asshole. 

Why’d he have to look at you like that, all guarded and raw, like he didn’t know what to do with you?

You rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. 

You weren’t some lovesick idiot. 

He was your captain, a cold-blooded prick who’d cut out his own heart if it got in his way. But you’d follow him into hell, and that’s what pissed you off most—not the loyalty, but how it twisted something deeper, made you notice dumb shit like the ink on his skin, the way his voice dropped when he was too tired to hide. 

You punched the pillow, muttering, “Fuck off, Law,” to the empty room, and shut your eyes.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Next night, you were in the library again. Same lantern, same chair, different book—surgical logs, bloodier and less bullshit than the last. The hatch creaked, and there he was, same sweats, same hoodie, same shirtless crap that made your pulse kick despite yourself. 

“You’re predictable,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you. 

“Says the guy who keeps showing up,” you shot back, not looking up. 

“Touché,” he muttered, slouching like he was daring the chair to break.

“Still can’t sleep?” you asked, flipping a page. 

“Still nosy?” he countered, voice dry.

 You smirked. 

“It’s my job to keep you honest.” 

“You’re shit at it,” he said, but there was a spark in his eyes, a challenge. 

“And you’re shit at resting,” you fired back, closing the book. “We’re a pair.” 

He snorted, leaning forward. 

“A pair of what?” 

“Idiots, apparently,” you said, standing, kusarigama clinking as you moved. 

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you. 

“You ever put that thing down?” 

“Not when I might need to whip your ass into shape,” you said, grinning.

He stood too, stepping closer, cutting the space between you. 

“Keep dreaming,” he said, voice low, teasing. 

“You’re the one who can’t stay away,” you replied, holding his stare. 

The hum of the sub faded, the air tightening. 

“Maybe I like the view,” he said, and it wasn’t just banter anymore. 

You laughed, sharp and quick, breaking it. 

“Smooth, Captain.” 

“I try,” he said, smirking, and you both let it drop, the tension simmering but unspoken.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The third night, he found you on deck instead. 

The library had felt too small, too warm, so you’d taken your brooding outside, leaning against the railing with the sea stretching endless and black around you. 

The air was cool, salted, the stars sharp overhead. Your kusarigama dangled from your hand, chain swaying with the ship’s motion. 

Law appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, hands in his pockets. 

“Not the library,” he said, voice rough from disuse. 

“Change of pace,” you replied, not looking at him.

He leaned against the railing too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The wind tugged at his hair, his hoodie, and you caught the faint scent of him—ink, antiseptic, something sharper underneath. 

“You’re predictable,” he said after a while. 

“Says the guy who shows up every night,” you countered, twirling the sickle absently. 

He didn’t laugh, but his silence felt amused. You stood there together, the sea lapping at the hull, the quiet stretching long and easy.

“You ever stop?” he asked eventually, voice low, serious. 

“Stop what?” 

“Worrying about me.” 

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the night sky. 

“You ever stop giving me reasons to?” 

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the water, jaw tight. 

You sighed, letting the kusarigama’s chain clink against the railing. 

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Law.” 

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and this time he turned, meeting your eyes.

The space between you shrank, not physically but in every other way, the air humming with something unspoken. 

You could’ve pushed, could’ve said more, but you didn’t. Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light, deliberate. 

“Lead by example,” you murmured.

He didn’t reply, but his hand brushed yours on the railing, fleeting, intentional. 

And for once, he didn’t pull away. 

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[blueeyedheizer]

Could you please write a Cassie smut where she hasn’t had sex in ages and desperately needs it so when the reader touches her for the first time she’s immediately soaked

it had been too long. painfully, desperately long.

cassie couldn't remember the last time she'd felt the touch of someone else's skin, the weight of another body pressing against hers. her vibrator and fantasies could only do so much to satisfy her needs, and she felt like she was going insane with how badly she craved sex.

that's why she finally gave in one night and downloaded a dating app.

she wasn’t looking for love or anything complicated— after her history with nate jacobs, a relationship was the last thing on her mind. all she wanted was a way to take the edge off and treat herself with an orgasm that wasn't brought to her by the buzzing touch of a toy. no strings, no messy emotions...just a single night with someone new to quiet the ache in her bones. boy or girl, she didn't mind.

that’s how she found you.

from the start, everything was clear between you. you both wanted a good hookup, nothing more nothing less.

a meeting place was set the next day, boundaries were discussed, and by the time she arrived at the hotel her pulse was already racing.

now, after merely an hour of talking (just enough conversation to dissolve the worst of the awkwardness) here she is, laying half naked under this gorgeous stranger, warm lips trailing down her collarbone that make her skin erupt in goosebumps.

cassie's chest heaves, her fingers threading through your hair as your lips continue their torturously slow descent. every touch, every press of your mouth against her skin sends heat spiraling through her, making her clit pulse with need already.

"mph— fuck..." cassie gasps, her tits pushing up as you take one nipple into your mouth. she can only lay there and watch as your tongue swirls around the sensitive peak, sending bolts of electricity straight to her core. she can feel herself getting wetter, her panties soaked through as you lavish attention on her breasts, your hand squeezing and groping the one that isn't being worshipped by your mouth.

but cassie needs more.

she needs you between her thighs, tasting her, devouring her like there's no tomorrow.

as if reading her mind, you begin kissing a trail down her stomach, your tongue dipping into her navel before continuing lower. you hook your fingers in the waistband of her panties and tug them down her thighs, over her knees then off her feet in a swift movement. she shudders beneath you, her fingers curling into the hotel sheets in anticipation.

it's been so long, too damn long — and fuck, it shows.

she’s already much wetter than you expected, thighs trembling with anticipation, her body reacting to every touch like she’s starving for it. you settle between her legs, eyes locked on the mess she’s made of herself—slick glistening on her lips, her pussy swollen and dripping, practically throbbing with need.

“god,” you murmur, “I haven't even touched you yet.”

cassie whimpers, her hips twitching up toward your face like she can’t help it.

you don’t make her wait.

you lean in and drag your tongue through her folds, slow and indulgent, tasting the slick that’s been building for way too long. cassie's whole body shudders when you moan against her folds, a choked cry tearing from her throat as her fingers seize in the sheets.

“fuck...oh my god, yes,"

you lap at her again, firmer this time, tongue flicking over her clit, feeling her thighs trembling on either side of your head. you can't help but notice how pretty she looks from here— her face flushed, lip captured between her teeth, her breasts heaving with every inhale.

and god, she’s soaked. practically dripping onto the sheets.

you eat her like you’ve been dreaming about it—tongue working her pussy in slow, wet strokes before spreading her open with your thumbs to aim a glob of spit onto her clit, watching it dribble to her entrance before swallowing it back up, savoring every twitch, every gasp, every desperate buck of her hips.

because cassie can’t stop moving. she’s writhing beneath you, her hands fisting in your hair, pulling you in closer like she wants you to drown in her. she’s moaning, loud and breathless, each sound spilling shamelessly, her mind too lost in the moment to care about anything outside of this. the walls could be paper-thin, someone could be knocking at the door, ready to call room service with a noise complaint—and it wouldn’t matter. she's too far gone to care, and you certainly aren't going to call her out for it.

“oh my god—your mouth—” she cries out, voice pitched high and shaking. she's not going to last at all. “fuck, it's so good. don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop—”

"mphh. fuck, you taste so good." you murmur, your thumb temporarily picking up the pace, and you seize the opportunity to tease her just a little, pressing soft kisses all over her trimmed mound, her inner thighs. "pussy's so fucking pretty. fuck— look at you. look at this." you drag two fingers up and down her parted folds, watching them in awe as they spread effortlessly beneath your touch before your head dips back down, your lips latching onto her puffy clit. you moan into her, the vibrations making her legs jerk, and cassie sobs out something unintelligible, hips grinding down against your face like she can't get close enough.

"yeah, fuck my face, baby," you murmur against her. "ride it—ride my tongue like you fucking need it." you lock your hands around her thighs and hold her there, your mouth relentless, determined to make her come on your tongue, to fall apart just like she said she wanted.

“I’m gonna... ah!...I’m—fuck, I’m gonna come! Im gonna come— i'm coming!” cassie sobs. her fingers twist tighter into your hair, her whole body stiffening as her orgasm crashes over her — sudden, overwhelming. she grinds down shamelessly, riding your mouth through it, her juices dripping down your chin as you moan against her, drinking her in like you’ll never get enough.

you groan into her, your own pussy throbbing with need at this point, your thighs clenching and unclenching as you lick her through every twitch and aftershock, her thighs shaking where they trap your head.

But don't stop, not right away—instead continuing to lick slow, lazy strokes up her overstimulated clit, savoring the little gasps and whines you pull from her until she’s pushing weakly at your head, too sensitive to take anymore.

[tinyundercover]

pepper & felix

part five

Pepper doesn't know how to handle his emotions.

MASTERPOST word count: 4.4k

Pepper stood behind the toaster, peeking around to examine the kitchen. It was late morning, and the sun was beginning to shine in through the window. Felix wasn’t up yet. Good.

He stepped out and craned his neck to examine the cabinet above him. One of the doors was cracked open by an inch, as usual, and he vaguely wondered if Felix had been leaving it open on purpose. It left a strange feeling in his chest as he tossed his hook up.

It had been four days since he had accepted the salad from Felix, but Pepper hadn’t felt comfortable enough to approach Felix again. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. He was still a borrower, after all, and even if Felix seemed kind, it was hard for Pepper to entirely trust him. Besides, what would he even say to him? Hey, Felix, I think you might actually be my soulmate. Yeah, I know I’m the size of your pinky and you could kill me with the flick of a wrist. Wanna hang out?

He huffed as he clambered up into the cabinet, scooping up his hook and thread with him. Containers and jars loomed over him, and he began to ease his way between them.

When his soulmate had contacted him a week ago to tell him that he had found a tiny man living in his walls, Pepper had panicked. There was no way his human soulmate had actually caught a borrower at the same moment Pepper had been caught… unless…?

That realization is what led him down a path of watching Felix from the walls, anxiety nibbling at his chest. It had to be a coincidence that Felix liked to sing, too… or that his soulmate had caught a borrower the same night Felix had caught Pepper… or that his voice had sounded so familiar.

He hadn’t left the walls for three days straight. Even if Felix had been nice enough to let him go, it didn’t mean that Pepper wasn’t slightly traumatized from the whole ordeal. And he just couldn’t face the fact that Felix might actually be his soulmate.

When he had realized that he was running short on food and he just needed to run out and grab something, he finally decided to reveal himself to Felix. Running entirely on adrenaline, he had lingered by the bookshelf, ready to bolt just in case Felix decided to change his mind and grab him up anyways.

But… Felix had apologized. He had offered Pepper fresh vegetables, which was very hard to come by for a borrower. And he didn’t even try to touch him once.

Pepper held his breath as he wrangled with an open packet of crackers, hoping he wasn’t making too much noise to wake Felix up yet. He paused briefly to listen for footsteps before yanking out a round salted cracker, twice the length of his arm.

It only took a minute to break it into four pieces and cram it into his bag. He still had a bit of space left inside, so he began to search around for something else he could fill his bag with.

Just as he was examining the label on a box of tea, he was alerted to the sound of footsteps entering the room. Felix usually didn’t open this cabinet before he left, but Pepper ducked behind a jar of peanut butter, just in case.

He listened cautiously to the sound of Felix moving around the kitchen, and his shoulders tensed. It was astounding just how big one person could be. Pepper wasn’t going to forget soon just how easily Felix had trapped him in a fist.

Pepper shifted uncomfortably. If Felix really was his soulmate (and what more evidence did he need, really?) then what was he supposed to do about it? He had lived his entire life as a borrower, avoiding humans. He couldn’t imagine trying to… to date a human. Or even befriend one, for that matter. It wasn’t his fault that the universe had forced him to have this telepathic connection with a human.

And Felix wasn’t even supposed to know that borrowers existed! Pepper didn’t want a human to even talk to him again, let alone touch him. Soulmate or not, Felix was a human, and Pepper could not trust him.

He caught his face turning red and he shook his head, running his hands through his black hair. The last week had been filled with nothing but confusion and stress. All he wanted to do was sink into his hammock and sleep for five days, but no, he had to go on his stupid borrowing trip so he didn’t starve.

Pepper rolled his eyes and, listening carefully to the sound of Felix’s footsteps, he snuck through the cabinet once more. He approached an open box of green tea, thankful that the sound of the kettle outside would cover up the small noises he made as he pried open the box and tugged out a packet.

As if the universe was against him, he was alerted too late to the sound of the cabinet door swinging open. Shit. Cursing under his breath, he ducked behind the peanut butter jar again, but not before the light from outside caught on his small form.

There was a distinct pause in Felix’s movements, and Pepper’s heart pounded. Then—

“Is that you?”

Pepper’s eyes darted around the cabinet, as if Felix could possibly be talking to someone else. 

Would it be impolite to ignore Felix, especially after all the human has done for him so far?

Stomach twisting with anxiety, he peeked around the jar, stiffening under the curious gaze of blue eyes outside the cabinet. “…Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice me.”

Pepper had almost forgotten just how massive Felix really was. The human took up the entirety of his vision outside the cabinet, and from this close, Pepper could see all of the little details on his face. Being at his eye level did help to calm the borrower’s nerves, because at least he didn’t feel completely helpless from up here.

Felix’s hand was still lingering on the cupboard handle, as if he was afraid to move it. His lips twitched into a soft smile, and Pepper’s gaze lingered on them for a moment. “You’re okay. Um— what are you doing up there?”

Pepper clutched the tea bag closer to his chest, and Felix’s gaze danced to it. “Oh,” the human said. “You—”

“I can put it back,” Pepper said hurriedly, his heart racing. He had totally forgotten that what he did was typically considered stealing by human standards. 

Felix’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at the open box of tea. There were four boxes in total, with dozens of tea bags inside. “Oh— it’s okay, I don’t care at all. Take as many as you want, honestly.” His features softened, and he reached in to pick out a teabag between his forefinger and thumb. “And— listen— you don’t have to hide. From me. I don’t mind if you hang around here.”

Pepper’s stomach had dropped at the sight of Felix pinching up a teabag; he had instinctively thought the human had been reaching for him. Once the human’s hand had retreated, and Pepper’s heart rate went back to normal, he actually processed what Felix had said.

“Oh.” He peered closer at those wide blue eyes. “That’s… good to know.”

Felix suddenly seemed unsure about something, chewing his lip. His large hand lifted to the cupboard handle, and Pepper secretly hoped he would just close it and walk away. “Are you gonna stick around up there?” Felix asked, a bit awkwardly. “I need to leave for class in a second, but if you need a hand, I could— um, I could help you down.”

The borrower immediately stiffened, alarm bells filling his mind. He briefly remembered the feeling of being held tight in a fist, and he found himself backing away into the wooden cabinet wall behind him. “I’m— I’m gonna stay up here, yeah. No help necessary.” His voice wobbled.

Felix wasn’t blind, and he immediately understood that he had overstepped a boundary with Pepper. He flushed, taking a step back. “Right, no worries.”

The human left the cabinet door open as he finished preparing for class, brewing his teabag in his thermos and answering a few quick texts. Once his bag was on his shoulder, ready to go, he approached the cabinet again, where Pepper had barely moved aside from shoving his tea packet into his bag.

“Okay, I’m heading out.” Felix’s large hand rested on the cabinet door. “Do you want me to leave this cracked open?”

“…Yeah. Thanks.” It was strange, to have a human openly consider Pepper’s needs.

Felix bid him a quick farewell and closed the cabinet door, leaving it hanging open with more than enough space for a borrower to get out of. Only once Pepper was alerted to the sound of the front door shutting did he feel comfortable enough to approach the cabinet door and latch his hook onto the edge.

His mind was still racing, an hour later, as he entered his room under the floorboards with a bag packed full of crackers and tea. What would have happened if he had accepted Felix’s proposal of picking him up? He’s sure the human would have just safely deposited him on the counter in a matter of seconds, but a darker part of his mind whispered thoughts of being shoved in a pocket or dangled in the air. 

Felix would never do that, Pepper scolded himself… but twenty-two years of human horror stories were difficult for the borrower to forget.

As Pepper made a beeline for his pantry (a small divot in the wall covered by a handmade curtain), he froze, ears pricking towards the sound of soft breathing. His stomach chilled, and he spun to his left, staring at his hammock.

A tan arm dangled from the side of the hammock, and a bushy head of black hair could barely be seen amongst the pillows and blankets. Pepper’s heart immediately swelled, and he couldn’t help but exclaim, “Basil!”

“Wha…” A pair of brown eyes appeared, blinking sleepily down at him. It only took a second for Basil to process what she was seeing.

“Oh! Pepper!”

By the time she swung herself over the edge, Pepper had already raced forward, throwing his arms around his older sister in a tight hug the moment her feet hit the floor. 

She was a bit shorter than him, but just barely. Her arms were strong as she held him tight, and Pepper was comforted by the thought that she must be eating well.

“What are you— what are you doing here?” Pepper grabbed her shoulders to look at her, eyes shining. “God, it’s been so long.”

With no way to communicate with other borrowers, Pepper hadn’t been able to talk to Basil in almost a year. 

“I wanted to visit!” Basil explained excitedly. “I just got here an hour ago, and man, when I saw that your place was empty I got so scared that you died— but I realized your pantry had fresh food in it so you must still be around.” Her eyebrows raised approvingly. “Where the hell did you get all those vegetables? You must have improved your borrowing skills since I last saw you!”

Pepper laughed as she gently punched his shoulder. He suddenly felt the need to change the subject. “So, you just decided to take a nap in my bed?”

“Hey, it took me four days to get here, I deserve a nap.” She sent him a grin before peering at the bag on his shoulder. “What’d you get?”

When Pepper showed her the contents of his bag, she laughed. “Dude, you drink tea now?”

“It’s good for you,” he said defensively, although he was smiling. “And it’s got caffeine. Here, let me make you some.”

As Pepper expertly cut open the tea bag, Basil rambled to him about how the last ten months had been for her. She, coincidentally, had also picked up sewing clothes as a hobby. Her dark green pants, reminiscent of human cargo pants, were apparently her “greatest accomplishment” so far.

A family of borrowers had also moved into the house she was living in, after having been kicked out of their old home due to pest control. Basil had some sweet stories about how she had helped to babysit the kids from time to time. Pepper smiled as she talked, his heart warm at the thought that his sister had been happy and thriving.

He handed her a small cup, made out of aluminum foil. The tea inside was cold, obviously, but that was something that didn’t bother most borrowers.

Basil sent Pepper a suspicious but playful look as she took a long sip of her tea. She pondered for a moment. “Meh.”

“You don’t like it?” Pepper laughed after taking a sip of his own tea.

“It’s fine, but I wouldn’t waste space in my bag for it,” Basil said thoughtfully. “I’d rather grab some chocolate or something. That has caffeine, too, I think, and it tastes a thousand times better.”

Pepper blinked as a fond memory resurfaced in his mind. “Aw— remember when we were kids, and we still lived by the bakery? And you nabbed that brownie? I miss that.”

Basil lit up instantly. “Oh my god, yeah! I was, what— thirteen? I was so proud of myself.” She grinned. “Does the human here have any chocolate?”

Pepper hesitated. “Oh, uh— he actually eats super healthy, honestly. I’m not sure if… he’d have that.”

“Ohhh. Is that why you have cucumber in your pantry?” Basil teased. Pepper rolled his eyes in amusement.

“Yeah, actually.”

Basil had already stood up, tossing her aluminum cup aside. (Pepper noticed fondly that she had drank all of her tea.) “Anyways, let’s go borrowing. I’m sure we’ll find something cool. And if we don’t, I can just make fun of your lame climbing skills.”

“Wha—! I’m a great climber!”

“Let’s test that,” Basil snickered. 

—

After a long trek through the walls with lots of complaints from Pepper (“I literally just got back from a borrowing trip!”) and interjections from Basil (“Womp, womp.”) the pair of them finally emerged onto the counter, peeking around the toaster.

“He’s definitely not here, right?” Basil prompted. Pepper nodded.

“Yeah, he has class until four, and then he’s got some friend thing. He won’t be home all day.”

Basil side-eyed him. “How do you know that?

Her brother blinked rapidly. “I overheard him on the phone yesterday,” he lied, knowing full well that Felix had told him all of that telepathically. Basil nodded in understanding, although her brown eyes remained curious.

Pepper allowed her to take the lead as they trekked across the counter, approaching a fruit bowl. He hadn’t mentioned his soulmate situation to her yet. He wouldn’t even be sure how to begin, honestly.

Would she think of him differently, if she knew? 

He watched her warily, as if she might start shouting at him. Basil, like every other borrower, was not very fond of humans. If she knew that Pepper had such a strong connection to a human, would she be upset with him? Scared, even, that he might put her in danger?

His stomach squirmed as Basil tossed her hook up to the edge of the fruit bowl. “Have you heard of soulmates?” He asked suddenly, trying to sound casual. Basil climbed up into the bowl first, and Pepper followed. 

Basil shot him a glance from where she was examining a grape. “What, like, the hands-clasped-over-your-chest thing? The mind connection?”

Pepper blinked in surprise. “Yeah, actually.”

She nodded, yanking a round green grape off of its stem. “Yeah, I actually used to talk to my soulmate, when I was twenty-one. It didn’t last long, though.”

Pepper stared, dumbfounded. “Wha— seriously? Wait— what happened? You never told me this!”

“It just wasn’t a big deal,” Basil said offhandedly, shoving the grape into her bag. “I mean, we talked for a few weeks, and it was nice. But she lives halfway across the country, and… I don’t know, once we realized we would never actually see each other, we kind of just… moved on.”

Pepper’s heart sunk. “I’m so sorry.”

Basil shrugged. “Like I said, it’s no biggie. That’s just how life works. Soulmates aren’t for everyone.” She suddenly straightened up, brown eyes wide. “Wait— don’t tell me— are you talking to your soulmate?”

Pepper flushed, busying himself by picking up a grape as well. “Yeah, actually. For two or three weeks now.”

“Holy shit.” Basil grinned, punching his shoulder. “That’s awesome, man. Don’t get too attached though— do you know where they live?”

Pepper’s mouth opened, then closed. Basil was still staring at him expectantly, but before he could answer, the front door opened.

Shit. On instinct, the two of them lunged over the edge of the fruit bowl, scrambling to hide behind it. Basil sucked in a quick breath at the sound of human footsteps, leaning closer to Pepper, and he held her arm protectively.

“I thought you said he wasn’t gonna be home all day,” Basil hissed under her breath, brown eyes peeking around the fruit bowl. Pepper’s stomach turned.

“He was supposed to,” Pepper explained anxiously, peeking around the bowl as well. He craned his neck to observe Felix as the human hung his coat up on the opposite wall. “He must have come home early.”

“You think?”

Pepper’s stomach was doing cartwheels. He wasn’t particularly afraid of Felix— at least, not in the same way Basil was— but he did not want Felix finding him right now.

The human hummed quietly as he set his thermos down, only a few feet away from the fruit bowl. Basil’s grip on Pepper’s arm tightened.

Felix briefly glanced in their direction, and it was that moment in which all three of them realized a fishhook was still dangling innocently on the edge of the fruit bowl.

“Motherfucker,” Pepper said under his breath.

Basil was also mumbling a string of curse words, inching closer to Pepper as Felix squinted, leaning closer to the bowl. His next words made both borrowers freeze.

“Pepper? Are you around?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Basil turned her head to stare at Pepper.

Pepper’s throat went tight, panic suddenly seeping into his veins. He watched as Basil pulled her hand away from him, taking a step back, intense brown eyes flickering around the room as if she was searching for an explanation, or perhaps an escape route. He swallowed hard, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Please, don’t panic,” he said quickly. Overhead, Felix spoke again, voice gentle but curious.

“You forgot your hook.”

Basil was frozen, speechless. Pepper’s heart was sinking into the floor below. “Basil, please, just… stay here. Please.”

Hands shaking, Pepper sent Basil one last miserable look before stepping out from behind the fruit bowl. He vaguely heard Basil’s small, shocked gasp as Felix’s gaze landed on Pepper.

“Oh, there you are.” Felix relaxed microscopically now that he knew where Pepper was. He had been a bit anxious that Pepper had gotten hurt or lost somehow, indicated by his abandoned hook. 

“…Hey,” Pepper said stiffly, reaching towards the thread of Basil’s hook. It took a moment for his shaky hands to unlatch the hook and tuck it under his arm. “Sorry, I… I forgot this.”

“It’s fine,” Felix assured, blinking at Pepper’s uncomfortable behavior. He hoped Pepper still wasn’t uneasy about his offer to pick him up this morning. “It seems important to you, so I just… wanted to make sure you didn’t lose it.” 

“Ah,” Pepper said hollowly. It was difficult not to turn and look at Basil, as he felt her intense gaze bearing into him. He would never reveal another borrower to a human, no matter the circumstances. “Well. Thanks.”

Felix hesitated, fighting the urge to peer closer at the shaking small man. “Are you… alright?” 

Pepper was trying to figure out what to do, heart racing. “I, um… yeah, I…” Pepper spared a glance to the side, and his stomach turned to ice.

Basil was gone.

Fuck. “Sorry, I— I have to go.” Spinning on his heel, Pepper rushed towards the toaster. He sensed Felix’s surprise as the human spoke.

“Oh— ah, okay, then—?”

Pepper had already squeezed his way through the crack in the wall and was now staring around, heart pounding. Where did Basil go? How did she just sneak off like that? How was he supposed to explain this to her?

“Basil!” He called out helplessly, hoping Felix wouldn’t be able to hear him through the walls. “Basil, I can explain! Where are you?”

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and there— hidden in the shadows of the walls, was Basil.

A needle was gripped firmly in her hand, pointed at Pepper. Brown eyes narrowed, dark and fiery. “What the fuck was that.”

“Listen, it’s okay,” Pepper said hurriedly, stepping towards her. Her grip on her needle tightened.

“You’re— friends with that human?!” Basil demanded, aghast. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“We’re not friends, exactly, he–”

“He’s probably looking for us right now!”

“No–!”

“What, are you his pet, or something–?”

“He’s my soulmate.”

Basil stilled, her needle wobbling. “He…” Her gaze flicked to the wall, as if she could see Felix through the wood. “He’s your soulmate?”

Pepper’s heart pounded against his chest. His throat was tight as he miserably said, “Yeah. But… but he doesn’t know.”

At Basil’s bewildered expression, Pepper hurriedly began to explain everything; how his rocky relationship with Felix began by being caught and trapped, only to be released with an apology. How he realized quickly that Felix and his soulmate were actually the same person, and had since then struggled with his own feelings, terrified of Felix but subconsciously being drawn to him as well.

Basil didn’t speak throughout his entire story. Her eyes remained dark and focused, her grip on her needle unrelenting. Once Pepper finished with the reassurance that he hadn’t told Felix anything about her, she spoke up, voice cautious.

“Why don’t you leave?” Her brow furrowed. “He knows you live here.”

“I know those are the rules, but–”

“This isn’t about the rules,” Basil interjected, making Pepper jump. “You need to leave so you can't talk to him again. This… this isn’t normal.” Her features hardened even further, brown eyes narrow, glistening slits. “I’m not mad at you, Pepper, I understand that this is fucked up, and it’s not your fault. But– just because he’s your soulmate doesn’t mean you have to put yourself in danger just to talk to him.”

Pepper hesitated, stomach doing backflips. “Felix isn’t dangerous.”

Basil choked on her breath. “Pepper. Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Pepper hesitated, trembling, while Basil stared. Finally, his older sister muttered, “I’m sorry, Pepper, but I can’t stay here.”

He blinked, alarmed. “What– you can’t go back home now! It’s too far, you just got here–”

“I’m not going home,” Basil corrected. “I don’t know where I’m gonna go, yet. But I can’t stay in this apartment with… him.” She held her other hand out expectantly, although it shook. “Give me my hook.”

Pepper couldn’t speak. Silently, numbly, he stepped forward, setting the hook gently into his older sister’s hand. She relaxed microscopically, sending one last glance at the wall before backing up. “I just… I just need time to think about this. I’m sorry.”

He nodded mutely, standing rigid. 

“Please stay safe. I care about you.” Her lips tightened. “I’ll– I’ll see you around.”

She backed away, sending him one last hollow stare before spinning on her heel and vanishing into the darkness after a matter of seconds. Her light footsteps faded quickly. Pepper swayed on his feet, mouth dry, mind racing. 

Misery sank into his bones, cold and heavy. Thoughts of his frightened sister floated around his mind, followed by memories of Felix’s kind demeanor, a terrifying human that had all the power over Pepper and chose not to use it. 

Basil was wrong.

His feet moved before he could think about, making a beeline for the crack in the wall, stumbling out past the toaster. “Felix!”

The human jumped, his mug clattering in surprise. He had just dropped a tea packet into the hot water. “Pepper– you scared me–!”

Pepper barely processed the fact that the human was towering over him, as he craned his neck to meet those startled blue eyes. “I trust you,” he insisted suddenly, eyes wide. 

Felix stiffened, blinking down at him. “Wha–”

“I can’t believe I’m actually telling this to a human but— you’ve been so kind, and considerate, and— and you don’t treat me like a pet, and you— you—“ Pepper’s words came out in a rush, heart pounding. Felix was frozen. “This is hard for me, talking with you— but I know that you’re trying to make it easier for me, and— and I appreciate that.”

Pepper suddenly found himself walking towards Felix’s hand, which was still resting on the handle of his mug. Pepper’s stomach twisted unexpectedly, but he fought through it, approaching the massive fingers that outmatched him in size. “Pepper,” Felix said in a hush. “What—”

Fueled by adrenaline, Pepper placed his tiny hand onto Felix’s finger, meeting the human’s gaze. 

Felix’s eyes were wide, shocked. His shoulders were rigid, as if he was scared to even move a muscle. 

The skin underneath Pepper’s hand was warm. The borrower sucked in a breath, but kept his hand still. This was the closest proximity he had shared with Felix’s hand since he had been snatched up a week ago.

“I just need you to know that,” Pepper confessed, the realization of what he had just impulsively done creeping up onto his face as a blush. His heart pounded. 

Felix blinked rapidly, unable to tear his gaze away from the tiny palm resting delicately on his finger. Pepper was visibly nervous, willingly touching Felix for the first time since the human had held him against his will.

“I…” Felix was terrified to even breathe wrong, lest he frighten the borrower and ruin the moment. “I don’t know what to say.” Appreciation filled his hesitant voice, laced by surprise and worry. 

Pepper was still blushing, hard. He tentatively pulled his hand back, acutely aware that he had just touched a giant and survived. “It’s okay. I’ve just had a weird fucking day.” He dragged his hand down his face, shoulders shuddering. After a moment, he asked quietly, “Is it alright if I… hang out with you, for a bit? I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Felix’s blue eyes were soft, kind. “Yeah. Of course.”

----

EEEEEEEEEEEE I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS CHAPTER!! Pepper is finally starting to feel comfortable with Felix, but poor Basil is terrified that her brother is so close to a human </3

TAGLIST: @smallsday @compact-katrina

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Arc Trooper Fives x Bounty Hunter Reader

Summary: Domino Squad is a disaster, and you're the trainer stuck trying to fix them. They're cocky, chaotic, and hanging by a thread—especially Fives. But somewhere between the bruises, barking orders, and late-night drills, something starts to change. Maybe even you.

———

Kamino always smelled like wet metal and too much polish. The kind of place that made your trigger finger itch just to remind yourself you were still alive.

You stood alone in the empty training room, arms crossed, helmet hooked on your hip, waiting.

Fifteen minutes. You weren't used to waiting. Especially not for kids.

Domino Squad. Shak Ti's special case. Her voice still echoed in your ear from the briefing: "They have potential... but they lack unity. I believe a different kind of instructor might help."

You weren't sure if she meant your experience training commandos... or the fact that you had the patience of a womp rat with a blaster wound.

The door finally hissed open, and five clone cadets filtered in—already mid-argument.

"I told you she'd be here," one snapped.

"No, you said hangar, genius."

"I said rec room, actually."

You turned slowly to face them, expression unreadable.

"You're late."

They froze like kids caught slicing into a security terminal.

One of them—broad-shouldered, short hair, an attitude problem already radiating off him—stepped forward. "Ma'am, we were told to meet you in the hangar."

You stared him down. "Why the hell would I meet you in the hangar for live combat drills? That's where people go to leave. Not get their shebs handed to them."

Another chimed in, confused. "CT-782 told us the mess hall."

The tall one groaned. "I never said that!"

"Did too!"

"I said we should check the mess hall—"

"Why would she train us in a cafeteria?!"

They were full-on bickering now. Voices overlapping, fingers pointing, logic disappearing with every word.

You just stared. Shak Ti hadn't been exaggerating.

These kids were a walking tactical disaster.

You let them go another three seconds before barking, "Enough!"

Silence.

You stepped forward, boots echoing against the durasteel floor.

"You think this is funny? Cute? You think this is how squads survive out there in the field? Getting your coordinates mixed and your shebs blown off because nobody can get their story straight?"

They said nothing. At least they had the sense to look guilty.

You exhaled through your nose, less angry now. More tired.

"Alright. Names. One by one. And don't kriffing lie."

The one who'd spoken first crossed his arms. "CT-782. Hevy."

You gave him a look. Accurate. He was the one with the mess hall theory.

The next was shorter, more nervous. "CT-4040. Cutup."

You nodded once.

Then came a cadet with a perpetually sour expression. "CT-00-2010. Droidbait."

"Unfortunate name," you muttered.

He shrugged. "I didn't pick it."

Then came the silent one—stiff posture, emotion locked down like a vault. "CT-1409. Echo."

You raised a brow. "Because you repeat yourself?"

"Because I follow orders," he replied, a little too sharp.

You liked him already.

And finally... the fifth cadet. His armor was slightly looser, hair a little unruly, grin already forming.

"CT-5555. Fives."

You blinked. "Seriously?"

He gave you a cheeky salute. "I take training very seriously, ma'am."

You folded your arms. "And yet you still ended up fifteen minutes late to a scheduled ass-kicking."

His grin widened. "Better late than dead."

Force help me, you thought. This one's going to be a handful.

But as the squad fell into a loose formation, shoulders brushing, complaints subsiding—you saw it. The spark. They were disorganized, sure. Rough around the edges. But there was something under all that chaos.

Especially with that one.

Fives.

You didn't smile.

Not yet.

But you already knew you'd have your eye on him.

---

The simulation room smelled like ozone and bruised pride.

Smoke curled from a spent training turret. The floor was littered with foam stun bolts. And Domino Squad? Lying in a tangled heap of limbs, groaning and stunned after getting their collective asses handed to them. Again.

You stood over them, blaster still warm in your hand, utterly unimpressed.

"You know," you said, holstering your weapon, "the point of the exercise was *not* to see how many of you could trip over each other while a single assailant takes you all out in under two minutes."

Cutup coughed. "It was under two minutes?"

"I'm generous. It was forty-two seconds."

Hevy swore softly.

Fives pushed himself up onto one elbow, panting. "Okay, so—hear me out—we *let* you win. Morale-boosting strategy."

You turned slowly. "You let me what?"

He gave you that same lopsided grin from yesterday, hair mussed, lip split. "Had to make sure your ego was intact. Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings."

"Oh," you said sweetly. "Is that what this is? You playing nice?"

Fives dragged himself to his feet, still grinning. "Wouldn't want to upset someone who looks that good while kicking my ass."

There it was. The line.

The others groaned behind him.

Echo muttered, "Maker, Fives, not again."

You stepped into his space. Fives barely flinched, even with you nose to nose.

"You know what's funny?" you said, eyes locked on his.

"Me, I'm hilarious," he offered.

You slammed the butt of your blaster into the back of his knee. He dropped like a sack of supplies, flat on his back with a surprised grunt.

You knelt beside him, elbow resting on your knee, casual. "Commandos don't flirt during training."

He blinked up at you. "Maybe they should."

You bit back a laugh.

It was infuriating. It was charming. It was a problem.

You stood, stepping over him to address the squad.

"You've got potential," you said flatly. "But potential doesn't mean anything if you can't get your heads out of your own shebs long enough to function like a unit. Commandos are sharp. Focused. They move like a single weapon."

Droidbait raised a hand from the floor. "So... we're more like a broken vibroblade?"

You stared down at him. "Right now? You're a butter knife."

A few of them snorted.

You rolled your shoulders, then hit the reset on the simulation. The room flickered. Walls shifted. Obstacles reformed.

"Again."

"Now?" Echo asked, winded.

"Yes, now. You think clankers are gonna give you a breather 'cause you're winded? Again."

The lights flickered red, and the first wave of simulated droids poured in.

---

The squad filed out of the training room, grumbling and limping, drenched in sweat and ego damage. You stayed behind, checking the scoring logs. You didn't look up when footsteps returned behind you.

"Back for round four?" you asked.

Fives leaned against the doorway, arms folded, nursing a fresh bruise on his jaw.

"Thought you might want some company while you reviewed our failure."

You arched a brow. "That's sweet. But I prefer my pity parties without commentary."

He grinned. "Not pity. Just... curiosity."

You turned toward him fully, arms crossed now. "About what?"

He shrugged. "Why you took this assignment. You're a bounty hunter. You train clone commandos. So what are you doing babysitting a bunch of squad rejects?"

You stared at him for a long beat.

"I don't babysit," you said finally. "I break bad habits. Yours just happen to be louder and dumber than most."

His grin faltered—just for a second.

But then he stepped closer. Not quite in your space, but almost.

"You think we've got no shot, huh?"

"I think you've got no discipline. No unity. No idea how to shut up and listen. You've got heart, sure. Fire. But fire without direction burns out fast."

Fives looked at you differently then. The grin softened. The smartass faded, just a little.

"And me?" he asked, quieter.

You blinked.

"What about you?"

He shrugged again, casual and reckless. "Where do *I* fall on your little critique list?"

You stepped closer, leaned in with a smirk of your own.

"You? You're the most dangerous one of all."

His eyebrows lifted. "Oh yeah?"

"Because you've got the spark. But you'd throw your life away in a second for someone who doesn't even like you yet."

Fives opened his mouth to reply, but you were already walking out past him.

"Be better tomorrow, cadet," you called.

He turned to watch you go, smirking despite himself.

"Oh, I will."

---

The lights were low in the training dome. It was well past curfew. The Kaminoan facility echoed with rain and distant alarms. Most cadets were asleep—except Domino Squad.

And you.

The moment you'd walked into the barracks and barked, *"Up. Now. You've got five minutes,"* they knew better than to ask questions.

Cutup groaned as he jogged alongside you toward the dome. "You realize some of us like sleeping, right?"

"You can sleep when you're competent," you shot back.

"Guess I'll be dead first," Droidbait muttered.

Fives, ever the golden retriever with a blaster, nudged Hevy. "Come on. This'll be good."

"You say that every time," Echo said, deadpan. "And every time, you eat dirt."

"Yeah," Fives grinned. "But at least I look good doing it."

You rolled your eyes but hid the smile tugging at your mouth as you keyed in the sim code. The floor shifted. A close-quarters layout, reduced visibility, enemy droids loaded for full-speed pursuit. No stuns. They had to think. Move fast. Adapt.

"Alright," you said. "You've improved. Slightly. So now we make it harder."

Droidbait groaned. "I liked it better when you just yelled at us."

"You're welcome."

You turned to Fives as he checked his blaster, already flashing you that boyish, too-easy smile. "So what's the challenge this time, boss? Try not to fall in love with you mid-firefight?"

You tilted your head. "That happen to you often, cadet?"

He winked. "Only with the deadly ones."

Your smirk was slow and wicked. "Careful, pretty boy. That flirting'll get you shot."

"Oh, I'm into danger."

"Good," you purred. "I'll make it hurt."

That got a low *ooooh* from the squad.

Fives faltered—just for a second. It was enough.

The droid in the corner of the sim fired. Fives barely turned in time before the stun bolt caught him square in the chest and sent him sprawling to the floor with a *thud.*

You crossed your arms, standing over him with a grin. "Lesson number one: distractions on the battlefield get you *killed.*"

Cutup leaned over him. "Damn, man. She really *floored* you."

"Shut up," Fives wheezed.

You turned back to the rest of them. "Get up. Formation. Now."

As they fell into line, Echo muttered under his breath, "This feels like bullying."

"You all volunteered to be here," you called over your shoulder. "This is mercy."

Fives finally staggered upright, cheeks flushed—maybe from the stun, maybe not.

He jogged to catch up, falling in step beside you.

"I'm still your favorite," he said under his breath.

"You're on a very long list, cadet."

He grinned. "But I'm climbing."

You just smirked and let him believe it.

---

The squad had been dismissed and were off licking their wounds (and egos). But you were still in the dome, reviewing footage, adjusting the next sim's layout.

You didn't look up when the door hissed open.

"You don't sleep either, huh?"

Fives.

He walked in slow, still in training gear, bruised, towel slung around his neck like some cocky prizefighter.

"Couldn't sleep," he said. "Thought I'd come get a private lesson."

You raised a brow. "Need help falling on your face again?"

"Thought I'd try doing it *on purpose* this time," he shot back, stepping up beside you.

You shook your head, amused despite yourself.

The silence stretched for a moment—comfortable. Weirdly so.

Then he asked, quieter, "Do you think we're gonna make it?"

You looked over at him, surprised.

He wasn't grinning anymore. Not really.

"I mean," he added, "Domino Squad. We screw everything up. Shak Ti thinks we're hopeless. Our last trainer quit after two weeks. You're the only one who hasn't given up on us yet."

You watched him for a beat.

"You want the honest answer?"

He nodded.

"You will. But not because of some miracle. Not because someone fixes you. You'll make it because you stop trying to be five separate heroes and start fighting like one team."

He looked at you like you'd said something *important.*

Then, because it was Fives: "Also probably because I look so good in armor."

You rolled your eyes. "And you were *so* close to having a character moment."

He chuckled, easy and low. "I like you."

You turned back to the screen, not smiling, but not not-smiling either.

"I know."

---

You stood with arms crossed in the control room above the Citadel, staring down at the training ground. The room was cold, sterile—just like the expressions on the two bounty hunter instructors beside you.

Bric scowled. "They're not ready."

El-Les sighed, gentler, but still resigned. "Too fractured. They'll fall apart under pressure."

You clenched your jaw. "They've improved."

"Not enough."

Down below, Domino Squad prepped for the exam. They looked... okay. Not perfect. Not polished. But their footing was better. Their eyes sharper. Even Hevy wasn't muttering complaints under his breath. You'd drilled them to exhaustion over the past week.

They had heart.

But heart only got you so far.

---

It started strong.

Tight formation, decent communication. Droid targets were taken down efficiently, if a bit loud. But then the turret fired.

Hevy went off plan.

Droidbait hesitated.

Cutup tripped.

Echo tried to rally them—but it was too late.

Fives shouted over the chaos. "Fall back, *together!*" but no one was listening anymore.

The blast sent them sprawling. Timer hit red.

"Simulation failed," the droid voice droned.

Silence.

You looked down at them through the glass, jaw clenched.

Below, the boys didn't even argue. They just stood there, stunned.

Disappointed.

Shak Ti's voice was calm, as always, from beside you. "They're not without merit."

Bric scoffed. "They're without skill."

You bristled. "They're not without *potential.*"

But it didn't matter. The test was failed. Domino Squad walked off the field with heavy steps and heavier hearts.

---

You found them later, back in their barracks, silent for once.

"I've seen worse squads," you said, leaning against the wall.

Echo didn't look up. "You've trained worse squads?"

"No," you admitted. "But I've seen them. You want pity, or you want another shot?"

Fives finally looked at you. "They're not gonna let us retake it."

You tossed a datapad onto the table. "Shak Ti overruled Bric. Said you were worth the gamble."

They all stared.

Hevy slowly blinked. "...You serious?"

You gave him a sharp nod. "Final shot. Pass, and you graduate. Fail, and I'm not gonna waste my time making your funerals look nice."

Fives grinned, eyes gleaming. "You do care."

You shoved a practice baton into his chest. "I care about not wasting good talent. Let's go, squad. Again."

---

You watched from the same control room, this time with arms folded, jaw tense, heart stubbornly in your throat.

Domino Squad hit the field. Silent. Steady.

They moved like a unit.

When Hevy took the high ground, Echo and Cutup covered the flank. Fives ran point, calling out shots, focused, fast, precise.

When the turrets came, no one panicked. When Droidbait hesitated, Fives yanked him out of the way without missing a beat.

They didn't fall apart.

They didn't fall at all.

The simulation ended with the squad fully intact, the objective secured, and the droid voice confirming: "Simulation complete. Pass."

Bric said nothing. El-Les smiled.

You? You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

---

You met them outside the dome, arms crossed again—but this time your eyes betrayed you.

Pride. Real pride.

They were grinning, sweaty, bruised, but *standing taller* than they ever had.

"Well?" you said. "You gonna thank me, or what?"

Cutup smirked. "Thank you for the emotional trauma?"

Hevy laughed. "Wouldn't be the same without it."

You looked at Fives. He looked back, eyes softer than you'd ever seen them.

And then, without thinking, you stepped in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

A beat.

Then two.

The entire squad: *"OOOOHHHHHHH—"*

Fives flushed crimson, frozen in place. "Did—Did anyone else feel the room spin or—?"

You smirked, stepping back. "Don't let it go to your head, pretty boy. You're still just a cadet."

He blinked. "A cadet who *just graduated.*"

You held his gaze a moment longer, something unsaid between you.

Then you turned. "Until we meet again."

"Wait—" he called after you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He smiled, still a little dazed. "You're gonna miss me."

You grinned. "I already do."

And then you were gone, leaving Domino Squad behind to bask in their victory.

And Fives?

Well, he touched his cheek for a suspiciously long time that day.

———

Part 2

A/N

For more clones please check out my Wattpad account or my material list

[dragon-susceptible]

Different Path Taken Ch30 P1

so I was gonna include the "Viren's kids fuck up and the elves get pissed about it" scenes in this chapter but I also wanted to just do a little section of the elves sparring and Soren getting involved. I led with the sparring session and now I'm not sure it's all going to fit, so the betrayals might wait until chapter 31. Here's the first section from Rayla's POV though. I think the next one will be Corvus.

Runaan was stronger than her.  He always said it wouldn’t last, that she was one of the strongest people he knew, but it was still a source of incredible frustration when Rayla was training with him, because no matter what she did, she couldn’t overpower him.  That wasn’t to say she couldn’t best him - she could!  Sometimes!  But she had to rely so much on her speed, because he was just as agile.  It was best to fight him in places where his size was a hindrance and hers an advantage.

Unfortunately, the old training grounds at the Moon Nexus had little such cover, and she was fighting him mostly on open ground that left him plenty of room to move and her no particular cover.  She grit her teeth as he batted her back once again, one-armed, the flat of his blade held towards her.  She backflipped off it to land on her feet and bolted to the right, his weaker side, tried to dive under his blades to hook his legs from under him.

He was just as light on his feet as she was, though, and just jumped over her hooks.  She didn’t quite make it to her feet before his sword had threaded through the hook of her butterfly blade and yanked her back down onto her back.  She grunted with surprise and glowered up at him as he whipped that blade away and caught her other arm under his boot.  He didn’t push down too hard, just resting his foot there as a warning. 

“Rayla,” He said, not unkindly. “Stop trying to beat me.”

She knew from his expression that she completely failed to hide the burst of bitterness on her tongue from that statement, the way her scalp burned with rage and shame, and he lifted his foot from her arm to help her up. “You know I can,” She argued. “I have before!”

“Which is why you have nothing to prove here,” He reminded her with a touch of exasperation, dusting something off her shoulder. “This isn’t about winning, it’s about training, which means you should be practicing all of your skills - not just the ones you think provide you an advantage against me specifically.”

Rayla cast her eyes aside and flicked her blade into its straighter position, scowling to herself.  His warning still felt too raw, with the way he had looked at her after the human disarmed her yesterday evening. “Okay, Dad.” She regretted using it bitterly the moment it left her tongue, before she even saw him twitch and his expression go flat and guarded.

Before she could think of how to backtrack, another voice interrupted them. “Can I watch?” Ezran asked. 

“Sure,” Andromeda said with a smile for the boy as they approached the training yard.  Soren was with them too and she scowled at the sight of the young man. 

Runaan cleared his throat. “And what brings you along?” He asked Soren, unamused.  Rayla stared guiltily at his profile, unable to see past his cool mask - she’d hurt him, though.  This . . . acceptance of their relationship was so fragile and new, and she’d just raked claws right through it - it was enough to make her own heart bleed, too.  He couldn’t be feeling much better about it.

“Just, you know, hanging out with my little buddy Ezran,” Soren said with his shoulders awkwardly stiff, shrugging. “Figured I could get some training in too, if that’s what you’re doing.” He grinned smugly at Rayla, gray eyes cold and narrow. “Maybe this time it’ll even be a challenge.”

Rayla bristled, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise with resentment as she bared her fangs at him. “I could go for a rematch,” She sneered, “See how well ye do without a mage’s help.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t have to have my dad come to my rescue.” He taunted, and her back went ramrod straight. 

“How did ye even know -” she squawked.

“Literally heard you.  Like five seconds ago.” Soren raised his scarred eyebrow at her. “I know General Amaya’s deaf but that’s not a requirement for a command position.” He grinned so broadly afterwards that she hated it, but it was clearly meant as a joke, as it had Ezran giggling madly.  She even heard one of the other elves give a snort, though she couldn’t tell who it was when she turned to glare at them.

Her guess was Callisto.

Runaan cleared his throat and sighed. “Fine.  If you two want to have it out again, you do so with challenge rules - no killing, no maiming, no lasting injuries.  I don’t want to be giving anyone stitches.  If this draws on too long, one of us will call it and you accept it as a draw.  Understood?” He was still glaring directly at Soren instead of at her.

Rayla shifted her grip on her butterfly blade, hating how he wouldn’t look at her anymore, but resolutely turned her back to fetch her other one. 

“If I’m just fighting with one sword, shouldn’t she -?”

“Not if you’re training.  If you’d like to challenge her to a proper duel, you’re welcome to try.” Rayla whipped around in time to see Runaan take a few steps closer so he was staring down his nose at the much shorter human. “I wouldn’t recommend it, given she has reinforcements this time . . . and you don’t.”

Not because she could actually beat him.  Rayla scowled to herself and picked her blade up without waiting to hear Soren’s reply.  

Runaan had backed off by the time she composed herself and turned around, though he hadn’t taken up his own training position with one of the others - he and Andromeda both stood to the side with Ezran watching as Callisto and Skor faced off again.  Rayla took her own place across from Soren unable to hide her displeasure, and he rolled his shoulders and grinned, cocky, as he faced her. 

Though they hadn’t discussed it they both waited on a countdown from Runaan rather than just starting as the other assassins did off to her right.  The second he said “Go” she was in motion, charging forward in step with Skor.

They both leaped at the same time.  Rayla brandished her swords in front of her to block any attack from Soren, just the way he had taught her.  A moment of exhilaration flooded her blood at the perfect mirror.

Callisto dodged.

Soren bounced her off his broadsword and she was forced to retreat, circling him more warily as the parallels were broken.  Skor kept pressing his advantage, kept pushing Callisto back where he wanted them, and Rayla was reduced to darting in and out, repelled each time, feeling like a pest more than an opponent. 

She bared her fangs at him when her blades got hooked around his for a moment, her feet braced on his arms.  Skor’s voice almost startled her, calling out a comment from the side. “Kick him, Rayla!”

She could, but it would shake her balance, could she risk - it was too late, Soren had already thrown her back, and her momentary distraction had her falling on her hip instead of her heels.  She rolled back to her feet and kept moving. 

Runaan was circling the field now, she realized as she darted past him, analyzing them both.

“Is that as fast as you can go?” Andromeda heckled, and Rayla grit her teeth for a moment before she realized her friend was talking to Soren. “I’m surprised you can even see her.”

Rayla shut out the commentary and dove for Soren again while he was distracted, and this time she managed to get her blade hooked around his armored wrist.  Luckily, since he was wearing plate, she could actually just yank on it without fear of hurting him in a lasting manner, forcing him to drop his broadsword.

She only had a moment to savor this victory before a heavy plated fist slammed into her chest and knocked her away, and she lost her grip on the butterfly blade around his arm as he yanked it close to his chest.  They both stumbled and she bared her fangs as his sword clattered to the stone between them, but he quickly spun her second blade into his hand, eyeing it critically.  He wouldn’t know how to work it, at least, maybe he would be stupid and try to flip it and get startled like the soldiers at the Banther Lodge had done.

Her heart sank when he hit the right catch and the blade just shifted into its straighter blade form and locked there, and he grinned. “Cool!  I totally need one of these, do you know how hard it is to get a longsword to hang on your hip right?”

“Do ye always talk this much when you’re fightin’?” She demanded in exasperation, and flew at him again.

Though he was clearly inexperienced with smaller, lighter blades, and she kept him on a backstep, she never quite got past Soren’s defenses.  He shrugged when they blade locked again, before leaning forward to put his considerable weight above her. “Only when I’m not working hard enough.”

She stomped on his foot in sheer rage.  Her heel found the seam of his greaves and caused him to howl with pain, stumbling back from the blade lock and allowing her a brief upper hand.  She nearly, nearly had him knocked on his arse with how he was stumbling backwards when he managed to throw himself forward instead and collided with her.  Once again she found herself thrown over his shoulder and moving forward.

Unlike last time, though, she didn’t have quite all her wind knocked out, and he didn’t have a mage as backup.  She kneed him in the chest and kicked at his crotch - both were armored but the impact of the plate against his stomach at least jolted him enough to drop her.  She rolled away as he stumbled to catch his breath.

“Enough.” Runaan snapped out and she froze, eyes wary on Soren to make sure he was going to listen.

To her surprise, the soldier straightened up first, glancing at Runaan and rolling his shoulders, loosening his posture up.

“Rayla, good footwork,” Runaan’s tone was still cool and professional and she found her heart burning at the loss of his open fondness. “But what did I just tell you about practicing all of your skills, not just the ones you find most advantageous?  Stop relying entirely on speed and agility.  Those last few blade locks were good, practice that more.  Soren - you could improve your footwork.  Dramatically.  You have a longsword, she shouldn’t be getting that close to you.  Either be lighter on your feet or have a stronger stance and stop moving so much.  You can switch between but trying to compromise only makes you weaker at both.” He gathered Soren’s sword up as he talked and tossed it back to the human as he finished.

Soren caught it and glanced down at Rayla’s butterfly blade and back up at her.  She could almost see the calculations running in his gray eyes, but she couldn’t read his expression when he walked over to hand it to her more politely.  She took it stiffly, stepping back as soon as she had it.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Good match?” He said.

“I want a rematch.” She said with a scowl. “Longer, this time.”

“No.” Runaan said flatly, and when she whirled on him to argue, his eyes were on Soren. “His next is with me.” He slid his gaze over to her and ordered, “Try a round with Ram.”

She blinked with surprise and looked around in time to see Ram stretching as he settled in place, and Andromeda vanishing into the trees to go keep an eye on Callum.  He was even faster than she was and just as agile - pairing off against him would force her to use the skills Runaan had told her she was neglecting.  Her shoulders dropped, already anticipating being laid out on her back again. “Fine.” She grumbled.

“You don’t have to sound so enthused about it,” Ram drawled.

“I haven’t won a single match today,” She grumbled back at him once she thought Soren wasn’t listening anymore.

“Well, that’s not really the point of training, is it?” Ram pointed out, but raised an eyebrow at her. “I also have a feeling that’s about to change.  We both know you’re stronger than I am.  And if there’s anywhere non-mages could work moon magic?  It’s here.  Which we all keep telling you.  You would be very powerful with.”

Rayla set her jaw. “I don’t want it t’be easy.  I’ll be powerful on my own.”

Ram shrugged. “All right.  Are we facing off or are we just watching our daunting leader flay this poor boy first?”

Rayla raised her own eyebrows at him. “Aren’t you two the same age?”

“Corvus and I are the same age,” Ram huffed. “Soren is two years younger than we are.  Which still makes him older than you, though, so I understand the confusion.  All these numbers seem so much bigger when you’re fifteen.”

She punched him in the arm and he yelped, chuckling as he danced out of her reach. “Let’s just face off.” She huffed, trying not to snicker back, though she grudgingly admitted to herself it was a little funny.

[thecryptidenthusiast]

4 for the kisses prompt list (if you’re accepting prompts, of course)? c:

4. lips barely touching from this list!

(Tbh i cheated a little, this is something I've been sitting on for awhile that I finally just made myself finish lol. a little more ghost talks between Erin/Ortega, i just need to be able to talk about Ortega thinking step was a hallucination at the diner)

“I didn’t think you were real, you know.”

The words take you a second too long to process, muttered behind you while you sit squinting at the laptop propped on the coffee table. A twisting mass of cables run between it, the portable diagnostic scanner you’ve managed to jury-rig together, and the ports running along Ortega’s spine. 

He’s put too much strain on his mods. Again. He probably hasn’t stopped for a break since the crash. He needs to rest, but convincing him of that is about as useful as trying to stop the sun from setting. So all you can do is help patch things up along the way until he finally goes in for a proper check-up for his systems.

“You what?” You’d almost forgot he was probably waiting for an answer, too busy reading through the scrolling lines of numbers. Nothing fatal.

Yet.

“Back at the diner,” Sprawled out on his stomach across the couch, one arm tucked under his head in place of a proper pillow. There’s a drag to his voice, telltale signs that he’s somewhere in that hazy area between tipsy and drunk. Sparing a glance over your shoulder, you catch sight of his smile, crooked and soft in the way only alcohol really allows. “When I first saw you. I thought you were a ghost.”

You aren’t really sure what you’re supposed to say to that. Sorry I came back? Some days I wish you’d never seen me? An especially prickly part of you wants to accuse him of lying, but he’s still just looking, and smiling, and this doesn’t feel like the lead up to some kind of joke. 

You’d been so close to bolting that day, convinced it was some sort of trap. A plot, the kindness nothing but manipulation on Ortega’s part. And he didn’t even think you were real at the time. 

“That’s stupid.” Slinging insults is easier, can’t risk exposing anything vulnerable. “See a lot of ghosts?”

“For a while, yeah.” That smile fades, shadows of memories he hasn’t been able to bury crossing his face. You turn back around so he doesn’t see you flinch. Of course he was seeing ghosts - you don’t have all the info, but you’ve picked up enough pieces. How broken he’d been after everything. Drunk, angry. A lot of the worst of it was scrubbed from the public, but it didn’t take much digging to find archived news articles.

Drunk driving into direct traffic. Public fights. The public’s hero, falling apart in front of everyone’s eyes. Picked apart by the very masses he’d protected.

“They told me nobody was looking for me.” You don’t know why you’re telling him this, but the words spill out before you can stop them. A hurt for a hurt. “They had a magazine out with you on the cover, out with somebody.” A new, pretty face. Smiling for the cameras. You don’t remember the person’s name, just the hurt that followed.

“They…The Farm?”

You pick at a loose thread on the carpet just to give yourself something to look at that isn’t him. “Got it in one.” 

“And that’s why you thought I forgot you.” Even drinking, he’s quick to connect the dots, putting together the whole picture. Suddenly he’s moving, twisting to sit up and look at you, but you press down on his shoulder blades to keep him still. “Erin-”

“You’re still hooked up! Quit moving!” The new ports aren’t as sensitive as the old ones had been, jostling them around won’t do too much damage. Reinforced, considering the way Ortega treats himself, but you’ve taken pliers to his back to pull broken prongs out of his spine before, you don’t want a repeat tonight. 

“No, you need to know.” He’s not fighting as much as he could, liquor is making his movements a little sluggish. It keeps him down long enough for you to properly unhook him, at least. “I’d never- that wasn’t-”

“It’s fine.” Is it? You aren’t sure. It’s an old hurt, softened with age. A scar instead of a scab. You let him sit up, hesitantly moving to sit beside him. “It’s in the past.” 

“I never forgot you.” He says, vehement, willing you to believe him. Desperate for you to see the truth. He reaches over, rough palms of his hands closing around your own and squeezing so tight it almost hurts. “Not one day went by that I didn’t think about you. You get that, right?”

You force yourself to look up and meet his gaze, fighting not to cringe away from the intensity in his eyes. Brewing just under the hurt is a burning anger - at himself. At the Farm. At all the hurts he can’t go back and fix. Righteous fury, for you, always so willing to go to war on your behalf. It’s a loyalty you never earned, something you don’t deserve, why can’t he see that? That he shouldn’t be so protective over something that does nothing but hurt him in the end.

But this is Ortega. The stupid, foolish man that loves you, and that’s too stubborn for his own good. The one that you love, too, despite it all. And he’s watching you like you’re the answer to everything, clinging desperately to what you might say. Giving you the power to crush him all over again. 

So, you lean in. Barely brushing your lips against his, a chaste little hint at a kiss that he’s either too stunned or anxious to return. So you move to his cheek, pretend you don’t notice the wetness there. Bringing your joined hands up to kiss his scarred knuckles. Like this can soften the harshness of the years, the hurt you’ve both been dealt. 

“I do now.” You say softly, watching as his entire body sags like a puppet cut from its strings. He gathers you up in his arms, and you don’t have it in you to even put on a show of complaining as he kisses the crown of your head.

“I’m glad it was really you back then.” He mutters, lips at your temple. You don’t deserve this, but just for tonight, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

[plor-bindery]

Bound: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

This one is for a friend, whose spouse made me a bench hook. I used @canon-in-too-deep's delightful free typeset (thank youuuu!) Binder friends, if you're not already perusing and using canon's typesets, I urge you to take a look! They are so well done, beautifully laid out, and so lovely to look at.

While the book and the cover colour were both at the request of my friend, I think P&P is my favourite book in the world, so it wasn't exactly a hardship to dig into this bind. I'm very fond of my Oxford World Classics copy from my uni days, and I also own a Penguin clothbound version... but I might need to make my own someday.

I reflected already on how this started off as a cursed bind, but I'm happy to report that though the text block cuts are not perfect, the book itself came out quite well. I'm thankful I didn't give up and start over!

Process and materials as per usual under the cut.

Materials: First time using faux leather! I am still not sold -- it's just wooqu's version of the stuff, and while the colour and texture are nice, it's quite plasticky overall. But I remain uninterested in real leather, so I suppose it's good to start trying some faux options. It was a little harder to crease/turn in, and wanted more patience with my mix. But it was easy to wipe errant glue off, which was kind of a treat. Also easy to mark with a hasty fingernail, less good.

The rest is nothing new: ledger paper (24 lb Xerox) cut down to short-grain letter (badly). I sewed on tapes since this baby is 440 pages, but used waxed cotton floss because my linen thread is quite heavy and I was worried about swell. I also used a bone folder to flatten each signature around the thread as I sewed it, which helped. Basically no swell! So far so stable?

End papers are scrapbook papers. Endbands are cotton floss on leather cord (yes, I sewed them; yes, it was a weird choice for a friend who probably won't care. I wanted the practice!)

I bought the peacock cover art when I was doing an early bind (Probationary Action, I think) from a seller on Etsy. Yes, it was horrifying to weed.

Process: As mentioned above, this started out as a cursed bind, but I pulled it out of the fire pretty well by the end! I did a trial run applying HTV to the faux leather because I was worried about the heat melting the material. It didn't seem to have that issue, but the carrier sheet for the HTV left indelible impressions wherever I pressed the edges into the material. (I press with a cheap Amazon mini-press, but I don't use a huge amount of pressure.) So I decided to do a cover/spine design that would allow me to use a full sheet of HTV that ran edge to edge on each part of the cover, so I didn't have to worry about that edge marking issue. It worked!

I have tried rounding and backing spines before, but it's almost impossible to do backing well without backing boards, which in turn need a lying press or finishing press, and I'm still over here working with wrapped bricks and two cutting boards with carriage bolts and wingnuts. So I'm trying to figure out ways to avoid needing to round/back. 20-page signatures help! Lighter thread! etc etc. I did one rounded spine (a bind of Sense and Sensibility I've never shared here) and it was... okay? Without backing, rounding is mostly an aesthetic choice anyway.

I need to get my guillotine sharpened. There was a whole saga a month back with me trying to level the blade and almost slicing my fingertip off (ouch) but the result was that I had trouble putting the damn machine back together properly and the blade sat on the fence a bunch while I was figuring it out, which definitely dulled part of the blade. I'm procrastinating about getting it done because a) terrified of cutting myself again getting the blade off and b) mad at myself that my almost new guillotine already needs this service. So for now, I'm just shoving scrap paper under every text block I cut so that the dull bit of the blade is failing to cut the waste paper and not the block. Works? Annoying, but works?

See, this is the problem with a writer doing a craft, I won't goddamn shut up once I start typing.

[caissa-scribbles]

Gajevy Week 2025, Day 2: Cravings

The Taste of Iron

Magnolia, Fairy Tail Guild Hall

September X793

After lunchtime was over, Marika finally found time to join Gajeel and Levy at their table in the main hall to take a look at her patient. She was monitoring her recovery from the bleedings closely and Levy was very grateful for her efforts. The midwife wouldn't take any risks when it came to her first ever Fairy Baby since she had started working for the guild.

"You look good, just a little pale,” she stated. “You should be careful not to develop an iron deficiency."

"Iron deficiency? Absolutely not!” Gajeel grinned, patronizingly pushing his usual snack bowl of nuts and bolts toward his wife. "Here, help yourself, Shorty. The stainless steel ones are the best."

Levy groaned theatrically and rested her forehead in her palm.

"How did I know something like this was coming? You know perfectly well I can't eat that." Gajil acted indignant.

"You haven't even tried it. It's obvious our son needs a lot of iron; he's the grandson of the Iron Dragon, after all. So make an effort."

With a wolfish expression, he fished a shiny screw out of the bowl and shoved it between her lips as if it were candy. Levy decided to play along; her tongue darted out and began licking the screw threads, accidentally tracing his fingertips as well. A hungry expression crossed his face, and it wasn't directed at the screw. In fact, she didn't find the taste so bad; it reminded her of Gajeel's kisses.

Marika turned to leave after watching the banter for a moment.

"You can try that if you want," she laughed. "But I'll have something else brought to you, just in case. Better safe than sorry."

Shortly afterward, Mirajane arrived at their table with her round tray and placed a large glass filled with a dark red liquid in front of Levy.

"Here, with greetings from the kitchen," she winked at her.

But before Levy could thank her, Gajeel had already snatched the glass and taken a deep drag. He immediately grimaced in disgust.

"Ugh, that tastes awful. And that's supposed to help with iron deficiency?" he commented before quickly pulling the screw out of the corner of Levy's mouth with his lips and biting it with a loud crunch. Levy retrieved her glass with an amused expression and tasted it. It was blackcurrant juice and quite sour, which she didn't really like, but strangely enough, she had to drink some more, and then some more, until she had emptied the glass almost in one go.

"Well, it's not quite my thing," she said, "but the little one seems to like it. Maybe they really need more iron."

"You can have more iron. The whole package," Gajeel offered with a suggestive gleam in his eyes as he coated his hand with iron and leaned over, close to her ear where he whispered, "Yeh wanna lick it again?"

Levy blushed and giggled. "Not here, where everyone's watching," she replied, lowering her eyelids. "Ask me again tonight when we - oh, what's going on over there?"

Three strange figures had just entered the main room: a man, a boy and a young girl with striking silver-white corkscrew curls. Trailing behind were Jet and Droy, both looking pretty out of sorts.

Gajeel let out a spiteful giggle.

"Freshmen."

___________________

Yesterday I said that I probably would only post one entry for Gajevy Week 2025. Seems I have offenden my muse with that. She rolled up her sleeves, stroke out and punched me in the face. Man, that girl has got a hard hook... Two more entries incoming!

[iepurasdepraf]

I have given up on editing my posts to be pretty. Here's chapter 4 of Foul by Forum.

The second door was to the right of the stairs, across from the one that had opened earlier. It looked the same as the others. Old. Heavy. Thick paint that had yellowed and cracked like varnish abandoned under a hot sun. You aimed your flashlight at the tarnished knob before glancing over your shoulder at Crane, still planted a few steps down from the landing like some kind of spindly gargoyle on sentry duty. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything, but his gaze pinned you like you were a particularly odd museum exhibit.

“This one,” you announced, mostly to yourself. Saying it out loud gave it weight, made it feel less like your pulse was trying to sprint out of your skin. You turned the knob. It was cold, and for a heartbeat you were sure it would slam shut or rip itself open like some funhouse trick. But it didn’t. It only creaked open like any door this old might.

Inside: silence. No whispers. No footsteps. No slamming, no weeping, no blood trickling up the walls. Just a cramped storage closet. Maybe five feet across, likely less. Shelves sagging under rusted paint cans, dry-rotted drop cloths, a broom with a melted handle that drooped like it was ashamed to be here. A coat hook or two, bent and forgotten.

You stepped in anyway—brave, stupid, or some custom cocktail of both. Probably the latter. This was the kind of room that hadn’t seen a visitor in a decade. You told yourself that. So you stepped closer. Your flashlight passed over a collapsed box stuffed with yellowed newspaper. You didn’t want to know what had once been inside.

Shadows shifted on the walls—your own, obviously. The space was tight. One window across the hall threw moonlight in at a bad angle, and your flashlight danced with every movement. Optical illusions, that’s all it was.

Except one of the shadows didn’t match your pace. Or maybe it did, only a second too slow. Like it was trying not to be caught. It slipped between the shelves, hunched low near the back. You heard something—a scrape? A breath?

Nope.

You turned too fast, smacked your shoulder into a shelf. Something metal hit the floor behind you. You didn’t look.

You bolted from the closet like hell itself was behind you—and then immediately walked face-first into a spiderweb. Of course. Because the universe is nothing if not theatrical.

It draped over your face, clung to your eyelashes, got in your mouth, and you didn’t even realize you were crying until you were already stumbling back against the hallway wall, sleeves dragging across your face in a frantic attempt to get it off. Not sobbing. Those short, gasping breaths, lungs folding in on themselves, tears sliding hot down your cheeks without asking.

And, of course, Crane was there.

He didn’t laugh. Somehow that made it worse.

He didn’t ask what happened. Just stood there with that pale, too-still expression like he was about to follow it up with “When I was locked in the basement as a child—” even though that wasn’t how he talked. His head tilted, the sharp angle of his chin making him look like a lanky bird. Then he blinked. Slowly.

You could feel his judgment like a space heater that wasn’t fully plugged in. Still warm, but not as hot as it could be

“I saw—” Your voice came out all watery. “Something. I think. Maybe. And then the web was in my face and—” You shut your mouth before it could spiral further. Your nose was running.

He stepped closer—not comfortingly, not quite. He didn’t offer a hand or a shoulder. Didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black medical gloves. Slid them on with the detached air of someone about to perform a dissection. Then, with surprising gentleness, he began pulling the spiderweb off your face.

His fingers—latex-wrapped, precise—lifted the sticky threads like they might detonate. He didn’t flinch when your breath hitched. Didn’t react when you squeezed your eyes shut.

You didn’t move. Not out of fear, but from shock. No one had helped you like this before. So calm. So clinical, but not cold. Not judgmental. Observant. Processing. Like he was thinking: Noted. Prone to panic under visual anomaly and tactile disturbance. You, the new favorite lab rat.

When he finished, he peeled the gloves off and dropped them to the floor. Tilted his head the other way. “Better?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He didn’t smile, but he looked away for a second, like maybe he wasn’t used to being thanked.

You scrubbed at your face again with your sleeve. “It was nothing,” you muttered. “Shadows and spiderwebs.”

“Fear doesn’t require reason,” he said, voice flat but strangely gentle. “Only an audience.”

You squinted. “Was that from one of your lectures, or did you just make it up?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Classic.”

He glanced toward the stairs, where the closet door hung open behind you like it was sulking. “Next one,” he said, and turned, assuming you’d follow.

Of course you did.

Because even with the bedside manner of a haunted marionette, Crane made you feel safer. Somehow.

As you both moved on, the air shifted behind you. Not with a ghost or a monster. Tension bleeding away. Smoke without a fire. Fear without a face.

He moved ahead, backlit by your flashlight, scanning the closet one last time. Dust shimmered in the light as he swept it across the shelves. You could see the outline of his shoulder under the stretched old sweater—how thin he really was beneath it.

And then he flinched.

A twitch. Like something had brushed him. His shoulder jerked, and his hand retracted an inch.

You froze. Breath held.

But he didn’t pull away. He seemed to pause. Then leaned back in, slowly. Repeated the movement with eerie precision. Same angle. Same reach. Nothing.

His jaw flexed. His whole posture shifted—tighter. Sharper.

He crouched, set the camcorder on the floor with a soft clack. Slid the strap off his wrist. Then started pulling apart the bottom shelf with methodical intent, metal scraping metal.

It was surgical. And a little pissed off.

Something small and gray burst from the shadows. A hard thump against the floor.

You jumped.

A mouse flung itself out, hit the floor with a scrabble of tiny feet, then vanished into the gap under the baseboard.

Silence again.

Crane didn’t move.

He stared after the mouse like it had insulted him. Then picked up the camcorder and stood, pulling the hem of his sweater back down over a flash of pale skin like the moment had never happened.

“Not a ghost,” he said flatly.

You exhaled, almost laughed. “Thanks, boss.”

He didn’t react. Just stood there with that eerie stillness, like silence was something he curated.

He gave the closet one last look—not for safety. More like a warning.

Then he rolled his shoulder, reset something in his stance, and walked on.

You followed, trying to choke down the concern over his growing agitation. He wasn’t mad at you after all.  

The hallway ahead was short but felt too long. The floor groaned with every step, tattling on your progress. Strips of paint curled down from the walls, and the air had taken on a sharper smell—copper and mildew. Wet pennies. Something long dead.

At the far end: a door. Slightly open, like someone had stepped through and forgot to shut it. The gap between the door and frame looked too dark. A grin with too many teeth.

“This one’s the bathroom, right?” you asked, your voice low. Trying to hear something that wasn’t your thoughts.

Crane nodded, then pushed the door open with two fingers.

The bathroom was offensively normal.

Coral-pink tile, faded to something unpleasant. A cracked sink, its drain crusted with something halfway between dried blood and bad memories. A clawfoot tub crouched in the back, stained with rust or worse.

The mirror above the sink was crooked, fractured like lightning had struck it, your reflection broken into alien geometry.

You stepped inside cautiously, flashlight slicing through the gloom. “No screaming ghosts yet,” you muttered.

“Not all of them scream,” Crane said behind you, like this was an obvious fact.

You clicked the light switch. Nothing. Only the dead click of failed electricity.

The medicine cabinet gaped open. You peered in—half-expecting teeth, maybe a face. Instead: pill bottles with no names. A crusted bar of soap. Q-tips the color of old teeth.

The toilet was cracked. You didn’t want to know why.

“Why is this place so gross?” you muttered, shining your light up. Mold bloomed over the ceiling, curling through the corners like veins.

You could feel Crane behind you. Close but not too close. That quiet tension he carried like a second coat.

The camcorder clicked softly as he swept it across the room.

“Anything?” you asked.

He hesitated.

Then: “No.”

You snorted. “So a moldy bathroom that smells like a murder. Great.”

He didn’t laugh, obviously. But he shifted—a bit, slightly, like he’d filed the comment away for later.

You turned back to the mirror. Your reflection—disheveled, wide-eyed, hoodie askew—looked like it didn’t trust you either.

But nothing jumped out.

Just mildew, mold, and the hum of nerves.

You pulled the door shut behind you with a little more force than necessary. “Next?”

Crane nodded.

And somewhere in the walls, the house creaked—like it had been waiting.

Or maybe your nerves were on their way to unraveling completely.