UndercoverAvenger

Baldur’s Gate 3

Be More Chill

BNHA

Call of Duty

Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

Chronicles of Narnia

Critical Role/Vox Machina

Daybreak

Dear Evan Hansen

Descendants

Encanto

Fate: The Winx Saga

Harry Potter

Heated Rivalry

High School Musical, The Musical: The Series

Hunger Games

Julie and the Phantoms

KPOP Demon Hunters

Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild

Marvel

Obey Me: One Master to Rule Them All

Percy Jackson and the Olympians/Heroes of Olympus

Red, White, and Royal Blue

Stranger Things

Teen Wolf

The Order

The Witcher

Twilight

Book #1: Fake Dates and Mooncakes by Sher Lee

Representation: MLM gay relationship between the two leads, queer supporting characters

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ - I literally tore through this book, I read it in a day. It's genuinely super sweet and the plot is pretty compelling. Not everyone's cup of tea - if you're big on adventure you might want to skip this one, but if you like slice of life/rich people drama this is great.

Summary:

Dylan Tang wants to win a Mid-Autumn Festival mooncake-making competition for teen chefs—in memory of his mom, and to bring much-needed publicity to his aunt’s struggling Chinese takeout in Brooklyn.

Enter Theo Somers: charming, wealthy, with a smile that makes Dylan’s stomach do backflips. AKA a distraction. Their worlds are sun-and-moon apart, but Theo keeps showing up. He even convinces Dylan to be his fake date at a family wedding in the Hamptons.

In Theo’s glittering world of pomp, privilege, and crazy rich drama, their romance is supposed to be just pretend . . . but Dylan finds himself falling for Theo. For real. Then Theo’s relatives reveal their true colors—but with the mooncake contest looming, Dylan can’t risk being sidetracked by rich-people problems.

Can Dylan save his family’s business and follow his heart—or will he fail to do both?

Book #2: The Executioners Three by Susan Dennard 🚩

WARNINGS: Descriptions of suicide, gore, violence

Representation: WLW relationship with some of the secondary characters, the main relationship is hetero.

My Rating: ⭐⭐ - I personally struggled with this one - parts of the mystery were very compelling, but some parts felt a little melodramatic and certain points felt like they could have been completely cut without impacting the story at all. I was kind of forcing myself through by the end. Others might have a better time with it, but this book wasn't for me.

Summary: Freddie Gellar didn't mean to get half the rival high school arrested. She’d simply heard shrieks coming from the woods, so she’d called the cops like any good human would do. How was she supposed to know it was just kids partying? Except the next day, a body is found. And while the local sheriff might call it suicide, Freddie's instincts tell her otherwise. So, like the aspiring sleuth (and true X-Files aficionado) she is, Freddie sets out to prove there's a murderer at large. But her investigation is quickly disrupted by the rivalry between her school and the school of the partying teens she got arrested. For over twenty years, the two student bodies have had an ongoing prank war, and Freddie's failed attempt at Good Samaritanism has upped the ante. Worse, the clever―and gorgeous―leader of the rival prank squad has set his sights on Freddie. As more pranks unfurl, more bodies also start piling up in the forest. But it's the supernatural warning signs around town, each plucked straight from an old forgotten poem called "The Executioners Three," that worry Freddie the most. She knows the poem and its blood curse can’t be real, but she's quickly running out of time to prove it. Because the murderer―or executioners?―knows she's onto them now, and their next target just might be Freddie.

Book #3: No Charm Done by Tori Anne Martin

Representation: WLW relationship between the main characters (pretty sure other queer supporting characters but it's been a bit since I read this one)

My Rating: 3.5x⭐ - It's a fun read, but if you're looking for a book with a lingering message this isn't really the right pick. It's got some fun Halloween vibes and the characters are endearing, if a little repetitive at times. I don't think you'd regret reading it!

Summary: Welcome to Thornhaven, a quaint coastal town where witches hide in plain sight.

Lily Allerton is descended from Thornhaven’s most illustrious magical family. When her tarot cards tell her that acquiring a boyfriend is essential for a successful senior year, she decides to do whatever it takes to bag the cute new boy at school—including overcoming her total lack of interest in him. Determined to make her parents proud, appear “normal” (the fact that she’s never liked a boy is a closely guarded secret), and stay on top of the popular-kid food chain, future valedictorian Lily makes sure that nothing stands in the way of her goals. But Chrysanthemum Quinn might.

When Chrys moved to town three years ago, she had high hopes that she’d no longer be the outcast with weird powers—hopes that Lily quickly dashed by ostracizing her from the other witches at school. She was too poor, too grunge, and too sarcastic for Lily’s tastes, with a major resting witch face. Nothing like a proper Thornhaven witch. Since then, she and Lily have despised each other and competed relentlessly. Chrys is going to beat Lily for valedictorian—and if Lily wants the new boy, then Chrys is going to win him first.

But when Lily’s and Chrys’ attempts to hex each other create a curse that threatens the town, they’ll have to put aside their animosity to stop it… and reckon with some deeply buried emotions. Because breaking the curse will take more than magic—it’ll take acknowledging that it’s not the boy either of them wants.

Book #4: The Gilded Crown by Marianne Gordon (potential 🚩?)

WARNINGS: power imbalances, body disfiguration, death, death of a queer person, religious trauma/people using religion as an excuse to do terrible things

Representation: WLW tension/relationship between the main characters, queer supporting characters.

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ - I did genuinely enjoy this book, it's got a really interesting take on death and poses an interesting question - how far would you go to not lose a loved one? That said, the relationship(?) between the main character and love interest/antagonist is Pretty Toxic and has a fair bit of manipulation/power imbalance. I think this is part of a series, so the ending sets it up well for that, but it may not be the standard happily ever after that you may expect. If you're not one for political intrigue, you might skip this one. (Also, if you listen to the audiobook, the narrator does some very fun voices and accents for the characters!)

Summary: The first time Hellevir visited Death, she was ten years old…

Since she was a little girl, Hellevir has been able to raise the dead. Every creature can be saved for a price, a price demanded by the shrouded figure who rules the afterlife, who takes a little more from Hellevir with each soul she resurrects.

Such a gift can rarely remain a secret. When Princess Sullivain, sole heir to the kingdom’s throne, is assassinated, the Queen summons Hellevir to demand she bring her granddaughter back to life. But once is not enough; the killers might strike again. The Princess’s death would cause a civil war, so the Queen commands that Hellevir remain by her side.

But Sullivain is no easy woman to be bound to, even as Hellevir begins to fall in love with her. With the threat of war looming, Hellevir must trade more and more of herself to keep the Princess alive.

But Death will always take what he is owed.

Book #5: Everything She Does is Magic by Bridget Morrissey

Representation: WLW relationship between the main characters (may have queer supporting characters - my brain kind of blurs this one and No Charm Done 😅)

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ - Another fun read - I got through this one pretty quickly and I didn't have much against it. The characters were cute, the personalities were distinct, it had a fun plot. I think my biggest fault was that it's yet another book where miscommunication is one of the only conflicts and that can get a little obnoxious from an audience perspective, especially with characters having extreme reactions to it.

Summary: Darcy Keller, resident ray of sunshine and town spirit princess, loves every moment of Fableview’s fall festivities. But she’s also really ready to leave for college next year, even though her parents expect her to stay and take over their Halloween empire.

Enter brooding new girl Anya Doyle, a real-life witch and almost a full member of her coven. In order to be initiated, she has to choose a mortal ally to act as her “protector.” But having moved around so much, Anya is completely friendless. So she does what any self-respecting teenage almost-witch would—she lies and tells her coven her secret crush, Darcy, is willing to do the job.

The solution? Work together, of course. The girls agree to help each other out, attending everything from a costume parade to a pumpkin patch party to an apple bobbing contest together. But with Anya’s magical powers and Darcy’s future independence on the line, the last thing they need is the added complication of pesky feelings . . .

Book #6: The Wolf and His King by Finn Longman 🌶️

Representation: (eventual) MLM relationship between the main characters, bisexual main character

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ - OH MY GODDDD read this book, it is soooo good and I still can't stop thinking about it even 2 months later. It's a retelling of the original werewolf myth from France and it has such an interesting way of blending the "monster's" mind with the man's - very poetic, but not actual poetry. One thing I noticed as I was reading that I've been unable to stop thinking about - the only person with a name is the one who views himself as a monster. What do you think that says about him? (Bonus points, the physical copy of the book is freaking stunning - sprayed edges + gorgeous cover under the dust jacket)

Summary: The wolf-sickness strikes always without warning, stealing Bisclavret’s body and confusing his mind. Since boyhood, he hasn’t dared leave his isolated holdings—not to beg the return of his father’s lost estate, not to seek brotherhood among the court, not even to win the knighthood he yearns for. But when a new king ascends, Bisclavret must deliver his kiss of fealty or answer for the failure.

Half an exile himself, the young king is intrigued by this uneasy, rough-hewn nobleman. Bisclavret seems a perfect knight: bold, strong, and merciful. But he keeps his secrets close, and the king’s longings are not for counsel alone. As his fascination grows, the barriers between them multiply, until one day Bisclavret vanishes beyond reach. Battling desperation and grief, the king stands alone to face the greatest threats to his kingdom, with only duty to his people between him and ruin—duty, and the steadfast loyalty of the strangest wolf . . .

Book #7: Love at Second Sight by FT Lukens🚩

WARNINGS: (these are pretty mild but wanted to warn anyway) some violence, references to gore

Representation: MLM relationship between the main characters, other queer supporting characters, (implied) autistic representation

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ - Interesting premise! There were parts where a character would have what felt like an irrational reaction and I would have to remind myself that they were teenagers, but that aside the plot was unique, the relationship was cute (kind of took a back seat to the mystery except for when they were on a time crunch 🤦‍♂️) and overall a pretty fun read

Summary: Fifteen-year-old Cam Reynolds wants to spend his sophomore year flying under the radar. That shouldn’t be too hard, considering he’s a human going to school with kids who have paranormal powers, like his best friend and witch, Al, and his longtime werewolf crush, Mateo.

Then Cam has a psychic glimpse of the future in front of most of the student body, seeing a gruesomely murdered teen girl from the point of view of the killer. When Cam comes to, he knows two things: someone he goes to school with is a future murderer, and his life is about to change. No longer a mere human but a clairvoyant, one of the rarest of supernatural beings, Cam finds himself at the center of attention for the first time.

As the most powerful supernatural factions in the city court Cam and his gift, he’ll have to work with his friends, both old and new, to figure out who he can trust and who might be a werewolf in sheep’s clothing. Because the clock is ticking, and Cam and his friends must identify the girl in the vision, find her potential killer, and prevent the murder from happening. Or the next murder Cam sees might be his own.

Book #8: Of Monsters and Mainframes by Barbara Truelove 🚩

WARNINGS: Definitely violence/gore, a little existentialism

Representation: Queer relationship between two spaceship AIs, WLW relationship between two passengers, nonbinary/gendernonconforming characters

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ - Y'know what? I originally picked this book up as a joke and I'm actually obsessed with it. There is a HIGH likelihood that you will never find a book like this again. The audiobook does an incredible job with the ship AIs' voices, but I did end up having to switch back to the physical copy for a few of the other characters' perspectives due to personal preference. HIGHLY recommend giving this a shot if you're a fan of sci-fi or quirky literature.

Summary: Demeter just wants to do her job: shuttling humans between Earth and Alpha Centauri. Unfortunately, her passengers keep dying—and not from equipment failures, as her AI medical system, Steward, would have her believe. These are paranormal murders, and they began when one nasty, ancient vampire decided to board Demeter and kill all her humans.

To keep from getting decommissioned, Demeter must join forces with her own team of monsters: A werewolf. An engineer built from the dead. A pharaoh with otherworldly powers. A vampire with a grudge. A fleet of cheerful spider drones. Together, this motley crew will face down the ultimate evil—Dracula.

Book #9: Di Curious by Erin Branch 🌶️🚩

WARNINGS: Past toxic relationships, men feeling entitled to a woman's time/romantic attention

Representation: Sapphic relationship between main characters, nonbinary main character, other queer supporting characters

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐ - I really wanted to like this book more than I did. Some of the writing/dialogue was really clunky and awkward to read, the sex scenes were pretty lackluster, and I kind of struggled to care about June & Nova's relationship due to some pretty petty drama. The ending was fun and some of the characters' personalities were really interesting, but overall wasn't one of my favorites I've read thus far. I think this may have been one of the author's first books - I would be curious to check out another of their books and see how it compares.

Summary: June lives the glamorous lifestyle of a mid-level Dungeons and Dragons influencer: broke in her parents' basement. Although June's internet-famous avatar has her life together, June is a people-pleasing mess on the inside. When she needs a D&D group for a lucrative opportunity, her celebrity group disinvites her, and she has to lean on her old friends.

But Nova, June’s former BFF, gives her the cold shoulder while flirting with her character during their game sessions. June is determined to figure out why. Turns out getting closer to Nova is awakening new, confusing feelings in June, feelings she tried to ignore years ago and can't anymore.

Book #10: Brigands and Breadknives by Travis Baldree

Representation: Queer supporting characters, WLW relationship in secondary characters (Viv & Tandree are the cutest and I love them)

My Rating: 4.5x⭐- Y'all know I love the Legends & Lattes series and this one being Fern-centric is amazing - I love her humor and the supporting characters are phenomenal. Zyll is chaos incarnate, Astrix is the much needed voice of reason (mostly) and Bucket is an incredible name for a horse. It's a lower stakes fantasy novel, so don't go in expecting world ending battles, but if you're invested in the characters and open to some crude humor, you'll have a great time. (0.5 stars deducted because I was hoping for more Potroast than was present)

Summary: Fern has weathered the stillness and storms of a bookseller’s life for decades, but now, in the face of crippling ennui, transplants herself to the city of Thune to hang out her shingle beside a long-absent friend’s coffee shop. What could be a better pairing? Surely a charming renovation montage will cure what ails her!

If only things were so simple…

It turns out that fixing your life isn’t a one-time prospect, nor as easy as a change of scenery and a lick of paint.

A drunken and desperate night sees the rattkin waking far from home in the company of a legendary warrior, an imprisoned chaos-goblin with a fondness for silverware, and an absolutely thumping hangover.

-----

There’s nothing like the quiet of the ice hours after a hockey game. After a loss, the crowd and the team alike are always quick to vacate and leave their disappointment behind, and after a win, like tonight’s, everyone is eager to celebrate.

You’re always invited to bars and afterparties with your teammates, but you always turn them down for this - the silent stands and the freedom of the open ice. There’s no expectation once everyone else leaves, no coaches calling line changes, no pressure to sneak the puck around an opposing team’s goalie, no heavy padding weighing you down.

You’re free to push yourself however you want - to fly around the rink as fast as your skates can carry you, to spend hours practicing trick shots, to work through tight turns and shifts and moves so many times you know they’ll come second nature during a game.

Even now, after more than twenty minutes taking shots on an empty goal, this feels more rewarding than any party.

“Game is over,” the voice comes from behind you and you turn away from your water bottle to find Ilya Rozanov, your team’s new transfer, watching you from the visiting team’s bench. “You are not celebrating?”

Belatedly, you realize this is his first game with the Centaurs so he wouldn’t have known about your post-game habits yet.

You grin, setting your water back on the boards and skate toward Ilya. “This is me celebrating, Rozy.”

He pulls a face at the nickname but doesn’t argue, crossing his arms over his chest instead as he studies you. “This is celebration? Looks like more work to me.”

“Some of the guys prefer bars - I prefer an empty rink.” You shrug, skating backward and pulling yourself through a few more turns to keep your muscles warm and loose. “Why are you still here anyway? Figured you’d be out on the town.”

“Forgot my phone,” Ilya says simply. He watches you for a second, then huffs out a quiet laugh. “You are very strange. You know this?”

“Yeah, I’ve been told.” You tap your stick against the ice idly, going through the motions of a faceoff. “You heading out?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward a little on the boards, eyes following the way you move. “No,” he says finally. “I think I will stay.”

You raise an eyebrow - you’ve heard plenty of stories about Ilya’s time as the prince of Boston’s club scene. You would’ve thought he’d have been all over the invitation to the afterparty with the rest of the team. “Not up for celebrating?”

“Maybe I want to celebrate another way.” He shrugs, waving a hand dismissively toward the tunnel toward the dressing room like he hadn’t even considered leaving.

You make a swift loop around the edge of the rink, then slow again as you get near the bench. “You can go, you know. I’m not that interesting to watch.”

“I didn’t say I watch because you are interesting,” Ilya points out, lips quirking up in a little half-smile. You’ve seen that look before on the ice when he says something he thinks is particularly funny.

You snort, but it doesn’t really bother you. It hadn’t taken you long to pick up on his affection manifesting as gentle bullying. “Wow. Brutal.”

He huffs out a little laugh and you’re almost more surprised by the sound than by Ilya disappearing back into the locker room only long enough to have grabbed his skates. He’s back almost as quickly as he’d gone, sitting down on the bench and lacing himself up. “Show me,” he demands. At your blank look, he gestures back at the ice, “Whatever it is you see here. Show me.”

You grin, unable to resist teasing him back, “You’ve been playing hockey your whole life and you need me to demonstrate?”

He makes a sound like he’s offended, but he swings himself over the boards anyway, skating up to you with a grin. “I want to see what you see. Why would you rather be here than in club with pretty girls all over you.” 

You try to hide your cringe at the thought by starting to move. You start easy with a few tight turns and quick stops, and then building up speed. You can feel him behind you, matching your pace, mirroring your moves. You push a little harder and he keeps up easily.

You pick up a puck from the pile near the blue line, drag it across your body, cut toward the net. He comes in closer this time, close enough that you can hear his skates, his breathing. You fake left and duck right instead and he still gets a stick on it.

“Hey,” you laugh, trying to pull it back. He nudges your shoulder, just hard enough to try to throw you off. You recover fast, twisting your stick back under his and knocking the puck free again. “Gonna have to do better than that,” you say as you chase after it.

“I am going easy on you,” he shoots back.

“Yeah? That what this is?” You push harder, cutting across the ice, keeping the puck just out of his reach. He stays right on you, closer now, matching every turn.

You can feel him trying to read you. You fake wide, then pull in tight instead, trying to slip past him along the boards. For a second, it works just as you’d hoped.

Then his skate hooks against yours when he pivots to follow and you both hit the ice in a mess of skates and sticks, the breath knocked from your lungs by the abrupt impact. It hurts more without all the padding, and your shoulder takes most of it, but you can tell it’s not seriously hurt, just going to bruise. 

There’s a beat of quiet, silence stretching over the rink without the sound of your skates slicing over the ice, and then you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, “Nice moves, superstar,” you taunt playfully, twisting to look back at Ilya, who landed face down on the ice.

“That was not my fault!” he protests, but he relents with a grin when he meets your eyes. You’re pleased to see that he didn’t seem to hit his face on the way down - it’d be a shame if he messed up that pretty face. “Okay, it was maybe a little my fault. But only a little!”

“Whatever you say,” you grin at him, trying to push yourself up and then realizing your position. The two of you are still half tangled together from the fall, one of his legs caught around yours, your arm pinned awkwardly under you, his hand braced against the ice just by your shoulder. When you push up onto your side, the two of you are almost nose to nose. 

Close, your brain supplies unhelpfully, very close. Part of you wants to close the gap, to press closer still, until you’re close enough to kiss him, to press him back until his spine hits the ice and see what it’s like to give him bruises that aren’t from a contact sport. But the rest of you knows that this is Ilya. Your teammate. Your probably very straight teammate.

That doesn’t seem to stop Ilya. In the second before you can mumble about untangling your skates, Ilya’s hooked his fingers into the front of your shirt and dragged you into him, pressing his lips to yours with the same sort of ferocity he plays with. Your brain skids to a stop, but you cast logic aside and kiss him back - the ice freezing against your palm where you’re holding yourself up, the other hand coming up to twist into Ilya’s hair, using your grip to pull him even tighter against you.

He makes a sound into your mouth as you press him back against the ice, something between surprised and pleased, and it sends a warm shudder through you. He bites at your lower lip and that sting of sensation is enough to bring you back to the moment. 

As little as you want to, you force yourself to pull back, releasing your hold on Ilya’s curls and less-than-gracefully untangling your legs from his. You scoot back a bit to give him room to sit up and regain his bearings after you all but mauled him.

“Well,” you say intelligently. “That was…”

Ilya nods, a bright flush spreading across his face. Cute, that uncooperative part of your brain chimes in. “Fun?”

“I was going to say unprofessional, but yeah, that too,” you agree, shooting him a shy grin. It had been fun - the kissing obviously, but also the skating, teasing each other on the ice and playing off of each other so naturally it was almost like breathing.

“It was probably a bad idea, yes?” Ilya says, looking out at the stands. “Bad for careers if people find out.”

You cringe, thinking of the sort of hate the Admirals’ Scott Hunter had gotten when he came out. “Yeah, there’s a lot of people who would really not like it.”

Ilya hums, tipping his head back to look at you. “Buuuuut could be worth trying again.” He continues when you look at him, shocked, “The kissing, I mean. See if it was adrenaline or, y’know, more than that.”

You sigh, pushing yourself up to your feet. Once you’re upright, you make a slow turn, examining the empty seats. The rows and rows of patrons whose support allows you to do what you love. You know the weight they put on you. That not meeting the team’s expectations could get you cut. It’s why you’re always the first to practice and the last to leave - it’s why you’re always looking for any chance to be on the ice, even after you’ve already won. But you’ve given everything for the team, and shouldn’t you be able to have something that’s yours?

“You know this is a bad idea, right?” You ask as you turn to hold out a hand to Ilya, hauling him back to his feet when he takes it.

He smiles, that same mischievous grin as when he’s about to do something particularly impressive on the ice. “Yes, but I think this could be worth it.” His fingers wrap tighter around yours and he slowly starts skating backwards, tugging you along with him toward the bench. “You know, I have this problem.”

“Yeah?” you ask, allowing yourself to be led.

“Yes, very serious,” Ilya says, nudging you toward your hockey bag once you’re both back on the concrete, “In this new city, new apartment, I had to get new bed.” His lips have started to curl back into that troublemaker’s smile that you’re quickly growing fond of, “New bed is not broken in at all. I sleep terribly.” He tips his head to the side, watching you with bright hazel eyes as he tugs at the drawstring of his hoodie, “Maybe you can help?”

-----

It starts, as many great and terrible ideas do, with Graves. He’d made some offhand comment about the PBR rodeo passing through while the county fair was going on and damn near had a conniption when none of your teammates had a clue what he was talking about. 

“Seriously,” he says, aghast, as he looks from one blank face to the next, “Y’all have gotta be kidding me. Not a single one of you has been to a rodeo?”

You laugh, hooking an arm around Soap’s neck and dragging him down so you could ruffle his hair, “Graves, they’re British,” you pointedly ignore Johnny’s protest, "Closest they’ve ever been to a bull’s a steakhouse.” 

Graves makes a face, like he’d forgotten there were people out there that hadn’t experienced one of the so-called “great American Past Times”. He lets out a long suffering breath and you can see him steel himself, “We are in Texas.” He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes up the group, and continues, “Do you know what that means?”

“Heatstroke?” Soap offers, finally weasling his way out from under your arm.

“Rasism?” Gaz deadpans.

Graves looks less than amused. “Rodeo,” he says. “I don’t care what you have to say about it, we’re goin’. You have an hour and then y’all better be in the truck.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that spreads over your features. It’d been a while since you’d had the chance to go to a rodeo - you’d missed it.

-----

Sure enough, an hour and a half later you and your teammates pile out of Grave’s truck and into the dusty lot of the county fairgrounds. Dirt kicks up around your boots as you walk, sticking to your jeans in a fine powder. 

“Smell that, boys?” Graves asks, hands on his hips as he surveys the crowds, “That’s freedom.”

“Tha’s heartburn,” Ghost mutters behind you and you have to muffle a laugh.

Soap looks bewildered, wide blue eyes taking in all the peculiarities around him, “I expected, like, a horse and a couple guys in jeans - this is like Disneyland for cowboys.”

Gaz sidles up beside you and nudges you with his elbow, “This normal to you, Yankee?”

“I grew up around stuff like this,” you say with a shrug. This chaos had been part of your life for so long that now it just seems like an ordinary day. 

It must not seem like such a big deal to your teammates since they just shrug and follow you and Graves into the fairgrounds, but for you it’s second nature - the scent of hay and livestock and fried food, the blaring of loudspeakers and carnival music. You feel at ease in the wash of noise and neon and finally, in the weeks you've been back on your native soil, you finally feel like you’ve come home. 

And then, before you’re more than thirty paces from the ticket booth, it happens. You catch the movement of a rodeo staffer jogging by in your peripheral, and you catch the exact moment he recognizes you.

“…No fuckin’ way,” he gapes, the walkie talkie at his hip buzzing. He ignores it, staring wide-eyed at you.?

“Shit,” you say under your breath as he approaches.

“No way. No way. You’re [Y/N] [Last Name]?!” The guy claps you on the shoulder. “Didn’t know you were in town! You’ve been off the circuit so long I thought you were dead! You still riding?”

“What the fuck,” Ghost says. You can hear Soap and Gaz whispering quietly. Price is silent, but you can feel the weight of his eyes on you.

You swallow, pointedly ignoring the baffled stares of your teammates. “Oh, uh, I’ve been out of the game for a while…”

“That’s too bad,” the staffer says, sweeping his hat off to scratch at his thinning hairline, “they’re short a rider. Widowmaker’s up soon and no one’ll touch him.” He shoots you a sly glance. “What d’you think? One last ride for old time’s sake? Crowd would lose it to see a legend back in action.” 

You know you’re being baited, but damn if it isn’t tempting to get back in the chute. To show off for your teammates, just this once. “Yeah, alright. S’pose I’ve got a few minutes.” 

The staffer beams and steers you swiftly away from the rest of your team to the competitor’s area with the promise of getting you some gear. You’re happy to avoid the team’s questions for just a little longer.

-----

Not long passes before Graves manages to wrangle the group into an empty section of the bleachers surrounding the arena, especially with the promise of watching you ride. They manage to catch the tail end of one ride and see the full run of another competitor, but all five are paying attention as the announcer starts his next introduction. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows, voice so magnified by the dozens of speakers that the vibrations rattle through the dirt. “We've got ourselves a miracle! You might know him as the two-time national champion, he made quite a splash with a record time on his last ride two years back -” A man climbs the fence behind a massive black bull, leaning on the top rail for a moment while he pulls on his gloves and checks the straps on his protective vest before shifting to settle onto the bull’s back. “And now he’s back for one night only to challenge the one and only Widowmaker. Let’s see what (Y/N) (L/N)’s got in store for us tonight!”

You give the chutemaster a nod and he pulls the gate, Widowmaker explodes into the arena, nearly two thousand pounds of muscle launching itself into motion, pitching wildly in an attempt to unseat you. It’s that instant that the team realizes it’s you on the bull.

Graves is hollering so loud he’ll undoubtedly be hoarse tomorrow and Price chokes on his beer, coughing wildly as he attempts to reconcile the subdued young man he’s come to know with the spitfire risking his life in the arena. Gaz drops his popcorn and doesn’t even seem to notice, hands gripping the railing in front of him so tightly his knuckles ache. Soap’s clutched onto Ghost’s arm, eyes wide and mouth dropped open in awe. Ghost’s as quiet as ever, but it’s something different from his normal silence - there’s something appraising behind it.

They can’t tear their eyes away - can’t stop looking at the way you move, shifting and twisting with the bull as it rampages. One hand in the air, the other twisted tight into the rope, your thighs tense, shirt tight across your heaving chest as you mock gravity. Despite the exertion, you’re focused - perfectly in control. Your head comes up, eyes searching through the clouds of dust to fix onto your team - a smile spreads across your lips like wildfire and you wink up at them.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap says, without meaning to. He can feel heat spreading across his face, but he knows it’s not the Texan sun to blame, not when there are far hotter things around. If he hadn’t suspected he was attracted to men, he was certain now. And he had reason to believe the rest of the team were going through the same thing.

Gaz makes a pained sort of sound, something between a sigh and a moan and a dying animal. His fingers tighten further around the railing, and he wishes ardently it was something else he was holding onto.

Ghost swallows hard behind his mask, a smaller black disposable mask, and he’s never wished more for the anonymity his normal mask affords him. It’d be much easier to hide his feelings that way. 

Price tips his head back, draining what’s left of his beer in a few large gulps, but he can’t look away from you even then. There’s too much to look at - so different, but so much the same. A new interesting feature to a comfortable truth. God, he wants to know more.

And Graves - Graves is watching on like the cat that’s caught the canary. “Told you you’d love rodeo,” he says, all too pleased with himself as the buzzer sounds and you slip down from your place astride Widowmaker. 

One of the pickup riders comes and pulls you up onto his horse with him to escort you out of the arena while they work on wrangling Widowmaker back into the stock area behind the pen. You look back over your shoulder as you’re carried off, nodding as you catch sight of your group once more.

-----

After it’s over, you make your way back to your group, knowing you’ve stalled long enough. You’d prepared yourself for their inevitable barrage of questions, but you hadn’t been ready for… whatever this reaction is.

Price can’t seem to meet your eyes, and Ghost is standing closer to you than he normally does to anyone, the heat of him warm against your back. His eyes look darker than usual as he looks at you. Gaz is rambling, talking about damn near anything but the bull riding, and Soap won’t stop staring at you, mouth opening and closing like he’s got something to say but can’t find the words. 

“That was impressive,” Graves says, clapping you on the shoulder, and you’re grateful at least one member of your weird little group is behaving normally. “Really. I don’t think anyone else had nearly such a good ride. And just out of retirement? I’d have loved to see you ride while you were actively competing.”

“Was that illegal?” Soap asks, “It feels like it should’ve been.”

“Nah,” you laugh, waving it off, “Bull riding’s pretty common and the bulls are really well taken care of. Rodeo’s come a long way from what it used to be.”

Soap’s face goes even redder than it was and you remind yourself to see about getting him some aloe for his sunburn when you get back to base. “Not what I meant,” he says quietly.

“How did we not know this about you?” Price finally manages.

You shrug, “Didn’t think it was important.”

“Not important-?” Gaz chokes, “Not important? You just rode a one-ton killing machine and it’s not important?! God, next you’ll say the freaking crisis you gave me doesn’t matter when I think my whole damn world view has changed.” He puts his hands over his face and you’re a little concerned about the whole crisis bit until Soap distracts you by taking your face in his hands.

“You gotta tell me,” he says seriously, wide blue eyes trained on your face. “Is the thing about wearin’ a cowboy’s hat true?”

-----

The bathroom sink is cold under your shaking fingers and you can’t seem to keep your breathing even. You force your eyes open again and make yourself look up at your reflection once more. 

The marks are still there, a deep violet curling up and over your shoulders like grasping hands, branching up the sides of your throat and onto your face in sharp angles. They’d started out so small - a tiny reddish-purple patch on your back that you’d assumed was just a rash - but the lines had spread quickly over the last week, swallowing up more and more of your skin with each passing day.

You struggle to meet your own eyes in the mirror, scared by the molten gold that has taken over your normal color. 

A knock on the door has you jolting, moving before you can think to block it from opening by standing in front of it. 

“Darling?” It’s Romance’s voice, soft and lilting in a way none of your other partners can ever quite manage. “You’ve been in there a while - are you feeling alright? Do you need anything?

You don’t know what to say - how to respond. You can’t tell him the truth - can’t bear the thought of them leaving you for this. Even the thought of the disgust, the fear, that they might look at you with hurts. Whatever’s wrong with you, they can’t know.

“Just, uh,” you force out, knowing you had to say something before he gets concerned enough to try the door, or worse, get Jinu and Abby involved. “Just a little under the weather. I’m- I’m going to head back to my apartment for the night. I’d hate to get any of you sick, especially with the concert this week.”

You can hear him hum sympathetically, but he doesn’t go back to the others as you’d been hoping he would. 

“Do you want us to make you some soup or something? I’m sure Jinu has medicine stashed away somewhere - you know how prepared he always likes to be.” You hate how concerned he sounds. You hate that you’re lying to him. “I hate to think of you all alone and miserable…”

“No,” you say, too quickly. “Thank you, but no. I just need to go home, I think.”

You get lucky and find a disposable mask in the medicine cabinet, which covers most of the strange patterns on your face, and pulling up the hood of your sweatshirt hides the ones crawling up your neck. There is nothing to hide your eyes, but you will have to make due.

You take a deep breath before unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the hall. Romance is still there, standing with his arms crossed and a worried pinch to his brows. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do to help?” he says, moving closer. He stops when you shrink away.

“No,” you say again, keeping your eyes downcast so the gold sheen would be less evident. “I’ve got to go; but I love you.” You pull him into a brief side hug, allowing yourself a few seconds of comfort in your partner’s arms. He allows it when you pull away, but you can tell from his silence that he’s still worried.

-----

You’re lucky enough to make it back to your own apartment before the group chat starts going off. You ignore it long enough to lock the door behind you and turn on the lights. It’s been a while since you’ve been here - more and more you find yourself staying over at your boyfriends’ penthouse.

Eventually, curled up in bed with the blankets pulled up around you like a child hiding from monsters and hoping it’ll hide you from your reality the same way, you run out of excuses and make yourself check your phone.

Jinu: Romance said you’re not feeling well. Anything we can do?

Mystery: 😢

ABBY: I can run over with food? Anything sound good?

You: I’ll be okay, just going to try to sleep it off

bby: without me? rude 🙄

bby: jk i hope you recover quickly

You: I’ll try. Don’t worry about me.

You turn your phone off at that point, tossing it aside and pulling your blankets up further. Maybe you’d wake up to find this was just a bad dream.

-----

Days pass and you remain in your self-imposed isolation. Your eyes have gone back to normal but the markings have not receded.

The boys have been checking in frequently.

First a direct text from Jinu: 

J: Feeling any better? Running a fever at all?

Baby sends memes and stupid tiktoks like he always does, but there’s a long few minutes where your chat with him just shows ‘typing’ before the message finally comes.

bby: u ok?

Mystery sends you photos of dogs and videos of unlikely animal friendships to make you smile.

Abby sends you simple recipes that are supposed to boost your immune systems and easy exercises to help you recover physically. At least once a day he has food delivered for you - antioxidant and vitamin rich smoothies and dakjuk rice porridge, soups and stews with chicken and beef to help keep your strength up.

Romance sends inspirational quotes and demands a selfie each day “lest he forget his love’s face” - you’d been able to use a few you’d taken in the past and never ended up sending, but then, half-asleep, you slip up. You swear as you realize you accidentally sent one he’d seen before. He replies instantly.

🩷Ro🩷: Um, no. That’s from six weeks ago

🩷Ro🩷: Wait

🩷Ro🩷: Are the others from this week old too?

🩷Ro🩷: Why are you sending old pics?

🩷Ro🩷: Something’s wrong. The others and I will be there in 10

Shit. You scramble to your feet and rush for your closet, attempting to throw together anything that will cover the marks. You drag a blanket over your shoulders, bundling it close around your face to hide the lines. 

It seems like only seconds later when there’s a knock at your door and your boyfriends are piling into your apartment. 

Abby surges into your personal space, shoving your hood back enough that he can press his hand to your forehead, checking for a fever that isn’t there. You struggle free, shrinking under the weight of their concerned eyes.

Jinu’s watching from the back of the group, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over his chest. Mystery’s head tips to one side, and he tugs on Baby’s sleeve to get his attention, pointing something out quietly.

Baby follows his gesture and his pretty blue eyes narrow. He crowds forward, so close you’re nearly chest to chest as you look down at him. He reaches out before you can stop him, latching onto the blanket around your shoulders and tearing it away, baring your face to the group.

“Oh shit,” he breathes, and you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes to see their reactions until his fingers brush, feather-light, against your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” the words escape you in a rush, “It started a couple weeks ago and I didn’t want to worry you guys.”

“Little late for that,” Baby replies, words still laden with his usual snark, but with the soft edge he only uses for you.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, miserably.

Romance edges in next to Baby, tugging at the zipper of your hoodie until it falls open and he can pull it off of you. He sucks in an appreciative breath, running his hands over your arms and shoulders. “I can’t be the only one thinking that demon patterns are a really good look on him, right?”

There’s hums of agreement all around you, but you can’t get past that word.

“Demon?” you echo. Is that really what they think of you now?

Jinu facepalms, looking between you and the rest of the group. “Guys. He doesn’t know,” he reminds them.

“Shit, right,” Abby says, nudging forward. As you watch, patterns just like yours bleed to life across his broad shoulders and up his arms. The bright red-brown of his iris is swallowed up by gold.

Your eyes dart back to Jinu, only to find him also covered by the glowing marks. He smiles and you see fangs.

Romance’s fingers are tipped by claws where they still trail over your skin.

Mystery takes your hand, lifting it to press his face to your palm. The air seems to blur in front of his face and he has tusks when it clears.

Baby guides your face back to his, that same bright golden glow you’d dreaded seeing in the mirror present in his, in all of theirs, and suddenly you can’t fathom how you’d been horrified by it.

“No reason to hide,” he murmurs against your mouth as he leans up to kiss you. “You’re a freak, just like us.”

Code: 🌶️- contains adult scenes/sexual content 🚩 - contains possible triggers, proceed with caution Book #1: The Entanglement of Rival Wizards by Sara Raasch 🌶️ Representation: MLM gay relationship between the two leads, other queer characters in supporting cast My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Thoughts: Humorous with endearing characters and significant drama. There is Definitely Spice - many a sex scene in this one, so keep that in mind. Rated 4 stars since there were a few parts that seemed a bit melodramatic and for the main sport having an Awful name, but had very interesting world building and I'm excited for the next book set in this world to come out. Summary: "Sebastian Walsh: Evocation Department. Human. The first of his family to pick college over the military. Elethior Tourael: Conjuration Department. Half-elf. Pretentious asshole. The latest legacy Tourael at Lesiara U. Both: Mageus Research Grant finalists. Sebastian refuses to let anyone snatch this away, least of all a snob riding on old money. But what’s worse than a nemesis stealing your grant? You could both get it. Under the condition you work together. Sebastian is in hell. Thio’s broody. Takes up their shared lab space with his projects . . . and biceps. Brings treats for Sebastian’s familiar . . . . . . and is nothing like Sebastian thought. When Sebastian’s past with the Touraels forces him to choose his research or Thio, the decision should be simple. But while working with his rival is volatile . . . falling for his rival might blow up Sebastian’s future."

Book #2: Witchlore by Emma Hinds 🚩 Representation: Nonbinary/fluid main character, queer romance between the leads My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Thoughts: One immediate thing to keep in mind with this one is that it deals with suicidal ideation and the main character has made an attempt in the past - it is mentioned often. If this is something that you are uncomfortable with, do not read it. That said, the book does handle such a difficult subject pretty well and the main character recovers throughout the book. Rated 4 stars since the attitude/internal dialogue toward the beginning is quite repetitive, but I did enjoy the relationship between the main characters and thought the encounters with magical creatures were interesting and the main character's power manifestation and the twist at the end were well done. Summary: "At Demdike College of Witchcraft, Orlando is an outcast. Not just for being the only shapeshifter in a college of witches. Not just for being a really bad shapeshifter, with no control over their magic or when their body switches between male and female forms. But because their girlfriend Elizabeth died—and it was Lando's fault. Then charming new boy Bastian arrives with a proposition: he knows a spell that can raise Elizabeth from the dead. It's dangerous but Lando will try anything. But as Lando's attraction to Bastian grows, questions start to arise. Who is Bastian? What does he really want? And who will survive the resurrection spell?"

Book #3: Given by Natsuki Kizu (manga) 🚩 Representation: MLM romance between the leads, other queer relationships with supporting characters My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Thoughts: Y'all are probably getting tired of me giving four star ratings, huh? This one is promising, certainly - I finished the first volume and went out and bought the second, though I haven't gotten around to reading it yet. There's an anime based on it - I watched a few episodes a couple years ago, but I don't think I ever finished it. It does have some mentions of one of the main character's ex-boyfriend committing suicide, though I expect that will come more into play with future volumes. Summary: "Love of music unites the four members of the band Given: hotheaded guitarist Uenoyama, playboy drummer Akihiko, gentle bassist Haruki, and Mafuyu, a singer gifted with great talent and burdened by past tragedy. Their struggles and conflicts may drive them apart, but their bond to the music—and to one another—always brings them back together again. Ritsuka Uenoyama is bored with it all—with school, with his basketball club, and even with his one true passion: playing guitar. That is, until the day he finds his favorite hidden napping spot occupied by a strange boy cradling a broken-stringed guitar. At first, Uenoyama is nonplussed by Mafuyu Sato and his slightly odd behavior, but when, on a whim, he asks Mafuyu to sing, the power of that song pierces him to the core."

Book #4: Looking for Group by Alexis Hall Representation: MLM romance between the main characters, lots of other queer rep throughout My Rating: 3.5x⭐ Thoughts: Look, I really enjoyed this until the last, like, 90 pages where the main character makes himself sort of unlikable. For those who are fans of MMORPGs, I think you'll really enjoy the nostalgia of reading this since there's a lot of in-game chat dialogue at first, but it's also just a pleasant read. Main character does make effort to make up for being crummy, so I do still recommend. Summary: "Drew's always prided himself on being the "right" kind of nerd. He plays sports, has a solid group of friends, and never had any problem talking to girls. Sure, he spends time playing Heroes of Legend, the biggest MMORPG on the planet, but it's just a fun hobby, not his identity. Falling for someone in a video game? Not his style. Until it is. Enter Kit: witty, kind, razor-sharp, and a healer who's saved Drew's virtual skin more times than he can count. She's also, turns out, a boy in real life. The realization knocks Drew off-balance, but it doesn't take long for him to figure out the simple truth―he likes Kit, no matter Kit's gender. The real challenge? Kit's reality is leagues apart from Drew's. Being online is his life, and while he's willing to come out of his shell an inch at a time, there's such a wide gulf between them that Drew's left wondering: can love truly bridge the distance…or are they fated to remain in separate worlds forever?"

Book #5: Lumberjanes (#1) by Noelle Stevenson (graphic novel) Representation: queer rep throughout, seems to be more prevalent in later volumes but there's a bit here My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Thoughts: This was genuinely cute - I thought the scouts' adventures were fun, and there were bigger mysteries set up that support a continuing series well. I could see the starts of relationships forming that would be rewarding when they paid off. Since it's a graphic novel, it's a pretty quick read - definitely worth checking out. Summary: "Five best friends spending the summer at Lumberjane scout camp…defeating yetis, three-eyed wolves, and giant falcons…what’s not to love?! Friendship to the max! Jo, April, Mal, Molly and Ripley are five best pals determined to have an awesome summer together…and they’re not gonna let any insane quest or an array of supernatural critters get in their way!"

Book #6: Upright Women Wanted - Sarah Gailey Representation: Lesbian, queer, poly, and nonbinary characters galore My Rating: 2.5x⭐ Thoughts: Not my taste personally, but definitely an interesting premise - sort of Handmaid's Tale meets the Wild West meets Fallout. It's another short one, less than 200 pages, so worth checking out if that sounds like your vibe! Summary: "Esther is a stowaway. She’s hidden herself away in the Librarian’s book wagon in an attempt to escape the marriage her father has arranged for her―a marriage to the man who was previously engaged to her best friend. Her best friend who she was in love with. Her best friend who was just executed for possession of resistance propaganda. The future American Southwest is full of bandits, fascists, and queer librarian spies on horseback trying to do the right thing."

Book #7: Mistakenly Saving the Villain by Feng Yu Nie 🚩 Representation: MLM relationship between the main characters My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Thoughts: This one's pretty heavy, not going to lie. Triggers include graphic depictions of sexual slavery/trafficking, severe torture, non-consensual sexual acts, suicide attempts, and intense psychological trauma. While most of these things are handled well, there are a few that I think miss the mark and some of the details brought up toward the end of the book don't quite make sense, but may fit better once the sequel is released. Since it was originally written in Chinese and translated into English for publication, some dialogue and descriptions felt a bit strange, but not enough to be a major fault. It's an interesting book, especially when you get to see from the innocent view of the main character, and from the manipulative and (understandably) jaded view of his love interest. Summary: "When medical student Song Qingshi dies and wakes up in a historical fantasy novel, he’s tasked with rescuing the tragic protagonist from a life of misery. There’s just one problem—he has no idea who the protagonist is. Instead of saving the hero, Song Qingshi accidentally rescues Yue Wuhuan, an enslaved man renowned for his striking beauty and trained in the art of seduction. Now determined to help his traumatized new patient heal, Song Qingshi offers everything he can: Medicine, therapy, emotional support, even a shared bed—strictly for his patient’s well-being, of course. But Yue Wuhuan wants more than healing. He wants revenge. And most of all, he wants Song Qingshi all to himself."

Book #8: Lady's Knight by Amie Kaufman & Meagan Spooner Representation: WLW romance between the main characters, gay supporting character My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Thoughts: Oh my god, read this book! Please read this book! It's legitimately such a good time - the jousts are well described, the female characters are not one dimensional and actually have personalities (even the supporting cast!) and the romance is built up to effectively. In the best possible way, it reminded me of a medieval Mean Girls. Highly recommend. Summary: "A blacksmith’s daughter with a secret. A lady with a plan. We’re in for one unforgettable knight… Gwen has spent the past several years manning the blacksmith’s in place of her father, an open secret in the village in which she lives. A much more covert secret, however, is that she knows not only how to craft but also how to wield a sword, and an incognito stunt at the local jousting tournament manages to catch the eye of the wily Lady Isobelle. Isobelle has secret dreams too, but she’s been promised in marriage to the winner of the whole stupid tournament, which means an end to any freedom or choices for her. Desperate to avoid this fate, when she connects the newcomer knight to the female smithy she saw earlier that day, she begins to hatch a scheme… Petty knights. Backstabbing noblemen. A prison breakout. Cheesecake-on-a-stick. One particularly large and angry dragon. Will our ladies survive the night? And can our knight save the day?"

Book #9: All Out edited by Saundra Mitchell (Anthology) Representation: a collection of queer stories with a range of identities and relationships, queer rep galore My Rating: 3.5x⭐ Thoughts: I had a hard time with some of the authors' writing styles but really enjoyed the different perspectives and some of the stories had me wishing for a full-length novel - I recall really enjoying the Robin Hood retelling! Summary: "From a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood set in war-torn 1870s Mexico featuring a transgender soldier…to two girls falling in love while mourning the death of Kurt Cobain…to forbidden love in a sixteenth-century Spanish convent…and an asexual girl discovering her identity amid the 1970s roller-disco scene, All Out tells a diverse range of stories across cultures, time periods, and identities, shedding light on an area of history often ignored or forgotten."

Shane Hollander

Prescription: Accidental Confession - Shane takes a hard hit on the ice and the pain medication leads to him saying a bit more than he means to when you visit him in the hospital.

-----

Shane looks too small here, diminished from the larger than life captain you know by the bruising and neck brace and the medical equipment surrounding his hospital bed.

He’d been asleep when you arrived, just barely out of surgery to help stabilize his broken collarbone, propped up on four pillows, but he’s stirring now, a little pained sound escaping him as he shifts. His eyes flutter open and he squints against the light as he looks around. Shane’s gaze finds you and his mouth pulls into a wide grin.

“Hiiii,” he beams, attempting to wave only to find himself restricted by his IV. He pouts down at it like he’s offended, but he’s all smiles again as soon as he remembers you’re there. “Hi,” he says again.

“Hi buddy,” you reply, “How’re you feeling?” It’d been a hard hit - one of Boston’s players slamming into Shane when he was looking toward the bench where you and your other teammates were waiting. You’d seen the look in his eyes as his skates left the ice, the gravity of him crashing down, the impact of his helmet hitting the ice. Him not getting back up.

You’d almost jumped the boards to join the brawl Pike started, but you know the coach would be sending you in to fill Shane’s position and the team couldn’t afford to be down their captain and have their vice captain in the penalty box. It’d been hard, but you tried to play through your worry.

“Kinda like I got hit by a truck,” Shane slurs, head lolling toward you. His eyes are a little bleary, but you can’t tell if that’s from his impromptu nap or the pain medication. “We all get our bell rung eventually though, right?”

You nod. It’s the simple truth of hockey - every player will get their shit rocked sooner or later.

“Not you though,” Shane continues, more serious than he’s been since he woke up, “S’not allowed.”

You're a little confused, brows furrowing as you study him. "Not... allowed?"

Shane nods resolutely, "Yeah. Can't get hurt 'cause I'd worry too much."

A little huff of laughter escapes you - leave it to Shane Hollander to be worrying over his team when he's the one in the hospital. 

"We're all okay, Holls," you remind him. His eyelids are starting to flutter closed again, so you start gathering your things, figuring you'll leave him to rest in peace. "You're the one with a concussion and broken collarbone."

"S'okay," he murmurs, “I’m good.”

You hesitate, glancing toward the door. “Sure you don’t want me to call a nurse over to check on you?”

“Nah, ‘m just tired,” he takes a breath and winces, “and sore.”

There’s a stretch of quiet interspersed with the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Shane’s breathing is slow, even like he’s falling asleep. You’re just starting to think he’s out again when he speaks.

“Hey, can you keep a secret?” he asks, voice soft and sleepy.

“Depends how good it is,” you tease, just glad he doesn’t seem to be hurting too badly. 

“Pretty good, I think,” he grins, eyes still closed.

You settle back into your chair, content to keep him company until he falls back into unconsciousness. “Yeah, I can keep a secret.”

He hums softly, barely more than an exhale. “I think I’m in love.”

You blink, surprised. Shane’s never mentioned a girlfriend, even with all the good-natured ribbing from the rest of the team and Pike’s frequent attempts to set Shane up with one of Jackie’s friends.

“That’s great, Holls,” you grin, pleased that your captain is finally seeking out something that makes him happy. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Shane’s face twists uncomfortably, like the question’s bothered him.

“No,” he says, “There’s no lady.” Part of you wonders if the pain meds have muddled his thoughts again, but he seems cognizant aside from the strange line of conversation. He presses on, “That’d probably be easier, but I only like him.”

You’re hearing things. You’ve got to be. Maybe you took a puck to the face without remembering, because you could’ve sworn Canada’s perfect golden boy Shane Hollander just said - 

“Him?” you echo, sure you’ve misheard him somehow. You know, statistically, that there’s got to be other queer people in the league, but you’d never expected to find that sort of solidarity on your own team-

“Yeah,” Shane says, grinning to himself. “Y’know, sometimes I wanna kiss him during practice. Or after a game. But that’d be a bad idea, huh?”

At practice…? Did - was Shane Hollander in love with someone else on the Metros?

Your heart gives an uncomfortable little kick against your ribs, and you school your expression into something neutral before he can look at you and read too much into it. He’s drugged, concussed, fresh out of surgery - this is not the time to spiral.

“Well,” you say carefully, keeping your voice light, “yeah. Probably not the best idea to go kissing your teammates in the locker room.”

Shane frowns, like he doesn’t agree with you at all. His brows knit together in concentration, the effort clearly exhausting him.

“Not the locker room,” he mumbles. “Too many people. He’d get embarrassed.” A pause. “He’s cute when he’s embarrassed.”

“That so?” you say, teasing him on instinct since you’re mentally a little too preoccupied by the fact that he’s come out to you and confessed that he’s in love with one of your teammates in the span of twenty minutes, and will probably not remember any of this by morning. There’s every chance he doesn’t even realize who he’s talking to.

Shane hums again, grinning at the far wall like he’s lost in thought. “Yeah. I’d like it though, to make him flustered, since that’s how he makes me feel all the time.” “Who could possibly have such an impact on the mighty Shane Hollander?” you probe, and god, you’re probably going to Hell for manipulating your friend into spilling his guts while he’s high off his ass, but you’re dying to know.

His grin grows impossibly wider and those big dark eyes soften. You’re expecting to hear Hayden’s name, or maybe Marleau or JJ, but you’d have never expected to hear Shane say your name. Never could have guessed at the soft, reverent way his lips form the letters, like he’s lucky to even say the word.

“What.” It escapes you without thought, without meaning to say it, but it has Shane looking over at you again. 

He brightens instantly, like he’s just realized you’re there. Your name tumbles from his mouth in a pleased little exclamation.

“Hey,” he beams, “You came to see me?”

The question lands like a punch to the chest. Had he forgotten he’d been talking to you?

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course I did.” God, how are you sitting here making small talk like he didn’t just confess he was in love with you? It’s not like the thought’s a bad one; you’re not blind - Shane’s an attractive guy and he’s got a big heart, always trying to take care of everyone else on the team. He’d make a great partner for anyone. You just hadn’t realized you were someone he could be interested in in return.

He grins, settling back against the pillows. “I hoped you would.”

The silence stretches. It’s heavy, pressing in on your chest, and you realize you’re not going to be able to just… sit with it. Not without saying something.

“Hey, Holls?” you ask quietly.

“Mm?” He hums, eyes already drifting shut again.

You hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. “Earlier. You were talking about… someone.”

That gets his attention. His eyes crack open, unfocused. “Was I?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You said you were in love.”

Shane blinks at you, slow and confused, like you’ve just switched languages on him.

“I did?” he asks.

Your heart stutters. “Yeah, you did.”

He frowns, brow creasing as he tries to think, then shakes his head with a little huff. 

“Don’t really remember that part,” he admits, sounding more puzzled than anything. “Feels like I’ve been talkin’ a lot, though.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you say faintly.

Shane squints up at the ceiling, clearly trying to piece together fragments that won’t quite line up. “Did I say somethin’ dumb?”

“No, just… surprising.” You’re not sure how to say it, how to broach the topic. How you would even want to move forward.

“Surprising how?” he asks, turning his head slightly toward you.

You swallow. This is it. Or… something close to it.

You glance at his hands first, resting loose and pale against the white sheets, before you make yourself look at his face again. Even bruised and exhausted, there’s something steady about him, something that’s always made you feel like things will work out as long as Shane’s around. You reach over and ruffle his hair, a smile finding its way to your lips unbidden when he grumbles halfheartedly at you. 

You almost say it back, four words heavy on your tongue. It’d be so easy - just I love you too and then it’s over and you won’t have to question where the two of you will stand anymore. But Shane’s concussed. With the way he’d acted when he realized you were there the second time, you could tell he was being genuine, but you know him. You know this isn’t the right time to talk about something like this, not when he’s drugged out of his mind and probably not going to remember anything come morning.

A sigh escapes you and you drop your bag again, dragging your chair to his bedside and taking the hand not attached to the IV in yours. 

“Get some rest, Holls,” you say, settling back into your seat. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

—--

The day starts like any other - Shane wakes up early to squeeze in a workout and have breakfast before he heads to the rink to meet the rest of the Metros for practice. Even practice is ordinary - the drills and skating leaving his heart racing and blood pumping from exertion. 

Really, everything seems perfectly normal up until he opens his locker and finds a pale blue envelope balanced precariously on one of his sneakers. Shane’s brows furrow in confusion as he stares at it. He can’t think of any upcoming events that would’ve inspired management to leave encouraging notes and a quick peek over his teammates’ shoulders reveals he’s the only one to have gotten a mysterious letter.

He goes back to staring at it, ignoring the chatter of you and Pike at your lockers on either side until Hayden reaches out and snatches the letter from in front of him.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Pike croons, ducking out of Shane’s reach when he lunges to try and get his letter back. “Letter from your girlfriend?”

Shane huffs, swiping the envelope back before Hayden can rip it open for him. “No, obviously not,” he says. The paper had gotten a little crumpled in their tussle, and he absentmindedly traces one of the creases with the pad of his thumb. “I’m not seeing anyone anyway, so that’d be dumb.”

“Maybe it’s from a secret admirer.” Your voice comes from behind him and Shane finds you sprawled across the bench with one arm thrown over your face to block the lights, only halfway out of your thick goalie gear. 

He blinks, eying the little blue envelope with a new sort of interest. He’d never thought of himself as the sort of person who’d have a secret admirer before…

You say something that catches Pike’s attention and gives Shane the privacy to open the note without his friend reading over his shoulder. His fingers are shaking as he hooks a nail under the lip of the envelope and tears it open.

The paper inside is largely blank, with just a few typed words in the center of the page. 

Shane,

Some players make the game better just by being on the ice. Win or lose, you’re worth watching, every time.

It’s not signed. There’s some small part of Shane that’s disappointed - that was looking forward to seeing who thought he was special enough for this. But he forces himself to brush it off, tucking the letter into the pocket of his equipment bag with the internal promise to put it out of his mind for good.

—--

Shane can’t put it out of his mind. He’s tried, really, but every time he thinks he’s finally over it, someone will mention something that reminds him of the crumpled paper and tiny blue envelope, of the words printed on them. 

He thinks it was probably sent by a friend of one of his teammates’ girlfriends or wives, since they’ve tried to set him up on blind dates before, or maybe brought in by one of the rink’s employees for a fan. He figures, as flattering as it had been, that it’d been a one-off. A brief boost to his confidence, but an ultimately unique occurrence.

He’s proven wrong when the team’s in Boston for a faceoff with the Raiders and he finds another envelope taped to the end of his stick. This one’s red. He smiles, realizing that his secret admirer had matched the envelopes to the Metros’ team colors. He looks around, makes sure everyone else is distracted with their own pre-game rituals, and tears it open.

The same font greets him, typed in black ink in the center of the page.

Shane,

I know this is probably strange for you, but I’m… not great at this. Writing it down means I don’t have to try and figure out how to say it out loud.

There’s an intensity to the way you lock in during a game that makes the whole team better - your confidence is contagious, and I’m sure I’m not the only one that’s noticed the results. Your stats are good, but they undersell your ambition. Don’t underestimate yourself - use it to your advantage.

We’re lucky to have you.

It’s… more personal than he expected - feels more targeted than he’d expect from some prospective WAG that’s never met him. Sure, it could be someone who watched the Metros closely, but the we feels deeper than that. For the first time, Shane wonders if it’s one of his teammates.

He hadn’t really considered it before, that someone else on the team might also like men, let alone him, but once the thought lodges itself in his head, it’s hard to dislodge.

He starts paying more attention to who lingers a second too long in the locker room, who watches him during drills, who offers encouragement that sounds just a little more pointed than usual. It makes him feel paranoid, cataloguing glances and comments like that, so he tells himself he’s being ridiculous and goes back to focusing on hockey.

The notes keep coming anyway.

Sometimes they’re tucked into his gear bag, sometimes taped somewhere obvious, sometimes hidden well enough that he doesn’t find them until he’s already halfway home. The envelopes alternate through the Metros’ team colors, but the letters inside are always typed, unerring, and unable to offer a clue to his admirer’s identity.

They talk about plays he made that didn’t show up on the scoresheet, about the way he holds himself when the pressure’s on, about how much steadier the team looks when he’s on the ice.

None of them cross a line, never asking for anything in return.

That might be what gets to him the most.

By the time he finds the fourth letter, Shane’s stopped pretending this is just a novelty. He reads that one sitting on the bench long after everyone else has cleared out, gear half-off, skates unlaced, the rink quiet enough that the hum of the lights feels loud. His chest aches in a way he doesn’t have a good name for.

Shane,

I don’t know if this is something you’d want. If I’m even in the category of people you could be attracted to. I could be barking up the wrong tree entirely, but I find myself looking at you more than I mean to. More than I should, probably.

But if this isn’t something you’re okay with, I’ll stop. If you’re uncomfortable, throw this letter in the trash and I’ll never write another. I’ll go just as quietly as I arrived, and you’d never have to think of this again.

He folds the paper carefully and puts it in his bag.

-----

The next note he finds in his pocket in the hotel room he’s sharing with you while the team’s in New York for an away game against the Admirals. He’s not sure how it got there without him noticing, but he can’t make a big deal out of it with you snoring in bed across from his.

Dear Shane,

I’m a little surprised at you, y’know? I really didn’t expect you to be okay with me being someone on the team (consider this me confirming it - good job, Sherlock), especially since you’ve never let on that you might be into guys. You could’ve had an easy out if you weren’t interested, but you didn’t throw the last one away. I’m glad you didn’t.

You’re probably getting tired of the games, right? The not-knowing? I’ll - I’ll tell you soon, I promise.

He’s - he’s not sure what to do with that, really. With the reality of meeting his admirer. It’s been easy to conjure the image of some idealized lover, someone handsome and charming and who will never look at him and be disappointed.

This isn’t just a daydream anymore. This is someone real. Someone he sees on the ice, in the hallways, someone who knows his routine, his quirks, his bad habits. Someone who’s seen him at his worst, and who still chose to reach out anyway.

Shane swallows, letting the weight of the realization settle heavy and solid in his chest. He wants to overthink every angle, catalog every glance, every word, every possibility. Instead, he folds the letter back into its little red envelope and tucks it under his pillow. He stares at the ceiling for a long time before sleep finally finds him.

-----

The Metros beat the Admirals four to two and Shane is roped into an interview that keeps him long enough that most of the team has already changed and headed out to celebrate by the time he’s made it to the locker room. The adrenaline’s started to wear off and the sweat is cooling on his skin, leaving him clammy and shivering.

He finds the letter balanced on one of his sneakers, the small blue envelope a perfect mirror to the one that started everything. He doesn’t hesitate this time, ripping it open and unfurling the letter. This one is handwritten, an unhurried scrawl that has the corners of his mouth pulling up into a disbelieving grin before he’s even started reading. This is the first concrete detail he’s gotten - the intangible form of his secret admirer finally beginning to click into place.

Dear Shane,

I’m sure it’s obvious by now, but I love you. Not as a teammate, not as a friend, though you’re certainly that too. I love you like I love winning, like playing. It’s easy as breathing. You’re the best part of my day, even when you’re in a bad mood. Just hearing your name is enough to get me smiling like a moron.

I love you more than I know how to deal with sometimes, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I know this is a lot, and I wouldn’t blame you if you decided you didn’t want to deal with it once you know who I am. This will be my last message - if you want to talk, you know where to find me. If not… well, I’ll know where we stand.

And there at the bottom, the number thirty-eight.

Shane blinks, heart stuttering in his chest. He stumbles back a bit, thumping down onto the bench behind him and staring dumbly up at his locker. At your jersey hanging neatly in the locker beside his, the number thirty-eight on full display.

He sits there for a long moment with the note clutched in his hands, trying to let reality settle in. It’s been you. The thought loops in his head, absurd and unbelievable, but impossible to shake. Every idealized version of a secret admirer he’d conjured in his mind - handsome, charming, confident - collapses under the weight of the truth. The dream guy he’d imagined has been just a couple feet away the entire time. 

Then the memories start spilling in - you, helping care for JJ after he’d gotten trashed last New Year’s Eve, shouldering most of his weight as you helped him up the stairs into his hotel room and into bed. That you’d been thoughtful enough to leave a bottle of water and some painkillers on the nightstand for him.

You, smiling sheepishly when Shane woke up just before touch down on an eight hour flight to find that he’d fallen asleep on your shoulder at takeoff and hadn’t moved since. You who’d waved off his apologies and just grinned sheepishly when he’d asked how you hadn’t ended up with a dead arm. Who’d endured the pins and needles and aching muscles instead of just waking him up, or nudging him into a more comfortable position.

Every playful jab in practice, every quiet moment of care he’d brushed off as you just being a good teammate suddenly clicks into place. The way you tease the rookies mercilessly but make sure no one feels left out, that things don’t go too far. The way you cheer louder than anyone on the bench, not for your own glory, but for the whole team. The small, impossible-to-ignore tenderness in the way you notice when someone’s having a rough day and quietly help without making it about yourself.

And suddenly, it makes sense. The letters weren’t from some distant, imagined fantasy, they were from the person that’d been standing beside him on the ice for months. The one whose shoulder had been a pillow on that long flight. The one whose grin could make the whole locker room seem warmer. The one who stayed behind to patch up a teammate, or saved the day without fanfare. You.

A slow, disbelieving grin spreads across Shane’s face. It’s not just the shock of realization anymore; it’s relief, and something like joy bubbling up in his chest. The dream he’d conjured from the notes - that perfect admirer - had always existed in reality, only he hadn’t recognized it. And now that he does… it feels impossibly, beautifully real.

He changes quickly, throwing his street clothes back on quickly enough that he’s not sure he’d have noticed if he’d put his shirt on backward, and heads for the door. He ducks interviewers and teammates and players from the Admirals, racing through the halls until he makes it outside and hails the first taxi he sees. He gives the address to the hotel and can’t keep his leg from bouncing rapidly on the way there.

Shane pays the driver and is barreling into the lobby almost before the cab even stops, scanning for the closest elevator as soon as he’s in the building. He reaches your floor and hesitates for just a heartbeat outside the door, hand hovering over the keycard. His mind races through everything the letters said, every small detail he’s noticed about you, and then he remembers the handwriting, the little loops in the letters, the number thirty-eight at the bottom. 

Shane slides the keycard and pushes the door open, stepping inside. The room is quiet, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the space. And then he sees you, lounging in one of the armchairs by the window and watching the city lights. You don’t turn to face him.

He clears his throat, heart hammering. “Hey,” he says, voice a little raw, a little too loud in the quiet room.

“Survived the mob, then?” You shift slightly, still not looking at him, and your voice is quiet as you speak. More mellow than you normally are. Shane has the absurd realization that you’re nervous. 

Shane swallows hard, fighting the grin threatening to split his face. “Yeah - it’s - I-” He takes a deep breath and steps closer, footsteps muffled by the carpet. “I had to see you.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes you, and the sound has Shane’s grin spreading even wider. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

“How could I not?” Shane says, and while he hadn’t been sure how to react at the initial idea of meeting some stranger, knowing it was you behind the letters felt like the most natural thing in the world. He takes a step toward you and you finally turn toward him enough to meet his eyes, and the corner of your mouth quirks in a small smile and Shane can’t help it.

He’s moving before he can think about it, hands cupping your jaw and drawing you up just as he leans down to meet you, finally pressing his lips to yours. You’re smiling into the kiss and Shane is grinning back and you’re kissing him and Shane’s thinking y’know this is almost better than beating Scott Hunter tonight, and then you bite his lip and yeah, no, definitely better than beating the Admirals. 

You hook a hand around the back of his neck to guide him closer and Shane goes easily, a pleased little breath escaping him when your other hand shifts to his hip and you tug him forward onto your lap. Shane groans when you pull away, but he can’t keep up the disappointed charade when you start littering kisses across his face.

Poly!Saja Boys

Patterns of Behavior: You start pulling away from your partners when strange glowing patterns start appearing on your skin - little do you know, your boyfriends will love you all the more for them.

Abby

Inhuman (GN) - Abby tries to tell you what he really is. It... doesn't go as planned

-----

When Soda Pop hit the charts, higher than even Jinu predicted, the messages came flooding in: label reps, stylists, producers, half the Saja Boys group chat. The fanbase had even started organizing some kind digital watch party.

But instead of RSVPing to any of it, Abby turned his phone off, rolled up his sleeves, and started slicing cucumbers because there was only one person he wanted to celebrate with and he knew just how he wanted to do it.

Abby looks up briefly when he hears your keys in the lock - he’s never been able to stop himself from looking for you whenever he gets the chance to see you, and now, with a surprise waiting for you? He’s already smiling before you’ve even closed the door behind you. His smile widens as he watches you take everything in.

He’s got soft music drifting from the kitchen and a diffuser filling the air with the scent of eucalyptus and lavender when you get home. There’s towels folded on the couch, a tray of spa goodies set out like something from a Pinterest board - face masks, clean brushes, warmed lotion, even a pair of headbands in a soft purple with little cartoon demon horns. 

“…Did we win something?” you asked, half amused, half bewildered, and he can’t help how his heart squeezes in his chest at the adorable expression. 

“Mmm,” Abby hums, wiping his hands off on a dishtowel and moving to wrap himself around you, leaning in to layer kisses along the side of your jaw, “Soda pop’s in the top ten. We’re viral.” 

“Oh?” He pouts as you pull back, arms tightening around your middle in a feeble protest at the distance. His smile returns full force as you cup his face in your hands and give him a congratulatory kiss. “Congratulations, love. You worked hard - I’m proud of you!”

Abby preens under the weight of your attention, knows just how it feels to be mooned over by thousands of fans every day, but understands with every atom of his being that this is so much better. 

“Do we have a party we need to get to then?” you ask, running a hand through your hair like you’re already thinking about how to dress for an idol event. Abby rolls his eyes - you could show up in your pajamas and you’d still be the hottest guy there.

“No,” he says, hands trailing down your arms until he can hook his fingers between yours, “Jinu took everyone to that rooftop bar in Itaewon to celebrate, but I told them I had plans.” He uses his grip on your hands to tug you further into the apartment with him, “Go,” he says, shooing you off toward your shared bedroom, “There’s a robe on the bed for you - go change!”

Your laugh echoing down the hall behind you is all Abby needs to know that you’ll enjoy this as much as he will. You reappear a few minutes later, barefoot and wrapped in the soft robe he picked out. It’s one of those massive plush ones that make you look like you stepped out of a commercial and it takes all of Abby’s considerable strength to not forgo his original plans and shift to keeping you curled up in bed with him for the rest of the night. 

“You’re serious about this spa thing,” you say, grinning as you take him in - silly demon-horned spa headband and all.

“I don’t do things halfway,” he replies, handing you a mug of steaming tea as he moves to help you put on your own goofy headband. “Green, with honey. I read it helps with stress.”

You take it, touched despite yourself. “Since when do you read about tea?”

He smirks. “Since I started dating someone who forgets to relax.”

“Are you calling me uptight?” you frown, but both of you know there’s no real offense behind it.

“I’m calling you mine,” Abby says simply, and the way your eyes soften has him smiling so wide his face hurts again. He herds you toward the couch then, to the pile of cozy blankets and snacks and self care products he has waiting, and he’s grateful that you, even with the strength to stop him if you wanted, just let him pamper you.

You smile and tease him back as he smears a clay mask over your cheeks and nose and chin, and carefully spread a gel mask over his face in turn. The barely there brush of your fingertips and your concentrated expression are almost enough to have him surging forward to kiss you, face masks be damned, but he manages to contain himself.

You both settle back against the couch cushions, shoulders brushing. The diffuser hums quietly, the faint hiss of steam filling the pauses between songs.

“So,” you say after a while, breaking a long, easy stretch of silence, “how long are we supposed to sit like this before we can move again?”

Abby snorts, eyes closed behind the cucumber slices he’d put on. He claimed it was for authenticity, but really he’d only done it to make you smile. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes of no kissing?” you tease, your voice pitched just enough to make him crack a smile. “How will you ever survive?”

He tilts his head toward you, lips curving beneath the drying mask. “Don’t tempt me. I worked hard on your skin.”

“Oh, so now you’re my esthetician and my boyfriend?” you tease, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“Clearly. I’m multi-talented,” he removes one of the cucumbers so he can see the way you grin when he waggles his eyebrows at you.

You laugh, the sound easy and unguarded. For a long moment, you just watch him and he can feel you seeing him. Can feel you taking in the way his shoulders have finally loosened, how his hands, always restless in interviews or onstage, rest steadily against his knees.

“You really didn’t want to go out?” you ask, quieter this time.

He’s not sure how to put it into words. The heat and press and claustrophobia of the crowds, the noise - the pressure it means to be at the center of it all. He knows you know it - you’ve seen it. You know he doesn’t mind it, not usually, but there’s something better about being here with you, just the two of you.

“They can keep the lights and the noise and the people,” Abby says eventually, picking and choosing his words carefully. “I just wanted this.” He takes your hand, lifts your knuckles to his mouth so he can press a kiss to the bump of each one, a tiny mark of blue gel staining your skin after each light touch. “Just wanted you.”

“It’s probably a good thing this is just ours,” you say, nodding down toward where he’s still kissing over your hands, “I think your fans might actually kill to get this kind of treatment.”

Abby’s brows furrow and he barely manages to bite back a snarl, he can feel the heat of his patterns under his skin, the promise of power just a breath away. He shakes it off, forces himself back to the moment - to you. “They wouldn’t get the chance,” he says, thankful for the distraction of his timer going off. 

You stand, tugging him along behind you toward the bathroom so you can both go wash off your masks and he allows himself to be shepherded. Really, he finds himself thinking, why would I want to go out when everything I ever wanted is right here.

-----

A picture finds its way to the Saja Boys group chat later - both you and Abby still have your masks on and are wearing your little matching headbands. Abby’s hand is linked with yours and you’re both smiling. The group can’t help but feel happy for them, even if not everyone’s willing to say so.

Jinu liked a photo

Rom ♥️ liked a photo

❓ Mystery❓liked a photo

Baby 💎: Bitch

-----

It has been a very long time since Astarion has had anything that’s truly been his. He’s spent the last two centuries being Cazador’s prisoner and has only just begun to rediscover what it’s like to be a person again and now he’s losing the only person to make him feel like he’s enough to Gale of all people!

Astarion tells himself it doesn’t bother him. You’re free to talk to whomever you wish; he’s not your keeper, nor your lover, not really, despite the flirtatious banter between you. And still, as he watches you exit Gale’s tent with a smile and the tension that had been ever-present since the Nautiloid finally eased, the sour taste lingers.

He sits back against one of the logs surrounding the firepit of your little camp, arms crossed, watching you with carefully manufactured indifference. You don’t even notice him at first. too busy thanking Gale for something, voice light and sincere. Astarion’s jaw tightens. It’s ridiculous really, how easily the wizard can earn that kind of smile from you.

When you finally make your way over, he’s already schooled his expression into something charming and careless. “Well, look at you,” he drawls. “Positively glowing. Should I assume Gale’s responsible for your newfound radiance? I hadn’t realized you found the studious type so…” It feels so hard to force the words out he almost fears he may choke on them, “enrapturing.” He feels sick.

You blink and Astarion hates that he finds the confusion cute. “Enraptu-” You laugh, like the thought hadn’t even struck you, “Oh, no, nothing like that. Gale and I are just friends.”

Lovely. So he couldn’t even blame some misguided whim of the heart for your straying. Was he truly so pathetic that you’d rather have Gale warm your bed if you were looking for something noncommittal?

He forces a light laugh, brittle and elegant. “Just friends, of course. How very… wholesome of you.” He gestures vaguely, a careless flick of his fingers that doesn’t quite disguise the tension in his shoulders. “And here I was, imagining something scandalous to entertain myself with. A shame, really.”

You study him intently, that faint crease appearing between your brows - the one that always makes him feel as if you can see straight through him, and he hates that feeling almost as much as he needs your attention on him.

“Astarion,” you say, wary but careful, like the way you’d crooned over the stray dog and the owlbear cub, like one off word would send him fleeing, “is something bothering you?”

“Who, me? Not at all.” He smiles too wide, teeth flashing like a challenge. “Why ever would anything be wrong? I’m merely delighted to know our resident wizard has found such a devoted pupil.” If the word came out any sharper, Astarion knows you’d be bleeding. But your look doesn’t waver, and suddenly all that practiced charm feels like paper armour. He exhales, glancing away. “Fine. Perhaps a touch. You vanish into his tent every night, return with that… glow about you, and I’m left to assume the worst. Forgive me for having an imagination.”

The corner of your lip twitches slightly, barely discernible, but Astarion still catches it. He hates that he wants to kiss the laughter right out of your mouth.

“You could’ve asked,” you say, settling beside him without invitation, the glow of the fire catching at the line of your jaw, the slight swell of your Adam’s apple in your throat, the faint flicker of your pulse thrumming under your skin. “Before you assumed the worst.”

The silence stretches between you, broken intermittently by the crackling and popping of the fire. Astarion knows he’s being cruel, that he should apologize for making assumptions about you instead of just telling you that he was feeling jealous, but he’s still not used to his words being given weight, to the idea that someone - you - would care to hear what he thinks. 

“Gale’s been helping me with something… personal,” you start slowly, arms crossing over your chest in what might be the first defensive move Astarion’s ever seen you make. “But not - not like that.” You inhale, like bringing yourself to continue hurts, “He’s been showing me a few spells that help my body feel more like my own.” 

He can see the way your heart has sped up by the ticking of the vein at the side of your neck, can practically taste it in the air - you’re nervous, but Astarion can’t fathom why. If anyone understands not feeling at ease in one’s own body it’s him. 

“It’s- Well, I suppose I’ll just come out with it, huh?” You press on quickly, like if you’re interrupted you may never be able to say it, “I’m trans, Astarion. I was born with a body that didn’t fit and Gale is helping me with spells that let me continue my transition.”

Astarion blinks, the words hanging in the air between you. For once, he doesn’t have a quip waiting on his tongue. He just studies you—really studies you—as though seeing you anew. The flicker of the firelight paints your expression in gold and shadow, and all he can think, absurdly, is how steady you sound for someone baring so much of themselves.

“I see,” he says at last, quietly. It isn’t derision, or disbelief, or sarcasm - it’s thought. Real, deliberate thought. He feels like everything he’s learned about you to this point, all the little behaviors and quirks and tells, has been rewritten, not warped, not changed, just viewed under a new light that makes them feel all the more important now that you’ve shared something so important to you. 

Your shoulders tense, like you’ve already braced for whatever terrible thing comes next.

“I imagine that must take an incredible amount of trust,” he continues slowly, “letting someone wield that kind of power over your body.” His gaze flicks toward Gale’s tent before returning to you. “I can’t decide if that’s brave or foolish.”

“Maybe it’s just necessary,” you say after a moment, leaning back against the log behind you. It’s… easy, the way you say it. Like rewriting yourself from scratch isn’t the bravest thing Astarion can possibly think of. “The first step to feeling whole.”

He nods slowly, feels a bit like the warmth from the fire, the heat of you beside him, is finally thawing whatever he has that passes for a heart. You’re not different, he knows, from the man he’s grown close to. This will not make him start treating you differently or viewing you as any less, but it feels important that you’ve trusted him with this. 

“For what it’s worth,” Astarion says, drawing your attention away from the flames and back onto him, “I think who you are is very handsome.” He grins a little, eyes darting just briefly back toward the wizard’s tent, “And that you can do much better than Gale.”

-----

Haarlep’s first meeting with you is far from coincidence, a string of circumstances put into motion to have you running across him glamoured to look like a sweet little human bard in some seedy tavern. His only objective was to gather information on Raphael’s newest plaything. There’s a ragtag band of misfits with you, each clearly vying for your attention, but they doubt it’ll be difficult to lure you away from your friends. 

A few longing glances, a well-timed wink, and the exaggerated arch of their back as they lean across the bar for a drink pushing out their glamour’s chest and ass is all it takes to prove Haarlep right. You trail them eagerly up the stairs and into their room. 

They’re expecting mediocrity, anticipating another bland night with another ungenerous lover where they have to do all the work. 

For once, Haarlep is happy to be proven wrong. They’re glad to have you approach them, for you to take their face in your hands and kiss them, sweet and soft and exploratory, just because you want to. More than happy to have you guiding them back against the bed so you can eat them out until their legs shake and they feel like crying. 

You kiss him, after, and he can still catch the taste of the body he wears on your tongue before you bid him farewell and take your leave, without so much as asking them to return the favor. 

-----

It’s a few weeks before Haarlep is sent to you again, this time in the guise of a muscle-bound farm boy. They’re curious to see if you’re so eager to give when your partner has the strength to rival your own.

You are.

There’s a check in to establish boundaries and safewords and consent, and then you’re folding him damn-near in half and fucking him good and hard, leaving marks across their chest and neck and thighs that Haarlep almost wishes would still be there when he reverts back to his Cambion form, even though he knows the evidence of your little tryst will be wiped away with his glamour.

It’s just an itch, Haarlep has to remind themself when they can’t stop thinking of you. Just a temptation brought on by finally getting a good lay after ages of ungratifying sex with Raphael, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking of you as he chases his own high after another dull romp with his master, doesn’t stop the urge to go to you again, despite not being ordered to. 

So they do.

Haarlep is a tiefling this time, skin and horns a close mirror of the way he’d been before he entered Raphael’s service and found himself glamoured to look like the archdevil more often than not. He tells himself that the form he’s chosen is only coincidence, just a card pulled from a well-worn deck at random, not some misguided attempt to see if you might accept them as who and what they truly are, though they can feel the truth itching away at the back of their mind.

You let Haarlep suck you off this time and they can’t remember a time they were so eager to drop to their knees. He thinks he may very well be willing to stay there forever when you brush a strand of hair out of his eyes and call him beautiful.

-----

It’s hard to stay away after that - hard to time Raphael’s not-often-enough outings with you passing through a large enough settlement to warrant seeking out a stranger’s company for the night.

They’ve considered impersonating one of your companions before, thought of approaching you as that waifish vampire or the haughty half-elf or the pining wizard, but they’ve seen the way they look at you, the way all of your companions do, and he’d hate to give any of them a better chance at establishing a lasting hold over you. Not when he’s starting to suspect that he craves such a claim over you for himself. 

Raphael has been away more now that your little party has reached Baldur’s Gate and Haarlep aches to go to you, but he knows the risk he’d face daring to appear in the same city as his master without permission. If they were caught and the nature of their transgressions discovered, Raphael may forbid Haarlep from seeing you entirely. No, they would have to wait until you either accept Raphael’s offer (and suffer through the subsequent terrible celebratory sex), wait for the lot of you to leave the city once more, or hope, against his reasonable expectations, that you survive the coming battle with the Absolute. 

Truly, the future of Haarlep’s infatuation with you is grim, and they’re aware enough to know it. They may only get one last moment with you, if even that, and they will have to carefully strategize in order to bring it about.

-----

As it turns out, you come to him. He’s lounging back in the oversized bed in Raphael’s boudoir as he always is, wearing that same miserable glamour that Raphael always makes him use for their interactions, when the sound of rock shifting echoes from the balcony and he turns and there you are, only a few paces away, staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Raphael.” Your fingers twitch toward the sword sheathed at your hip and your eyes are hard, cold in a way he’s never seen them before and a pleased little shiver runs down his spine at the sight. 

There’s blood splattered across your armor, and while he’s not surprised by the urge to lick it off of you, he is a little taken aback by the sting of concern - the hope that the blood isn’t yours.

“Not quite, pet,” Haarlep corrects with a grin, settling back on his elbows and leaving the rest of him sprawled out enticingly. The way your eyes keep drifting down to his chest and the plane of his abdomen is more than a little gratifying. “I’m called Haarlep. I’m Raphael’s personal incubus.” They catch the way your eyes dart back toward the balcony, the way your weight shifts like you’re considering running, and Haarlep’s speaking before they can think better of it. “I won’t tell him you’ve been here, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s… nice to have company other than him.”

You seem to settle at that, some of the tension easing from your shoulders and a bit of the wariness fading from your expression. A matching tightness releases in Haarlep’s chest, he’s relieved that you’re not eager to run from him. You catch a glimpse of one of Raphael’s portraits, massive garish manifestations of the archdevil’s ego, and your lips pull into a displeased frown. Haarlep remembers which glamour he’s wearing and cringes. 

“He’s, um. He only ever wants to sleep with himself,” they stretch, muscles reknitting and skin shifting as they shed Raphael’s form in favor of something that used to be far more familiar before they entered the archdevil’s service.

There’s a glint of recognition in your eyes, like you’ve spotted the similarities between the tiefling you’d bedded in Rivington and Haarlep as they stand before you now. As themself. “Better the devil you know, huh?”

“For some,” he agrees, “for others, variety is more captivating.” His smile widens as you take a thoughtless step toward him. Perhaps you found Haarlep as magnetic as they find you. “You’re the latter, aren’t you, dear? I’ve seen it.” He sits up to meet your approach, eagerness swirling in their stomach for the first time in ages.

You stop then, only a few steps away, and Haarlep almost regrets saying anything but you speak before they can devolve too far into overthinking. 

“It was you then, wasn’t it? In the taverns. I thought I’d sensed Infernal energy.” A sigh escapes you and you nod to yourself, like you’ve confirmed a suspicion, “He’s had you watching me from the beginning, hasn’t he?”

Haarlep shrugs, hands itching to reach out and pull you closer. “Admittedly, he sent me to you at first, but returning to you was my choice alone.” He hesitates, finds himself tongue-tied for the first time in eons. “I find myself captivated by you, my attention caught in a way it hasn’t been before.” The incubus swallows, knows the idea forming in their mind is a bad one but temptation weighs heavy and Haarlep seldom finds the strength to resist. “I offer you a deal,” Haarlep says before he can dwell too long on the idea of you tying yourself to him in such a meaningful way. “Not for something so lasting as your soul,” he says, trying to head off the distrust in your eyes. “You’ve come for the Orphic Hammer, yes? Well, I’ll give you all the information you need to retrieve it. All I want is-” they can’t believe they’re saying this. Offering so much and risking Raphael’s wrath in exchange for something as simple as “a kiss.”

You blink and Haarlep would’ve been tempted to laugh if they didn’t feel like they were about to be sick.

“A kiss?” Your confusion is palpable, but you don’t immediately reject him so he presses on.

“Of course, Raphael will know you’ve stolen from him and he’ll come for you as soon as you take it,” Haarlep points out, reluctant to set you up for a suicide mission, even with as tempting as the promise of earning a kiss from you is.

A thoughtful hum escapes you and Haarlep tries dutifully not to let himself be distracted by the idea of pulling similar sounds from you. “What if we can beat him?” you ask, eyes bright with determination. Haarlep’s heart squeezes in their chest - they’d suspected you were more than a passing fascination, but this, the terror of you facing this impossible battle, cements it. It’s not love, not yet, but he thinks it could grow into something like it if you manage not to die. 

“If you manage to face Raphael and survive it, I will do anything you ask of me.” They can’t bite back the fond little smile that twists at their lips, “Any boon, any request, as long as it is within my power to grant.” He tips his head, considers you for a long moment, “If you will let me stay at your side.”

You seem… curious. Your eyes are bright, thoughtful, as you approach him, stopping only a hair’s breadth away and he wonders if you ache to close the distance as much as he does. The air between you hums, charged and uncertain. 

“You’re serious,” you say. “A kiss, in exchange for the hammer.”

“That’s all I want.” Haarlep’s voice is quiet, a low, silken thread that trembles around the edges. “No soul, no blood, no vow. Just-” they gesture faintly toward you, claws curling in on themselves, “something real. For once.”

You study him, weighing the danger, the truth beneath the words. “You’d risk Raphael’s wrath for that?”

A flash of a smile — too sharp to be gentle, too fragile to be cruel. “I already have.”

You step closer. The scent of brimstone mingles with something warmer now, something like smoke after rain. “You might regret it,” you tell him.

“If it’s you,” they say, “I doubt I will.”

For a heartbeat, the world stills. Then your hand rises, fingers brushing along his jaw. Haarlep leans into the touch before he can stop himself, eyes half-lidded, lips parting just slightly - a man not begging, but hoping.

You don’t kiss them. Not yet. Instead, you smile, small and knowing.

“If I survive this,” you murmur, “I’ll come back for that kiss.”

His laugh is soft and startled, the sound of someone who hasn’t dared to believe in promises for a very long time. “Then I suppose,” he says, voice thick with something dangerously close to affection, “I’ll be waiting.”

When you turn toward the balcony, the infernal glow catches across his wings, half-unfurled behind him like an afterthought. Haarlep doesn’t move to stop you - he just watches, memorizing the line of your shoulders, the defiant set of your jaw.

And when you’re gone, he touches his fingers to his lips like he can already feel your mouth against his and smiles to himself.