#all of this with like 4 hours sleep a night. who else is doing it like me (many many people)

[non-un-topo]

Daily November crying sessions start today

[stopthefeeling]

April 2024 me dared to ask the question: is it possible to hyperfixate on and watch 6 seasons of a show I've never watched before whilst writing an entire undergraduate dissertation in the space of a month, and then pass said dissertation?

June 2024 me has the answer: yes, and pass it with a 2:1!!!!!

[notanotherblorbo]

The problem with having friends is that I want to hang out all the time and do things for 1 million years but I am also. Tired. And having a job. And having a family that has a bunch of shit going on all the times.

[plumso]

pure heart (theo x reader)

pairing: theodore nott x reader warning: obsessiveness, possessiveness summary: y/n found theo’s journal. now, she doesn’t know how to act around him. masterlist song recommendation: sweet by cigarettes after sex I do not consent to the reposting of my work! reblogging, however, is fine <3

The days have been bleak for Y/N — nothing exciting, nothing new. 

Obsessively self-conscious, she has limited herself. She rarely attends social events and avoids any interaction with men. She fidgets in her clothes, she avoids cameras, she overthinks everything she says - it has become too exhausting. She had given up. Now, she finds everything tedious and dull.

Until she found his journal.

Sept. 4 XXXX She looks so beautiful today. I wonder if that’s her perfume, or maybe that’s her natural scent. I wonder if her skin is usually warm or cold. I want to touch her. Y/N Nott.

Sept. 7 XXXX She laughed with some guy. I hate her. She’s too oblivious around men. But she’s too cute. I could never hate her. Y/N Nott.

Sept. 8 XXXX She looks so peaceful when she reads. Haha! She accidentally fell asleep for a bit. I love her so much. Y/N Nott.

Sept. 11 XXXX That guy came up to her again. Fuck him. She looks annoyed. Oh, she ignored him. Good girl. Y/N Nott.

Y/N gasped and shut the journal. Goosebumps were all over her arms, her breath was shaky. Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest, and there was this tingling feeling in the pit of her stomach. It’s as if lightning shot through her, awakening every nerve in her body. After months of feeling down and exhausted, she felt truly alive.

But Y/N tried to shake off her conflicting feelings. Despite it seeming like the sweet ramblings of a boy with a crush, some were greatly disturbing. Who could have written this?

She had found the black leather journal left on a windowsill in a hall rarely passed. She looked around, thinking the owner was nearby, but no one was in sight.

Y/N then flipped through the journal. Pages and pages were all about her with each ending off with “Y/N Nott.”

‘Nott?’ Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed, wondering why it sounded so familiar. ‘Theodore Nott?’ 

Y/N shook her head. She refused to believe that this journal was from Theo, one of the most notorious Slytherin boys of her year. He’s always so quiet and emotionless. The only interaction she had with him was from a few years ago, but it was so insignificant that it could barely be considered a real interaction.

‘There’s no way that he could have written this,’ she thought. 'But I can’t leave this here. If anybody else sees this, they would think I wrote this about myself.’

After much deliberation, Y/N stuffed the journal in her school bag and headed for her dorm where she spent the rest of the night reading each entry.

***

The next day, Y/N woke up in a daze. With three hours of sleep, Y/N got through only half of the journal. There were many, many entries with the earliest dating back to two years ago, each entry became increasingly obsessive.

Throughout the day, Y/N felt foggy and her face was a bit flushed. She would only snap out of her daze when she became aware of Theo’s presence.

Theo was in all of her classes and he sat only a few seats away from her. Y/N never thought of it much before, but now, she found it strange considering she only has one or two classes with her friends.

During class, she would keep her head down and slightly tilt her head so she could take a peek at Theo. He looked the same as always - emotionless and cold. Could someone like him write such strange and emotional entries?

Y/N considered talking to Theo to see if the journal was his. Maybe test him by asking if he lost something recently. But she was unsure if she wanted to confirm it. She didn’t know if she could face the owner’s strong, overwhelming feelings. And she was somewhat scared of what could happen next.

A few days had passed, and Y/N was becoming worried that the owner YYwill soon approach her. But she couldn’t let go of the journal yet. She was a madman obsessed. In many of the entries, the owner of the journal would describe what Y/N wore. What she ate for breakfast. Who she talked to. Some entries seemed like sweet love poems while some showed stalker tendencies.

Y/N was conflicted. She knows how deranged and disillusioned the owner was. She was scared, yes, but she also felt excited. As she continued to read, all his strange ramblings were starting to sound sweet. She didn’t know if she should be creeped out or flattered. 

But Y/N knew that her time with the journal needed to end. She knew the owner was looking for their journal. She would sometimes feel goosebumps on her back as if someone was staring at her. When this happened, she would hurriedly leave the room. She thought of placing it back where she found it, but she needed to finish reading the journal first.

So, one night, Y/N went to the back of the library and made sure no one was around. She sat on the oak chair and took the journal from her bag. She then flipped to the first page. The ink was a bit smudged and the paper was a bit worn, but it had the same neat handwriting that she became familiar with.

Dec. 3 XXXX Went to Hogsmeade today, but I left the boys.  I didn’t feel like socializing today. Headed to Hog’s Head to read for a bit. I assumed no one would be there, but I was wrong. That quiet girl Y/N was there. She was reading, too. Whatever, I’m sitting far anyways.

Dec. 4 XXXX How come I’ve never talked to her before? She is so beautiful. So sweet. What book was she reading? I’ll have to find it in the library when she’s done with it. Does she know who I am? I should talk to her. No, I don’t want her to be creeped out. I’ll find a better way to talk to her. I think I’m falling for her. Y/N L/N Nott.

Y/N was incredibly confused. What happened that could have caused such a big change? She doesn’t even remember going to Hog’s Head, much less what she did that day.

Y/N furrowed her brows as she thought hard about her trips to Hogsmeade in the last two years. ‘I have been to the Hog’s Head before… but I don’t remember anything spe-

“So, you had it.”

A dark, low voice spoke behind her. Y/N jumped in her seat, goosebumps all over her skin. Just by their voice, Y/N felt shivers run through her back and that tingling sensation in her stomach.

But Y/N couldn’t move. She was frozen, too anxious to turn around and confront him. But she knew who it was. His voice was one she knows all too well.

Suddenly, Y/N felt his warm body lightly pressed on her back. He was now standing behind her. He then slightly bent over her as he flipped through the pages of his journal.

“Here,” he said as he stopped to a certain page. “Read this.”

Confused, Y/N slowly looked up, only to be met with a smiling Theo.

“Come on. Read it for me. Please.”

Y/N reluctantly nodded. “February 14 XXXX. Some boys left candy on her table. Bunch of idiots. I threw it all away. I wanted her to only have mine. It’s mint chocolate, her favorite. I know everything that she likes. I-I’m the only one who can treat her right…” Y/N trailed off, unsure if she should say the next part.

“Continue.”

“S-she’s mine. I love her so much. She’ll see that one day. Y/N Nott.” Y/N’s breath was shaky and her mind was becoming a bit foggy. She knew this situation wasn’t normal. He’s too calm. Too scary. But for some reason, she was filled with anticipation. 

“You were the one who gave me the mint chocolate?” Y/N asked, looking back up at Theo.

He nodded.

“And… you wrote this journal?”

He smiled. 

“I was searching everywhere for the journal. My name isn’t on it, so I wasn’t worried about getting caught. But… I didn’t want any more attention on you,” Theo said as took the seat next to her. “But then you started acting strange. You would get nervous around me. It was so cute.” He chuckled and the tingling sensation in Y/N’s stomach grew more prominent.

“I’m glad you found it,” Theo said as he gently took Y/N’s hand. “Now you know how much I love you. How much I think about you.”

Y/N’s mind was going haywire. She didn’t know what to think or what to say. Goosebumps were still all over her skin, but she could only focus on his sweet words and warm hands. 

“Y/N…” he trailed as he leaned closer to her. He placed her palm on his chest, purposely trying to make her feel his heartbeat. It was racing fast. “I couldn’t ask you on Valentines, but… will you be mine?”

When Y/N read through his journal, she knew he was dangerous. His feelings were too strong, too overwhelming. He was obsessive and possessive. She was anxious about what would happen if she reciprocated.

But as she looked at Theo’s handsome face with her palm on his broad chest, she felt seen and alive. His love, his sincerity - it’s hard to believe it’s all real. And it’s too intoxicating to deny.

“Y-yes. I want to be yours."

*** bonus: hog’s head interaction ***

December 3, XXXX

“Welcome!” The shopkeeper of Hog’s Head yelled as he filled up a cup of juice from behind the counter.

Theo scrapped the snow off his shoes before entering, unwrapping the scarf around his neck. “Black coffee, please,” Theo said before walking to the table farthest from the other customer.

Theo then rummages through his bag, taking out a book and his new leather journal. He received it from a teacher who recommended writing entries of gratitude or special moments. After putting it off for months, he finally set a goal for himself to write the first entry today.

As Theo wrote his first entry, the shopkeeper placed the black coffee on the table. He then went back to refill the other customer’s cup. Theo took a sip and observed the small figure of the other customer. She looked familiar. 

The other customer looked up from her book to thank the shopkeeper. She set her book down and slightly stretched her back before taking a sip of her juice. She looks around the building before spotting Theo. She jumped a little, startled to see someone else there. She was too caught up in her book to notice her surroundings. She quickly composed herself before giving him a warm smile. She then turned back around and continued with her book.

In that short moment, Theo was hooked. When she smiled, something within him suddenly clicked. As if he was now complete. Something within him changed, his desires growing and morphing. 

‘Y/N… what was her last name again? Ah, L/N. Y/N L/N. No… Y/N Nott.’

***

a/n: i do not condone stalking or extreme possessiveness. this is entirely unrealistic and fiction. however, it is nice to imagine that a handsome man is so in love with you that he's obsessed lol. i also named this "pure heart" for irony because he views his feelings as pure, but is it really?? also, for those into smut, you can definitely imagine this leading to an s x m dynamic, so it makes the title even more funny lol. anywho, hope you enjoyed it!

here is part two for more <3

[shy-writer-999]

How many dreams to say "I love you"?

Summary: Zoro overhears a private conversation and starts having disturbingly vivid dreams. He can’t figure out why, but as thoughts of you start to take over both his sleeping and waking hours, he realizes that something else must be happening.

Part 1 out of 3 (or 4). ~5k words. CW: Mostly plot. Some explicit/NSFW content, though; minors don't interact. Afab reader w/some gendered language (she/her pronouns). Kissing, fingering, masturbation.

Part 1: A lesson—don't eavesdrop.

Zoro did not think he was capable of romantic love. He’d never desired it, never felt empty about it, in fact, he saw it as an unfortunate distraction from his goals. On top of that, there were some things in his life that he could not and would never compromise on, and he had a feeling that this mindset was simply incompatible with relationships in general.

Sometimes, when he saw couples hang all over each other or make out in public, he cringed. He would roll his eyes when he saw couples holding hands, when he saw them saying “I love you” to each other, and when he saw Sanji act like a love-sick dog.

Zoro would cringe doubly hard when he heard people say, “making love,” he balked at the idea of holding hands or PDA, and felt off put by the whole concept of marriage. Like he could or would tie himself down like that forever. As if.

He never questioned his reaction to (or stances on) these things. He just shrugged it off—to him, PDA was an eyesore, and romantic love was a futile waste of time.

But the underlying reason, the reason he would never admit, was that he felt like it was forever out of reach for him. He felt like he shouldn’t even try, and he convinced himself for years that it would add nothing to his life. Nor had Zoro ever met someone who made him feel like he wanted to access the part of him where his capacity for romantic love was buried (if it existed, that is).

The few times he strained himself to imagine what it would be like to have a partner, what it would feel like to share himself with someone completely, he felt like there was a brick inside of him, literally and physically. There was some weight inside, some opaque block that he couldn’t see past. He knew that he had never experienced romantic love and he felt that at his age, if he hadn’t felt anything like that before, it’d never happen.

There was a lock inside of him and the key did not exist.

It's not like Zoro was insecure or lacked confidence. He was Roronoa Zoro, after all. He knew who he was, and he had no issue with that. It’s not that he didn’t love himself enough, but rather that he didn’t think he was capable of loving someone else.

Romantic love felt completely inaccessible for him. Maybe his insides had curdled at one point. Maybe he had too much pain to plant seeds of love inside of himself and watch them bloom. If the block was already built, he had no intentions of breaking it down. If the lock without a key was there, guarding something, he knew that it would never be opened.

He wasn’t too pressed about it, or so he thought.

One night, you and Nami were having drinks on deck. Zoro was finishing up an extra round of exercises on the upper deck, a little way away. When he was doing his exercises, he couldn’t hear anything. He was in the zone, meditating, heaving air, locked in. But when he finished working out and started stretching, he heard your conversation with Nami clearly.

He just caught the end of the conversation. He was technically eavesdropping—he wasn’t sure either of you realized he was up there, or else you wouldn’t have been so candid, but he couldn’t turn his ears off. When Zoro heard what you were saying he was intrigued. He knew he shouldn’t, but he held still and listened, against his better judgment.

“What do you mean?” He heard Nami ask you. It was the sort of conversation that you could only share with your best friend. It seemed like you were telling her everything on your mind, baring your soul, not holding back.

“Well, you know…” you answered softly, after a pause. “The type of love where you take showers together and shampoo each other’s hair. And when you’re together in public together it feels like no one else is around…”

Nami hummed in agreement, prompting you to continue.

“The type of love where you come home to them after the worst day and one look at them makes it all feel better. Forehead kisses sort of love. When you give them every part of you, and they do the same. I want a love like that. Do you know what I mean?” You asked.

You were blushing. Zoro could hear it in your voice. He had become very familiar with you the past few months. You were good friends, and he paid special attention to you. He watched your every move. Even so, he didn’t think anything of it—so what, he wanted to know you were safe all the time and spent hours studying your face. So what, he remembered every word you’d ever said to him. What’s the big deal? You were friends.

Zoro knew you were pretty, there was no question. If he was honest with himself, he was attracted to you. But being attracted to someone and being in love with someone aren’t the same—and no matter how much he thought you were pretty, it didn’t (and wouldn’t) go farther than that, nor would he be able to.

He thought he just didn’t have the range for a relationship, he could never see himself like that, had never felt those emotions before. Zoro had a fondness for you and told himself that this was normal between friends. Your pretty face and smile were irrelevant to the closeness and strength of your friendship, and he reprimanded himself any time he caught himself staring at your lips or musing on how pretty your fingers were.

But… Zoro would roll his eyes sardonically at Sanji anytime he got a ‘nosebleed’ over you and passed out. Zoro would call him a “fucking idiot.” If Sanji touched you or said something over the line, he’d chew him out. And if someone made one wrong step in your direction, Zoro got protective.

He wouldn’t mince words and would pull his swords out with no hesitation. He saw red one time a guy got handsy with you at a bar without your permission; Zoro caused a scene and thought about it for weeks afterwards. Any time you were injured, he felt worried sick. He told himself that all of this was the case because you were close friends.

The thought never crossed his mind that he didn’t do these things for the other people he called friends.

As he was listening, Nami responded to you. “Have you ever had a love like that?”

There was a moment of silence. Zoro figured you were shaking your head yes or no. He wondered which it was. Had you felt a love like that?

“That’s really sweet.” Nami continued. “I understand. It explains why you’ve been feeling that way recently…”  Her pensive voice trailed off.

Zoro heard your voice crack after moment, your breath hitching quietly. It sounded like you were crying. “I know I’ll be fine, but it’s just hard being so lonely when you’re around someone who… who… well, you know. I just feel so empty inside. It’s been hurting really bad recently, Nami. I don’t know what to do.” You sniffled and he could tell that you were frowning.

There was a pause for many seconds. The only thing audible was quiet sobs. He wondered if tears were getting caught in your eyelashes, rolling down your cheeks. He had never seen you cry before.

“Awh, I get it.” Nami answered. She was being kinder than Zoro thought she was capable of. “I’m sure you won’t feel like this for long though, I think he’ll come around eventually. We can all see it. I’m always here for you and will always listen to you. So, don’t get yourself down, okay? Do you want a hug?”

You squeaked out an “mhm” between sniffles. Some quiet moments passed and some shuffling. Nami must have been giving you a hug.

“Let’s wipe those tears away and get you feeling better. How about we get another bottle to distract us, and then maybe we can get Sanji to make us something yummy. I’m sure Usopp and Chopper are doing something silly, too. Does that sound like a good idea?”

He heard you answer her with another sniffle, but it sounded like you were smiling now. “Thanks for listening to me Nami, you’re the best. Yeah, let’s go get another.” Your voices and footsteps retreated inside.

Zoro was stumped for a second. He paused to let his gears turn. He was creating a mental map that looked something like this:

You were talking to Nami about what type of love you wanted.

Nami asked you if you had experienced that before… met with silence.

You were crying—you said it was hard being around someone, and you felt empty inside.

 Nami made a comment, “we can all see it.” The ‘all’ in question would presumably be the crewmates… right? What did they see, and why wasn’t he aware of this?

As Zoro pondered this mental map, he was caught up on two things. First, he was surprised to hear that you were lonely. Any time you were around him, you seemed fine. You smiled and laughed every day and had great conversations, so to hear that you were lonely was surprising for him. He wouldn’t have guessed it.

Second, when you described what sort of love you wanted, he felt something. Something shifted inside of him, or maybe it twisted. If Zoro didn’t know any better, he would have said he had butterflies, but that never happened before, and it was never going to happen. Besides, he had no clue what that felt like. So maybe he had like… indigestion or something?

He shrugged that off but was then struck again by the idea that you were lonely. You were so lonely that you started crying about it. He’d never seen that side of you before, and he was rattled. It didn’t feel good to hear you cry. Also, you were such close friends, why hadn’t you talked to him about it? Why did you feel like you couldn’t tell him? He wondered if he hurt your feelings recently or if he did anything wrong to prompt your silence on the matter.

He was starting to worry. But a voice of reason came into his mind—that was a private conversation, he told himself, you had no business listening. So keep your trap shut and mind your business.

That would prove more difficult than he imagined.

DREAMS 1 & 2: A weird coincidence

Falling asleep that night took Zoro longer than usual. Your words played in his head like a song on repeat and it was starting to drive him crazy. He remembered that you said, among other things, that you wanted to take a shower with the person you loved and shampoo each other’s hair. He was cursing himself for being so fixated on your words and he tried to force himself to sleep.

He questioned himself—why was he interested in this? What did he think about it? He was borderline pissed off at himself, telling himself to stop being weird about it, and consoled himself with the idea that he could just tell you he overheard the conversation and ask you why you were lonely.

As Zoro drifted in and out of consciousness, finally starting to dream, he found himself in a hot shower. There was someone in the shower with him, but he couldn’t tell who it was because his back was facing them. The shower was so steamy it was hard to see. He realized that the person behind him had their fingers running through his hair, scrubbing—they were washing his hair. It felt like bliss, the soap smelled lovely, and the hot water felt great.

He turned around to see who it was, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who it was already.

You were standing behind him, suds on your hands from shampoo. Your hair was soaked, and your naked body was glistening wet. You smiled at him, and he could feel his arm reaching out to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

When your bodies touched, warm and wet, his hands slid up to squeeze one of your breasts just briefly. You pulled him into a kiss and your fingers crept into his wet and soapy hair. You hummed into his mouth, and his fingers trailed downwards, grabbing handfuls of your skin… It quickly turned into a sex dream.  

He felt himself grind his erection onto your wet stomach and thighs, heard you whine into his mouth and smash your lips on his. His hand crept downwards, reaching into that valley where your thighs met. He slipped a finger between your folds, already oozing arousal. His finger explored, reached further, started to slip into you…

Zoro’s heart was pounding so fast it woke him up. He was painfully hard, disoriented, and panting. The dream was so vivid it felt like it just happened in real life. It was like he knew what your skin felt like, and your lips tasted like, as if his fingers actually felt between your thighs and rubbed on your sensitive spots. He felt every moment of it, he had seen you so clearly… 

Zoro never had a sex dream with you before this. He didn’t get those dreams a lot, to be fair, and he didn’t know how to feel other than flustered and confused, considering the fact that you were his “friend”. He palmed his cock and grinded his hand over it through the fabric of his underwear briefly before sleep swept him away again. He was out like a light.

Later that night, Zoro dreamed of you again. This time, he was walking down a busy street through an open-air market. It was loud and crowded; music was playing, and it smelled like spices, baking bread, and roasted meat. Zoro was completely lost in the crowd, but he felt like the scene was missing something. His eyes shifted through the sea of faces and pinpointed you looking at him from the other side of the market, eyes riveted on his. You stood out in the crowd, radiant, smiling softly.

As he made his way through the throngs of people, you caught his eye again and waved at him. He was breathless. When Zoro reached you, you slowly slipped your hand into his and entwined your fingers together. Saying nothing, you brought his hand up to your mouth and gave it a kiss, looking right into his eyes. His heart twisted—it was that same feeling from before, one he wasn’t used to.

In this dream it was like he had tunnel vision. There were hundreds of people around him, but the only thing Zoro could see or pay attention to was you. The world melted away; you were the only thing left. He could feel himself place a hand on your waist and pull you closer. He leaned in to kiss you and you dodged, bringing your lips to his ear instead.

“I love you.” You whispered, your voice hushed, and he could feel your breath on his ear so clearly that it gave him goosebumps. Everything about it felt real. He could feel warmth seep into his core; it was like something bloomed inside of him, flowers letting out tendrils of precious petals and buds, enveloping the pair of you. He was intoxicatingly close to you; it was so real.

Zoro could feel himself about to whisper three words back to you before he started to fall—he woke up with a start. It was like one of those dreams where you’re rocketing towards the ground in a free fall, and right before you slam into the ground you wake up, terrified. But instead of scared, he felt distressed and weird.

Why had he dreamed of you for the first time after hearing your conversation with Nami?

Zoro recognized a possible connection immediately. Was it just a coincidence that he had dreamed about the same scenarios you discussed with Nami? Namely, that you wanted the sort of love where you could shower together, or be with them in public and the whole world melts away?

He was disturbed, to say the least. He was quite perplexed by the coincidence, by seeing you naked (at least, it felt like he had seen you), and by that weird twisting feeling in his chest.

More than that, he was distraught at the idea that he felt himself in his dream about to whisper something to you too, too, something which was blatantly and patently false. Why was he going to whisper those words back to you? It was just a dream, right? It was just a dream.

Thoughts nagged in his head—he was thinking about how fucking gorgeous you were, how serene he felt, and how close you had been. In both dreams he felt like you were staring into him, peering through his irises and seeing his soul for what it was. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on in his head.

Zoro usually wasn’t one to dwell, and so he tried to go with that strategy here, too. Just don’t think about it, he told himself. It was just a dream. Go back to sleep.

When the swordsman saw you on deck that morning, his heart did a thumping thing and his body tensed up. He had the irrational fear that you’d go up to him and say, “I know what you dreamed about last night, you perv.” Or something like that. He also had no clue how to interact with you after he had eavesdropped on you and then had two very intimate dreams about you, but he tried to pretend like nothing happened. After all, he couldn’t control what he dreamed about, and you were a friend.

When you walked over to him on deck and smiled at him, he didn’t know what to say to you. “Good morning, Zoro!” There was that charming smile of yours, again. He had seen a lot of it last night.

He responded with a gruff “morning” and waved a hand as he walked upstairs to do some lifts on the upper deck.

A few hours later, you and Nami came out on the lower deck in your swimsuits and started sunbathing. You were lying on two foldy lounge chairs and you had a colorful umbrella over your heads. Sanji whipped up two fruity drinks with maraschino cherries and mini (matching) umbrellas, and it looked like you were having a fun time. There was nothing objectively unusual about this scene, in fact, it must have happened plenty of times before.

Zoro was doing his thing and working out like he usually did. Whenever he did his afternoon routine, sometimes he saw you and sometimes he didn’t. He would smile and wave sometimes when you caught each other’s eyes.

But today, he was preoccupied. He was trying his hardest not to snoop again. He couldn’t hear you at all, other than your giggles and laughs, so that made it easier to ignore you. Your laugh was clear over the crash of waves and his own heavy breaths from exercising. He really liked the way you laughed; it was one of those infectious laughs that bring a smile to other peoples’ faces. He had noticed before that when you laughed, your nose scrunched up a little bit—he thought it was cute.

After hearing bursts of raucous laughter from the pair of you, he snuck a couple glances. This was a bad idea. The view confirmed two things. First, he had a rather superficial reflection—the you from his shower dream and the you in your bathing suit looked very similar. That is to say, he saw your body in a quick glance and had to tell himself to fuck off in his own mind.

The second thing his quick glances confirmed was that something about the conversation he overheard last night changed how he felt about you (hopefully temporarily). He couldn’t put his finger on it… But he spent all day so far thinking about that conversation, trying to break it down and put the pieces back together in a way that made sense.

Why were you lonely? Why did you cry? And who were you referring to when you said it was hard to be lonely around someone? Why didn’t you ever talk about this stuff with him?

You shared so much with him. He knew where you were from, what your family was like, your favorite color, your favorite food, your favorite animal, favorite song, the list went on. But you were lonely? And that’s something you didn’t tell him?

It’s not like you had to tell him every little thing. But this felt like a big thing. And he was mulling over the type of love you wanted. The type of love you told Nami about and the scenarios you listed off were sweet and thoughtful, just like you. Hearing you talk about what sort of love you wanted didn’t make him cringe like he thought it would, given that it was lovey-dovey fluffy stuff.

Zoro couldn’t recall a time when you had a conversation about that sort of thing. Maybe once or twice, drunkenly, but those memories were foggy. Why the fuck couldn’t he get you out of his head? Why did he care so much? He was miffed and puzzled.

Dinner that evening went on as usual. You sat with Nami and Robin, giggling and smiling. Zoro tried to listen to your conversation from the other side of the table (he was being self-indulgent, and he knew he shouldn’t have).

He heard Robin speak about her newest archaeological research, Nami spilled the tea about some recent designer shopping scandal, and when the conversation turned to you, there was a moment of silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see you three exchange some glances, a cocked eyebrow from Nami, a set of flashing eyes from Robin, and a bashful look splayed across your cheeks. He wondered what that was about. Zoro tried to keep inconspicuously observing, but Luffy started shouting about something and Usopp spilled his drink all over the very distracted swordsman.

Sometimes after dinner you helped Sanji do the washing up. Usually everyone would wash their own plates but sometimes no one felt like it, so you gave Sanji a hand. You’d go around and collect the empty plates at the table—and this night, Zoro was still sitting at the table with his empty plate. Chopper was across from him going on and on about some medical incident he witnessed years ago, and Zoro was humoring him. They had the cutest dynamic. Zoro was nodding “uh-huh” and Chopper was enthusiastically gesturing and dramatizing. When you went to collect the dishes, you walked over to them.

“Hi guys, may I take your plates?”

Zoro’s heart did that thing again, that flipping twisting thing. Was he developing a heart arrhythmia? What was up with that? He wondered, troubled.

You scooped up both of their plates. When you got Zoro’s plate, you took a moment and smiled at him particularly sweet. He mumbled out a thank you and returned the smile, but it looked more like a grimace. He was having crazy cognitive dissonance—he was feeling weird, his heart was beating funky, and he felt laser focused on you, more so than usual. He told himself that he didn’t care about the conversation last night and that it was no biggie, but his body felt the exact opposite.

Zoro’s eyes followed your frame as you went to wash up the plates next to Sanji. He noted your pretty hands and the way you cleaned the plates, delicately but thoroughly. He saw the way that Sanji slid over to you and put his hand on the small of your back to lean in and whisper a compliment to you. You shied away but smiled and blushed all the same. Zoro felt a twinge of annoyance at Sanji. He’d have to chew him out later for touching you like that. Fucking creep.

Later that night, Zoro was getting ready for bed. He was shirtless, in sweatpants, lying on the bed in his cabin with his hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, he contemplated the last 24 hours, trying to process why and in what ways he felt different.

The familiar sounds of your footsteps padded past his open door and he didn’t turn his head to look at you. He had enough for one day, didn’t feel like scrambling his brain anymore. He was ready to go to sleep and forget about the confusion, hopefully it’d all be gone tomorrow. Zoro had just closed his eyes when you backtracked, and he heard a wooden creak as you leaned your body against the doorframe.

“Hi Zoro, how was your day?” You asked, as charming as ever.

His tone was curt, but you could recognize a note of kindness in it, one with which you had become acquainted with in the past few months. You had a short conversation about each other’s days. Before you turned to go back to your room, you wished him “sweet dreams, and good night!”

He scoffed at himself. Sweet dreams, huh? Sure thing. Underneath that urge to push away the confusion, Zoro was tickled that you had come to check up on him. He couldn’t help but notice your pajamas, how cute you looked in them, how beautiful your face was, freshly washed and all ready for bed.

As he fell asleep, he tried to fight off the relentless stream of thoughts that his mind obsessively thew at him. More than anything, he was stuck on this idea that you were lonely, and that it was hard for you to be lonely around someone. Much to his chagrin, he couldn’t help but wonder if that someone was him.

DREAMS 3 & 4: A long day at work

Zoro fell asleep eventually and his extreme agitation, he dreamed about you again.

First, Zoro found himself walking through the doorway of a house. He didn’t see much; all he knew was that this was his house. He felt like shit; he was tired, grumpy, and burnt out. As he opened the door, he heard your voice, loud, clear, and light. “Welcome home, handsome.”

You were standing in the foyer, presumably waiting for him. He threw his work briefcase on the ground (apparently he just came home from work?), and you advanced, putting your arms around his waist and pulling him into a tight hug with your head nestled on his chest. When he wrapped his arms around you, he leaned his head on yours and noticed how soft your hair was.

“I missed you.” You spoke into the crook of neck.

Again, the feeling of something blooming inside of him radiated from his core. Every muscle of his could feel you. He could hear your heartbeat, he noticed when you pulled him closer. When you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss, the negative feelings from his day at “work” melted away.

The whole day was worth it just for this moment. Your hand reached up to cup his cheek, you ran a thumb over his stubble, caressing his face... Zoro kept feeling that twisting, thumping, skipping sensation in his core. He felt it when he thought about you.

Lucid thoughts cut through the dreamscape—would you still feel lonely if he embraced you like this? If he pulled you into his arms and held you tight, would that make you feel better? What was this feeling when he thought about you? If he gave his all to you, would you feel better then? Would you stop feeling lonely if he gave everything to you, even his heart?

The dream faded into thoughts of other things. Swords, battles, weights, stress, more Zoro thoughts, etc. But hours later, in the early morning, another dreamscape with you in it materialized.

It was sickeningly real and strikingly intelligible. This dream was not within the list of scenarios that you described to Nami about the type of love you wanted—Zoro’s brain must have concocted it on its own.

Zoro was in a bed, his bed, and pale morning light trickled through half-shut blinders. He heard a door creak open and shut somewhere in the distance. His eyes were almost completely closed, just the tiniest peek of the bedroom and the muted blue-gray it was bathed in. Soft footsteps treaded over to the bed. A blurry figure crouched down, eye level with him. The dream came into focus more—you were inspecting his face while he was half asleep.

“Good morning baby,” you whispered, barely audible. You brought a hand up to pet his hair. He grumbled something in response, an acknowledgement. After a moment, you leaned in and started to adorn and sprinkle his face with kisses, as soft as possible. You brushed and pressed your lips around his cheeks, forehead, eyelids and chin gingerly. Your lips met his again, briefly, the same moment that Zoro drifted out of sleep.

He was awake now, actually awake. The light in his cabin was the same blue-gray that the room in his dream was shrouded in moments ago. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep but he was unsuccessful. He wondered what it would be like to wake up to you kissing his face like that and petting his head. Would it be the same?

Why did he keep dreaming about you? Surely all this fuss couldn’t be because he just overheard your conversation with Nami.

He felt tortured. If listening to the conversation was the prompt to you appearing in his dreams, then he just shouldn’t have listened to it. Lesson learned.

< masterlist | part two >

a/n: thank you so much for reading! this is very much a labor of love and has been in the works since september. i hope you like it! <3

[nouverx]

A very specific idea/scenario I have about Alastor's sleeping habits

He barely even sleeps in the first place. He sleeps like only a few hours a week, in one go. He locks himself up in his room once a week, sleeps for 4 hours straight and that's it. And since he doesn't sleep much, each time he does he falls into a deep slumber and it's absolutely impossible to wake him up he's straight up passed out until he gets fully recharged.

He does this because the idea of being in a vulnerable position where anyone could do anything to him while he's completely defenseless is too unsettling for him, so he sleeps as little as he can and always makes sure he's locked up first, away from everyone else's eyes.

HOWEVER, one time he's playing cards with the rest of the hotel, and because he got unconsciously so comfortable around them, he accidently falls asleep on the couch during the game. Everyone is shocked because they didn't even know he actually needed to sleep (they always hear him walk around the hotel humming at night like an absolute creep so they just all collectively assumed he didn't need to sleep).

Charlie panicks a little because nothing seems to wake him up, but he's still breathing and seems fine, eventually they all just let him sleep there and keep on going with their card games since the noise doesn't seem to bother him. Charlie even put a blanket on him, and Angel initially wants to draw something on his face as a prank but in the end everyone agrees not to try anything like this, because who knows how the radio demon would react,,, could be dangerous.

A few hours later Alastor finally wakes up, immediately understands what happened and plays it cool like "Oh dear, looks like I passed out, too bad I couldn't finish the game :) oopsie" but internally he's SCREAMING

EDIT: greykolla was faster than me and made a comic about it it's so so good 😭 crying

[totallybakedcake]

Boyfriend headcanons kaiju no 8 boys

Reno

Whenever you both are outside training or near anyone, he does nothing more affectionate than holding your hand at most, but when you both are at home, he does not let go of you. Back hugging you and snuggling into you. It's his favorite thing to do.

He loves to be the little spoon while cuddling. He always wants to be in your embrace while sleeping, or else he cannot sleep all night. "Name, can we please cuddle? I had a rough day." He says in such an adorable voice that how could you deny him?

He is a great cook and always makes you mouth-watering dishes to eat all day. He just loves seeing you enjoy his dishes and eat them so cutely.

He loves at-home dates. He just loves watching any movies, shows, or anime you want to watch as he cuddles you. When you both had your anniversary and you were in the mood for something fancy, he decorated the living room with flowers, teddy bears, chocolates, and gifts to surprise you. 

Hoshina

He absolutely loves it when you pamper him with all your affection. Cupping his face. Giving him onslaught kisses, burying your head in his neck. Whenever he thinks about that, His day becomes one of the best.

Hoshina is an overly protective boyfriend. The moment he comes home, he checks your body for any wounds. Whenever he even sees you interact with one of the juniors, he makes sure the both of you don't talk for more than 3 minutes, or else the game is over. He makes sure you feel safe and protective.

Hoshina loves giving you a flower and chocolate every day. He always has a bundle of chocolates with him and goes to a local flower shop to get you any cute flower.

He loves picnic dates and afternoon dates. He loves to take you to a quiet park. Lay down a blanket and rest in your lap as you and him talk for hours and hours. Picnic dates are usually in the morning, as he likes to take you out on brunches too. 

Kafka

He is the most affectionate boyfriend. He gives you many warm hugs every day. He loves to kiss your temple as you relax on top of him.

He loves hearing you talk. Your voice is just so comforting. He brings you to his lap and burys his face in your neck as you talk about anything.

He does not show his jealous side, as he knows you are loyal to him, but one thing he makes sure of is that you have a healthy routine. If he does not know that you have eaten well, slept well, and are drinking plenty of water, he has to check up on you because his mind keeps thinking about you.

Even though he does not look like it. Kafka is a fancy man. He takes you out to fancy restaurants to eat at on dates. He always has a private reservation ready for you and him. After all, your happiness is Kafka's happiness.

Gen

Gen has made you obsessed with gaming too. After all, games are addicting. He got you all kinds of gaming consoles and game figures to play with him.

A lot, meaning everyone asks you. Why choose Gen? An irresponsible captain who has such an attitude and is careless, but what they haven't seen is Gen's soft side. He makes sure you are okay. He cannot focus on anything unless you are safe. Once on a Kaiju mission when you got injured. Gen stayed up all night. Not touching his games or electronics once, as he needed to take care of you and make sure you were safe. Not letting you go on a mission unless you are recovered.

Even if he is loyal. He is the most jealous person ever. He knows your beauty and your aura, which makes people gravitate towards you. So, he makes sure to have you near him at all times, not letting you even talk to a guy in peace.

He loves arcade dates and karaoke dates, but if you don't want to go there, He takes you to amusement parks and water parks. Gen loves an adventure.

Hey yall. First ever post on tumblr so the writing may be tacky and awkward cause I wrote this in the middle of the night but I couldn't stop myself from writing for kaiju no 8 after finishing the whole manga in 4 days.

Have a great day!

[alvie-pines]

my take on batfam sleep schedules (and everything else they do)

bruce

10pm - 5am : patrol [7hr] 6am - 2pm : sleep [8hr] 3pm - 9pm : work from home, sometimes dinner with the kids [6hr]

bruce has the benefit of being able to choose his own work hours and work from home. still, he pushes himself round the clock to keep on top of his life as both batman and bruce wayne. his sleep is perfectly optimized and scheduled; not a minute more than he thinks he needs to operate at peak functionality.

dick

11pm - 4am : patrol [5hr] 5am - 1pm : sleep [8hr] 2pm - 10pm : work [8hr]

dick works full time, and his body naturally needs a lot of sleep, so regretfully, rather than cutting into his sleep time he cut into patrol time to make his schedule work. ideally, he'd be sleeping closer to 10 hours, but he can't afford it.

jason

6pm - 1am : work [7hr] 2am - 11am : sleep [9hr] 12pm - 5pm : whatever he wants basically [5hr]

jason has the least time crunch, because he's the only one whose "night job" actually pays. he has a pretty passive income as a crime lord. he just needs to go out every so often and remind the streets why they pay up to him.

tim

2am - 6am : patrol [4hr] 7am - 3pm : school [8hr] 3pm - 6pm : homework & hygiene/food [3hr] 6pm - 1am : sleep [7hr]

tim is not doing so well. i hc that tim is anemic and suffers from chronic fatigue, so he needs way more sleep than he is getting. he cant negotiate his class times, and he needs to do his homework in order to pass. he's not willing to cut patrol time down past 4 hours, so that leaves him with really not quite enough time to sleep. he's married to caffeine.

duke

11pm - 6am : sleep [7hr] 7am - 3pm : school [8hr] 4pm - 8pm : patrol [4hr] 8pm - 11pm : food, homework etc [3hr]

duke is only managing because he's okay with a shorter daily patrol and doesnt need as much sleep as tim. he's also the only batfam member who actually sleeps at night.

damian

10pm - 5 am : patrol with bruce [7hr] 5am - 6am : nap [1hr] 7am - 3pm : school [8hr] 4pm - 9pm : sleep [5hr]

damian does all his homework at hyperspeed during study hall and in the car driving to and from school. because he is insane. damian also has the ability to powernap like the dead. that 1hr actually does something for him.

cass

9pm - 6am : patrol [9hr] 7am - 4pm : sleep [9hr] 5pm - 8pm : whatever she wants basically [3hr]

cass, like jason, doesnt have a big time crunch due to being unemployed and not in school. yay! she used to spend time trying to learn to read and write, but it was just frustrating for her so eventually they decided she should quit.

you may notice that there is not a single time when they are all awake and available to have a family meal. they have to plan those well in advance. its a whole event.

[bunni-v1]

Past and Future (Happy Birthday Lighter)

🍓Finished this shit at 4:30am, if y'all don't enjoy this I will kill myself. Anyway had fun writing this, it's more of me fucking around and finding out with Lighter's character, but I think it's fluffy and cute so... enjoy lol

TW: Mentions of Death; Suicidal ideation

Info: Lighter x GN!Reader; Angst to Fluff (?) Kinda?; hurt and comfort (i think??)

Word Count: 2k

December 27th. Two days after Christmas, five days before New Year's. Oddly placed on the calendar, awkwardly smooshed between two major holidays in New Eirdu. To most, it was insignificant, just another day. To Lighter it was something he dreaded each year. Between the holiday cheer and the buzz of excitement for the new year, it was nothing more than a looming cloud dampening his mood.

December 27th, Lighter Lorenz’s birthday, one of the worst days of his life.

He didn’t hate birthdays, they were nice when they were for other people. He had to admit he enjoyed getting gifts for others and seeing their eyes light up when they opened it, and the light atmosphere when everyone sang a horrendously off-key rendition of the birthday song was hard to hate. They were celebrations of the life of that person, a hurrah to cheer them into another long year until the next came around. He just hated his own.

Gifts and cake and warm fuzzy sweet nothings acted only as reminders that he was alive. He was alive, and everyone else who deserved to be wasn’t. Another marker of another year since he lost everything. He wanted to pretend it wasn’t there, maybe sleep until the 28th or run away for a while, but the girls wouldn’t let him.

They’d managed to weasel his birthday out of him about a year into his being here, and they made a point to celebrate it each year. Nothing big, they knew he wasn’t one for huge crowds outside of his fights, but still a party where they showered him with gifts and congratulations that he did not deserve. He didn’t have it in him to tell them to stop.

So, year after year he grinned and bared it with as much grace as someone as fucked up as he could. It wasn’t hard to be grateful for all they did for him, but it was always hard to smile and accept it like he deserved it. The nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that he shouldn’t be allowed to be this happy, not when his stupidity cost the lives of good people – wonderful people, who he loved.

He usually only lasted until Burnice got out the nitro fuel, then he would quietly slip away from his own party to be alone. The quiet was easier on his mind than the distractions of colorful confetti and sweet cake made just to his taste. He liked to sit in the pain, to recede into that cocoon of hurt, as if to apologize to his friends by torturing himself. 

This year was no different, of course. Just as Burnice handed out the nitro fuel, he quietly slunk into the shadows, smiling to himself as the rest of the Sons of Calydon remained celebrating in his steed. He walked his way to his bike, sighing in the cool night air. The breeze on his skin was the only comfort from the hell in his mind.

He let the air out, hand tucking into his pocket to pull out the little thing of candy he carried around on him. The little lemon drops fall into his palm with ease, and he tosses them back with practiced ease. He rarely felt like smoking anymore, but his birthday was always a struggle. The heightened emotions made him want to take the easy route out, to fall back on his old ways and make stupid mistakes in hopes it would make him feel better. Instead of giving in, though, he sucked on those candies like a saving grace. It was the least he could do for his old friends.

As he stopped in front of his bike, he shoved the candies back into his pocket. Taking a second to himself in the quiet of the night. It was almost over, just a few more hours, and the pain would lessen back down to an ache again. A little longer and he wouldn’t have to worry about constant reminders of being alive, and he wouldn’t have to save face for everyone else’s sake.

“Lighter?” A quiet, soft, almost worried voice from behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes softening when he saw it was you. You’d been quiet about his birthday all month, not bothering him with any reminders. You knew, intrinsically, how much he hated it. You always knew everything about him, it was an infuriating quirk of yours that he would never want to go away. 

“Hey, dollface,” his voice just as quiet as he raised his arm for you to duck under, “got tired of the party?”

You press yourself into his side, enjoying the warmth of your personal heater, “I saw you leave and I wanted to make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “Me stupid? Never. Just needed some air.”

“Is this getting some air just for you, or could you use some company?” You offer, giving him the reins.

He liked the alone time, he wanted to wallow in self-pity more than anything in the world. His head reminded him that he deserved to be alone on a night like this. Yet, your eyes flutter a little at him, and your lashes brush away those awful thoughts like nothing. 

“I’ve always got room for you,” he hums, giving you one last squeeze before helping you on the bike.

The drive is peaceful, the breeze cooling his hot skin like an apology from the world for all he’d been put through. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but he wouldn’t deny the feeling either. Your arms wrapped firmly around his middle, head pressed against his shoulder only calmed him further. It grounded him back in the present, reminding him that the past had long passed and that he still had things to live for.

The Sons of Calydon, who took him in and cared for him despite how distant he was at the start. The Proxies, who took special care to stop by earlier and give him a gift, congratulated him for being so strong and thanked him for his constant help when they needed it. The other former members of his mercenary group who, despite how much he wanted to deny it, held no ill will to him and wished him the best for the future.

And, of course, you curled against his back. You trusted him with your life, and he would easily lay his down for you – not that you’d let him if you had any say. You kept reminding him every single day that he was someone worth loving, that he was more than his past, and that he was the one who could define what his future looked like. It was hard not to picture it without you there, not with how attached he’d become to your little displays of love for him.

Displays like this, following him out of his party to make sure he wouldn’t do anything to hurt himself more than he was already hurting. He smiles warmly back at you as he eases his bike to a stop at his favorite quiet spot. You smile back pressing a kiss to his shoulder before moving to get off the bike.

You intertwined your fingers with his like it was second nature as you walked to the fence at the cliff's edge. From here you could see the endless desert, and the edge of the hollow, the moon peaking over it in an almost beautiful display. He helps you sit on the fence, placing a protective hand around your waist to keep you from falling forward.

Your hand presses his head into your shoulder, scratching at his scalp with such care it nearly makes his knees buckle. Another reminder of what he has that he couldn’t afford to lose. No one has known him the way you know him, no one has ever had the effect you have on him. It was almost enough to make all the horror of his past dissipate in his mind, but a small part of him still clung to it. Unwilling to allow himself to fully forget.

“You okay?” You ask, interrupting the quiet bubble that had formed around you.

He nods, “Thinking.”

“About…?” You urge with a raise of a brow, unbearably cute in his mind's eye.

He smiles, genuine for the first time that night, “About how much I love you.”

You shake your head at him, but you don’t argue with him about how he’s lying, or try and force him to tell you everything. You don’t need to. You always trust that he’ll tell you when he’s ready. It’s another thing about you that he couldn’t risk losing.

You let the quiet fall over you again, leaning into his chest with a content hum. He allows himself to indulge in your affections for now, preferring having you here in his arms than staring aimlessly at the skyline by himself. It was easier to swallow the ache in his throat with you to soften the harshness of the feeling, regardless of whether you knew you did it or not. 

He wonders, hopelessly, what his old friends would think of you. They would like you, he was sure of that. You had a personality that would let you fit right in with their eclectic group. The idea of you smiling side by side with them warms his chest, his heart aching as it fades away. A dream he’d never get to see.

He’s not aware that he’s crying, he’s not sure how long he has been crying, all he knows is that you turn to him and cradle his face in your hands. They wipe at his tears without needing to be asked, another quiet reassurance that you cared for him regardless of what was going on in his head.

Lighter sniffles pathetically as his eyes lock with your worried ones. You seem to know what's wrong without him needing to say it, which he likely wouldn’t be able to do if you weren’t able to deduce it on your own. You frown at him, bringing him down to kiss his forehead.

“I’m sorry it’s so hard,” You whisper, wrapping your arms around him.

He pulls you in tightly, desperate for the skinship you offered up, “It never gets easier. Everything is a reminder.”

“I know, that’s okay,” you press a kiss to the side of his face, “I don’t think you need to forget it, Lighter. I think you need to learn how to live with it.”

He closes his eyes, the hollow where they’re buried fading from sight as if looking at it would blind him now. He holds you even closer, letting your words sink in. Learning to live with it, sounded much easier than it probably was. Maybe you were right though, he’d done so much wallowing and running, maybe it was time he found a way to live with the pain.

“Mistake, failure, accident… it doesn’t matter what you call it,” you continue, pulling him back to look him in the eyes, “It’ll always hurt, but that hurt is a reminder of how human you are. You don’t want to lose that. Remember it, feel it, and they’ll never really leave you.”

You swallow, taking him in with those pretty eyes of yours. It’s not perfect, but it’s what he needed to hear tonight. He presses you into a kiss, soft and light and nervous. He was afraid you’d disappear if he was too rough. You melt into it, indulging him like he hoped you would. This was the only way he knew how to show you his appreciation, words would never be enough to display how deeply he cared for you.

When he pulled away you were breathless, face flushed from lack of oxygen, and indescribably beautiful. He smiled subconsciously at you, and you returned the look with all the love and admiration in the world.

“Happy Birthday Lighter,” You say soft as the wind still tussling your hair, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” He repeats back, and he feels the ache in his chest lessen every second he spends looking at you. You taught him a lot since he met you. A lot about himself, a lot about those around him, a lot about you. Most importantly, tonight you taught him that despite his past, he made a future for himself that he should be more determined to remember to protect.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 3 - The Same Way I Think of You

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, fluff, mutual pining, lightest smut, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: Dean tries to adjust the betterlust, and you get worried. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: Sam you are God's strongest solider.

Title from Bang the Doldrums by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 5.3k

Read on A03!

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

It only took two days to find a pattern and routine that the betterlust liked.

Dean had started simple. Lock himself in the garage, blast music loud enough to drown out any other craving in his body—cravings to touch soft skin with scars he’d recognize anywhere, cravings for a voice that haunted his dreams and screamed in his nightmares—and slink back to his room in the dead of night, when She and Sam were already asleep. It was shockingly easy to avoid Her, and Dean owed it all to how much of a pathetic, lovesick fucking animal he was. He already knew Her whole schedule—when she woke up, when she ate, what she usually did all day, and when she went to bed—because he used to plan his own time around it. Not exactly, couldn’t have her catching on, but close enough to easily find himself in the kitchen right when she was eating, or get up an hour before her to put on coffee for them both, or accidentally wander into the war room when she was doing research.

Which means that, now, he had all the tools he needed to do the exact opposite. To never see Her pretty face, because if he did Dean was certain the betterlust would knock him to his knees. Dean could go to the bathroom when she was probably busy with something else, grab supplies when she was almost certainly asleep, sneak around the kitchen when he knew She’d wouldn’t be there, and never get close to putting Her in danger. He’d make himself waffles or burgers, or take a piece of pie from the fridge—She or Sam must be stocking it with the expensive shit, because the pie always tasted damn near homemade—then slink back to the garage and lock the door behind him.

He’d considered moving his mattress in here, or simply sleeping in Baby, but the betterlust had hated that. It had insisted on his bed. On the one bed Dean had ever been allowed to call his, and not a flea-ridden motel’s. The bed that got to be in his room. Dean’s room, and no one else’s. Not Sam’s, or his Dad’s, or another nameless body who passed through it in the night. Just Dean’s.

And maybe one other person’s, if She’d wanted that.

And She wouldn’t.

So it stayed just Dean’s, which was good enough for the betterlust, and he’d catch his mandatory three to four hours before running back to the garage at the crack of dawn.

He lived a whole week like this. Working on Baby, and eating pie, and sleeping. When the betterlust started to push cravings for affection to the surface, he’d shove them back down his throat and spine with an extra burger or quick drive.

He had a handle on this. He wasn’t all that happy, but Dean wasn’t supposed to be happy. He was content, and not all that angry at anyone but himself, so that had to count for something. He wasn’t being a problem, or a poison, and damn it, eventually the betterlust had to get the memo that the one thing it wanted most wasn’t on the menu, and that craving would fade. Dean would be able to go back to Her and Sam, and tell them he felt good.

Sam would give him look of doubt, and She’d have a pretty, worried frown on her face as she asked are you sure?

Feel pretty sure. Dean would throw her a wide grin, and gesture to himself like he was a prize for Her to win. He could be, but that wasn’t the point. Don’t I look it, Sweetheart?

Her eyes would widen in that adorable way that happened every time Dean tried to flirt with her. The way that would spark his heart into a higher gear and make his lips ache to be pressed against Her’s, all while reminding him that She was still too good for him, and still wasn’t comfortable with that part of Dean—because who would be when they’d seen the rest of him—so he couldn’t have Her.

Sam would look Dean over with a cautious gaze as he said are you sure, Dean? Because if this didn’t work, I can call Rowena-

I’m good, Sammy. Dean would wave him off, and end the argument right there with no bloodlust, only the betterlust.

She’d nod, on Dean’s side. It was always pretty awesome when She was on Dean’s side, because she’d give Sam a look that said push me on this and I’ll shave your head, and that would be it. She’d make a soft half-joking, half worried check in of on a scale of literal hell to watching Scooby-Do in the Dean cave with pie, how good are we talking?

He’d wink, and say solid kid in a candy shop, but I could get up to Scooby-Do and pie if I had company.

And he’d grab the pie and popcorn, and She’d start the TV, and Dean would have it all under control.

He didn’t have it right now, but he would. Right now he could indulge in the fantasy of Her body pressed up to his—in a very boring and platonic way—and Her arm reaching over his body to grab the popcorn. Dean could think about their legs accidentally tangling together, or Her falling asleep on his shoulder, or kissing her brow before carrying Her to their room-

Her room. Dean would have to carry Her to Her room. Not his, and definitely not theirs. And apparently he couldn’t even get lost in the daydream, because now his head was pounding and his skin was trying to crawl off his body to find Her and touch her.

He just needed to keep pushing, until the betterlust understood. Just Scooby-Do and pie—alone in the garage—would have to be enough.

It’s around noon, which means Sam’s probably doing something smart in the library, and She’s in the library annoying Sam. Dean misses watching this part of their normal routine, because Dean gets to see Her grin and laugh, and Sam always makes one of his bitch faces, but doesn’t shut Her up because they all know he’s secretly enjoying Her describing—in pointless depth—the plot of some random tv show. Either that, or Sam can always see what he calls Dean’s Puppy-love Face, and knows how quick it will turn into a scowl and grumble if he makes Her go away.

Dean knows it’s probably the second thing. His brother’s stupid matchmaker bullshit at its height, because after She leaves Dean always gets a pointed look and jerk of Sam’s head to go follow Her and confess, which will never happen.

But Dean also knows that Sam doesn’t bring his laptop into the library this time of the day, because he made that mistake once and She spent the whole time asking them questions to find out what type of movie they were.

She was an art film—which made sense to Dean, because She was interesting and beautiful and he didn’t really understand Her at all—and Dean was a low budget 70s sci-fi. He’d hated that answer, and told her to he needed to take it again. She’d said she liked that answer. She said Dean was resourceful, and did a truly amazing job with his limited options, and was always reliable. That she could watch low budget sci-fi over and over and never get sick of it.

Suddenly Dean had been pleased with his answer, and decided that the quiz had been absolutely correct. The quiz had said Sam was a vampire romance novel adaptation, so its accuracy was probably questionable, but it didn’t really matter, because She’d smiled at Dean in that moment. She’d smiled, then Sam had declared he’d never let her near his laptop again, so now that very same laptop was going to be in Sam’s room. And they were going to be in the library.

And Dean was going to watch Scooby-Do and eat pie, all by himself.

He doesn’t have to worry about going into the bunker from the garage, because they shouldn’t actually be there yet. Sam should be in the kitchen, making rabbit food for his nerd session, and She should be in her room doing… Whatever she did in Her room. Dean doesn’t allow himself to think about her room at all, ever, so now wasn’t the time to start. It would just spiral into questions of What does she have in her room? Are there small pieces of Her Dean would get to hold in his hands on her dresser? Does she keep Her clothing in her dresser, or scatter it across the floor? Would there be enough space for Dean’s clothing in her room? She never sleeps in the same position in a motel, because She thinks she needs to always be facing the door, so how does she sleep when she’s safe? On her stomach? On her back? Is Her bed soft? Do her pillows smell like cherries from that fruity girl shampoo she uses? Do her sheets smell like shea butter, because she uses that shit like it’s a religion? Would Dean be able to get Her sheets to smell like him? Would he be able to get Her whole room to smell like him? Be filled with him, fill Her with him-

Fuck. He needed to get his head in the game, because he’s frozen in the hallway, and she could walk out of Her room at any minute. It’s far enough away from Sam’s that she won’t hear Dean opening and closing the door, but that had been close. Too close. This was the exact goddamn reason Dean couldn’t trust himself around Her, because then his whole existence would devolve into those types of questions, and he’d never get a single thing done. Dean was barely functional around Her in the first place, and with the betterlust in the equation, he’d never have enough control to pull himself out of What was she doing in Her room? Was she getting changed? Was she naked, only five doors away? What did Her underwear look like? Dean had seen Her bras before, patching her up after a hunt, but he’d never seen her underwear. That was probably the right call from everyone, though, because Dean could not be trusted around Her underwear. Hell, he couldn’t stop thinking about if it was lacy, or red, and how wet it would get if he touched Her, but most importantly, was it made of a rip-able materiel-

“Dean.”

Dean felt like his skin was flying off his body as he turned, grabbing his gun and aiming it at whatever the hell was in Sam’s room-

“Dude, calm down, it’s me!” Sam’s hands were in the air, his face pale as he looked over Dean’s rigid stance. “Shit, you’re not, you’re still you, right-“

“Of course I’m still me.” Dean lowered his arms, and shot Sam a glare. “I’m not gonna just become a demon overnight, Sammy-“

“Sorry, I know, it’s just.” Sam let out a long breath, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Dean muttered, even though something vile was crawling around inside his gut. “Just reacted, didn’t mean to, uh.” He swallowed, and the crawling thing began to twist. “Do that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam shrugged, shuffling out of the shadows at the edge of his room. “I should’ve probably known better. I mean, I’d do the same thing.”

Sam wouldn’t do the same thing. Sam would’ve recognized Dean’s voice immediately, because Sam wasn’t a creep who’d be thinking about their best friend’s underwear. But Dean let out a dry, empty chuckle anyway, and took a half step to the door.

“Cool. I’m just gonna, uh, waffles-“

Sam’s eyes narrowed, and the asshole moved to block Dean’s path to freedom. “It’s noon.”

“So? Last I checked, we’re adults. I can eat waffles whenever the hell I want-“

“But you don’t. You always eat waffles for breakfast.”

Dean waved him off, pushing down how the betterlust was suddenly pounding at his stomach for waffles. “Whatever, it’s not like you always, I dunno, stand in dark corners and sneak up on unsuspecting people-“

“This is my room.” Sam crossed his arms, and didn’t waver. “I can do whatever I want in here. Which brings me to the question, why are you in my room, Dean?”

“I,” Dean looked around the room, trying to keep his face neutral as he frantically searched for a good excuse. “Books.”

Sam raised his brows. “Books.”

“Yeah, I’m bored.” Dean held Sam’s skeptical glare, giving his most casual shrug. “Gonna pick up reading-“

“Dude.” Sam gave him a flat look. “That’s gotta be one of your worst lies ever. And we lie a lot.”

“Shut up, I could read a book-“

“Not when you’re currently under a curse that makes you only want to do things you like. You have your own books, Dean, if you wanted to read, you’d use them.”

“Fine.” Dean sighed. “I was looking for a pillow-“

“We have plenty of pillows that aren’t in my room. Try again.”

“I needed a chair-“

“No you-“ Sam cut himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you being such a dick about this. We don’t see you for like, a week, and then I catch you sneaking around my room?” Sam said Her name, and Dean’s heart faltered in his chest. “She’s really worried about you, Dean, and I need to be able to tell her we talked and that you’re fine. But I can’t do that if you’re going to be so,” Sam gestured at Dean, shaking his head with another noise of exasperation. “Weird.”

Dean couldn’t speak. Sam was looking at him like he expected a response, but Dean couldn’t do anything but remain rooted in place, trying to fight the feeling in his chest and head—rotten and aching and rolling around in a sound of you’re fucking sick, Dean Winchester, you made Her worry about you while you were thinking about her bed and how she smells and her underwear—as the betterlust rioted inside his body. Trying to infect Dean’s last bit of will, override every smart and rational part of his brain that knew he wasn’t allowed to have Her, and force him down the hall. To Her room, to the kitchen, to the library, to wherever the hell She was so Dean could hold her and kiss Her and tell her to never worry about him, because now Dean was touching her, so everything felt good again.

It was intolerable. Every single nerve in Dean’s body felt like it was going to explode if he didn’t get close to Her, if he didn’t hear her voice or see her face. And this was just from the thought of Her, from Sam only saying Her name. Dean wasn’t sure how the hell he’d get through this, not when he really couldn’t have Her. He needed to get out of here, to lock himself away with every other thing that fed the betterlust until he got a dam grip over his own body and stopped feeling like death-

“Dean.” Sam was half shouting, his face drawn in worry as Dean forced himself back to focus. “What the hell is going on with you-“

“I can’t,” Dean raised his hand, shoving the betterlust deep, deep down into a locked chamber near his heart, and forcing careful, slow words onto his tongue with a long, slow breath. “I can’t tell you-“

“You’re freaking me out, man-“

“Because I don’t know!” Dean barked, running a hand over his face in an attempt to wipe off every bit of odd, stinging heat on his brow. “I mean, I do know, but I can’t explain it, Sam. The spell worked, but I don’t, maybe it worked too fucking well. I can’t, I don’t know how to get a goddamn grip over it-“

“You’re not supposed to have a grip over it,” Sam said, his voice suddenly gentle and still coated in stupid, pointless worry. “It’s still the Mark, Dean, it’s just refocused-“

“Well, it’s refocused on the wrong fucking thing! I want, I want something I’ve never even had, so I need your laptop to give it something I can give it-“

“Dean, whatever you need, I’m sure we can find it-“

“The laptop.” He snapped. “It’ll fix this.”

“That’s…” Sam paused, frowning. “That’s not what you want though, right? It’s not the, um, craving?” Sam said Her name, and something hot punched Dean in the gut. “I think she said we’re calling them cravings-“

“Yeah. She did. We talked about it.” Dean had to keep his words short, or he’d start vomiting out things he wasn’t allowed to say. “And what the betterlust wants, I can’t give it. No one can. So,” he nodded to Sam’s laptop, resting on his bed. “If you want to help, let me take your stupid laptop.”

Sam didn’t move, his frown only deepening. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to deny the, uh, the betterlust something it wants-“

“What the hell am I supposed to do about that? I told you, I can’t have it-“

Sam said Her name, and the betterlust clouded over Dean’s skull.

“Sam, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re saying-“

“It’s just us.” Sam sighed, moving to his bed. “You don’t have to lie.”

Dean fists clenched, something tightening around his throat as he watched Sam unplug his laptop. “Shut up-“

“Dean.” Sam gave him one of the most exhausted, flat, annoying looks Dean had ever seen on his brother’s face. “C’mon, man. Just, for five minutes, pretend we’re like, emotionally healthy and trust each other. It’s her.” Sam said Her name again, and he needed to stop fucking doing that or Dean might actually die, the words begging to fall out of his mouth like an exhale or vomit.

“Fuck I, I can’t control it, Sammy. And it’s dangerous. For myself, for,” he swallowed, muttering Her name. “And if you’re about to give me one of those lectures about feelings, I am not in the damn mood-“

Sam turned around, and pushed the laptop into Dean’s hands. “I’m not going to lecture you. You know what I think, and I know you’re going to be a stubborn idiot and not listen to me when I tell you that it really wouldn’t be that bad-“

“This is sure startin’ to sound like a lecture-“

“But,” Sam gave him a stern glare, and it was times like these Dean hated that the man was so fucking tall. “I don’t think now is the time to work on it. I’ll tell her you’re fine, you’ll get a handle on the betterlust, and we’ll figure this out, because that’s what we do. Just,” Sam kept his grip tight on his laptop, frowning down at Dean’s outstretched hands. “Don’t do anything gross with it.”

Dean rolled his eyes, yanking the laptop into his arms. “I’m not gonna be gross-“

“Uh huh.” Sam gave him a flat look, bracing his hands on his hips. “If I get that back only to find a bunch of porn-“

“Then you’ll thank me for showing you the only pair of boobs you’ll ever see- Hey!” Dean dodged Sam’s hand, reaching out to grab the laptop. “This was a gift, man, you don’t get to take it back-“

“It was not a gift, it was a loan. And I’m serious, I don’t want to have to wipe that thing because you downloaded a million hentai videos with viruses-“

“Don’t worry, Sammy.” Dean took a large step back, placing his hand on the door, pausing to make sure She wasn’t outside, and pushing it open. “Your computer is in safe, very chaste hands. I’m a downright angel. A saint, some would call me.”

“I cannot think of one person who would call you a saint, Dean- Dean-“

He’d taken off, half running down the hall to return to the safety of the garage, and Sam’s voice—calling after him—sounded more annoyed than angry. Like he knew he was fighting a war he’d already lost.

“No porn!”

—————————

Sam says Dean is fine. That they’d talked, no murder had happened, and Dean was weird but in a normal, Dean way. That the betterlust has done its job, and he’s not avoiding you, but just busy. That the betterlust has given him a wave of energy, so he’s using it to get things done.

But here’s the thing about living with the Winchesters. At first they’re unreadable—just two brooding, hot men who seem to speak in almost exclusively grunts and strange looks—but then you figure out how to pull one brick from the wall, and the whole thing comes toppling down. You know everything about them, and they don’t think you know everything about them, and everyone is happy pretending that they’re still mysterious and mythical to you.

They’re not.

They’re unbelievably predictable.

Dean has a routine of work he does on Baby—he’d explained the cycle to you once, and you hadn’t followed a word of it, but his hands kept moving and he looked so pretty and his voice was so deep, so who can blame you—and a seemingly chaotic daily agenda that took you about a week to figure out. It’s—even in the bunker—the pattern of someone who lives on the road. He does laundry at midnight because there will be less people, even though the only other options for people are you and Sam. He eats lunch around 11am, because that’s when diners start serving lunch. He goes to the bathroom early in the morning, because he’s getting ready for a long drive he doesn’t have to take.

And you could make the argument that you know Dean so well because of the whole being hopelessly in love with him thing, but Sam’s no better. If you know Dean like the back of your dominant hand, you know Sam like the back of your non-dominant one. You could pick Dean out of a crowd anywhere—because some very, very annoying part of your brain is always searching for him—but you wouldn’t need to pick Sam out of a crowd. You’d just have to cup your hands over your mouth, shout something stupid, and he’d appear behind you to tell I don’t think that’s true. You could follow Dean around like a puppy for the rest of your life, but Sam would be right at your side, bitching and moaning about you not just telling Dean how you feel.

You won’t. You’ll keep looking Dean in the eyes after he comes back from another hookup, laugh at his jokes, and pretend you’re not dying. Not being stabbed right through your chest when he smiles at you, because he’s bragging to Sam about things you want to experience but never want to hear about. Pretending your skin doesn’t grow warm and electric when he brushes his hand against yours on accident, that it doesn’t make your lungs swell with an overdose of air and your brain turn to an intoxicating hum of Dean.

And Sam will keep looking at you with raised brows and a pointed expression, and tell you that Dean will realize eventually so you should just get it over with now.

And you’ll keep glaring at him and remind Sam that he only knows because you explicitly told him. That, unless you tell Dean, he’s never going to have a clue because you’re a fantastic liar. Both the brothers seem to forget that, while they know you, they still don’t really know how to read you.

But you can read them. You know Dean’s every tone, and Sam’s every expression, and their every habit and quirk and pattern.

And Dean’s never busy.

And Sam is fucking lying to you.

You don’t know why he’s lying to you, because Dean’s welfare isn’t something Sam lies to you about. Sam lies to you about his own relationships, or his mental stability, or about doing the dishes, but he doesn’t lie to you about Dean. He’s never looked at your nose—which he only does when he lies—and said Dean's good.

He’s never used that too gruff, bland, painfully rehearsed tone that screams liar to you when he’s talking about Dean. He doesn’t know you’ll immediately figure out that he’s lying, but that just means the lie is more thought out. That he’s practiced the lie, and thinks you won’t catch on.

Sam’s lying about Dean, and you can’t tell him you know he’s lying, and you’re really, really worried. Because Sam says the betterlust is under control, but you haven’t seen Dean for a week. Sam says he’s working on Baby, but you’re pretty sure Dean’s cycle is at its slowest point. Sam says Dean’s just busy, but that man doesn’t get busy unless you’re on a hunt. He lounges around, bothers Sam with you, watches TV with you, eats dinner with you, drinks with you, and talks to you until you’re both a little buzzed and stupid.

But Dean’s not talking to you. You haven’t been in the same room as him since you got back to the bunker, and Sam suddenly seems intent on fucking keeping it that way.

“I,” you glance up at the door to the garage, holding your knees to your chest. “I think I’m just going to go talk to him. See if he needs anything-“

“No!” Sam half leaps to block your path, and you’re not even fully out of the chair. “I mean, uh, it’s okay. He’s fine. Don’t worry about him.”

“But-“

“Do you want to hang out? While I work?”

That makes you certain Sam is lying. Sam’s never exactly enthusiastic about your habit of bugging him while he works, even if he knows it’s just your excuse to either talk to Dean or talk about Dean.

If Sam’s an onlooker to you staring at and weakly flirting with Dean, it ends with him telling you to confess, you flipping him off, and Sam muttering that he wishes you guys would at least be dramatic in the kitchen instead.

If Sam’s a captive audience to you moaning about how much you love Dean, it ends with him making a sour face and telling you that you should make some friends who Dean isn’t related to.

And you always tell him that, if Sam wants you to fuck off, he should say that. And he never does, so you’re there every time, and Sam is mock annoyed every time.

Which is why he never asks you to hang out. You hang out no matter what, and you’re pretty sure Sam secretly prays for the day you forget to flop into the chair across from his, singing a pop song off-key until he rolls his eyes and indulges you.

Sam should not be already indulging you already. You hadn’t even started singing yet.

And that’s exactly why you sit back down. Whatever Sam is up to, whatever’s wrong with Dean, is serious enough for Sam to blatantly lie and throw himself in harm’s way—listening to you talk about Dean for two hours straight—to keep you from knowing.

But you don’t let it go. You pretend you’ve let it go, and Sam buys it, but for the rest of the day your mind is in the garage with Dean, trying to figure out what he needs. If the spell failed, and the bloodlust is back. If the spell worked, but too well, and now Dean doesn’t want to do anything but what he loves, which doesn’t include talking to you or, apparently, Sam. If Rowena taking your hair fucked it all up, and now Dean is trapped doing things he doesn’t love. If he’s in pain, or tired, or angry. And, most of all, why wouldn’t he want you to know. Dean tells you everything, and whatever it is, you’ve seen him do worse and still emerged from the other side in love with him.

Maybe he’d be more willing to listen if you tell him you love him. That he doesn’t trust you and it’s breaking your heart because you love him, and whatever it is, you want to help. You always want to help. Dean could be pushing his guts up his throat, and you’d still want to help. Because you love him.

He wouldn’t believe you. Half the reason you’ve never told Dean you love him is because you’re certain he won’t believe you, then tell you he doesn’t want your pity, then push you away. And you’d lose him forever, because you’d leave and he won’t love you enough to try and bring you back.

But you have to know what’s wrong. It’s eating at your intestines and ribs, because Sam and Dean are hiding something and they don’t trust you with it and Dean’s in pain and you can’t understand why.

You need to look Dean in the eyes and either hear him lie to you—just like Sam, but with a likely devastating impact on your organs and bones—so you know that he really, truly won’t tell you, or watch him decide that he can trust you with whatever’s hurting him and let you help.

It would be easy to do if the asshole wasn’t so obviously avoiding you. If you hadn’t heard him sneaking around the halls like he wasn’t supposed to be there, if he wasn’t suddenly never in your path throughout the day when he’d been previously a key factor of your every moment. He’s hiding, and you don’t have a single clue how to confront him when Sam is acting like going near the garage will give you Herpes.

You know Dean’s sleeping in his room—you can hear him snore through the walls, and when you grab his laundry the pile has grown—but you’re not brave enough to walk into his room and confront him. You don’t think you could live with yourself if he felt violated by that, and even if he didn’t there’s a pretty strong chance just the sight of a sleeping Dean Winchester would make you fall to your knees and forget how to speak.

You haven’t seen him in the Dean Cave once, which is incredibly disturbing, and takes ambushing him while he’s relaxed and two beers into a movie is off the table.

You could get him in the kitchen. You haven’t seen him eating—you haven’t seen him at all—but the pies you’ve been making for him can’t just be disappearing overnight. And there’s still a little too much coffee in the morning—just enough for you to pour into your mug and wonder if this is what Dean would taste like if you kissed him —but it’s colder, which means he’s making it earlier.

But he’s making it.

So if you can time it right, you can stake out the kitchen and get Dean to talk to you. Even if it doesn’t end up answering your questions, at least Dean will have talked to you.

Because that’s really what you’ve missed the most. Through the months without Dean, the time where Dean wasn’t really Dean, and all the bloodlust, you’ve really just missed him talking to you. In an easy, natural way that always made you fall in love with him a little more, and made you more certain in your choice to never, ever tell him. You won’t lose him.

But you seem to already have.

So, nothing bad can really come of chasing just a few more words from Dean.

End Note: The Eric Kripke curse got me, and I had to add another chapter. Dear fan fiction and writing gods, please let this end in five chapters. I've learned my lesson and will never try to estiamte the length of anything again. Amen.

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Cannibals [Chapter 4: Foxes and Sailfish]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), awkward interactions on a boat, making friends in the Vale, references to war-related violence, Aemond flashbacks haunt the narrative, Red and Jace share an exciting new experience!

Word count: 5.8k

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The fireplace crackles, there’s smoke in the air. The shards of seashells take shape on the board as you affix them with paste made of boiled bones, unloved bodies you’ve scavenged: rabbits, foxes, deer, weasels, squirrels, snakes, turtles, birds. Sometimes Criston will find you searching for carcasses in the garden or the Godswood—a basket full of skulls and ribs, hands covered with dirt—and beg you to go back to Maegor’s Holdfast where you belong. He says: Please, princess, let me do that for you. I’ll bring you all the bones you need. This is too grisly a task for young ladies. And then, when you try to refuse him: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. And so you accept his offer and surrender your basket, knowing that being the daughter Mother wishes you were will always require pretending.

Aemond is in bed, freshly rid of his left eye and floating in a silent, pearlescent lake of milk of the poppy. He is unconscious for now, but he can only have a dose every six hours, and when it begins to wear off he becomes feverish and fearful. You can’t leave him. Aemond is a year older than you, always just a little bit wiser, always quicker and steadier on his feet; you have never known a world without him in it. But now he is the one who needs you. This is a strange feeling.

Mother, Criston, Helaena, and Maester Orwyle are always gliding in and out of the room—whispering, grim-faced ghosts—but at the moment you are alone with Aemond. A shadow appears in the doorway. It’s Aegon, and his face is marred too: there’s a bruise on his cheekbone from where someone hit him, Grandsire or Mother. He is slumped against the doorframe with a goblet of wine in his hand. He takes a slurp and uses his cup to gesture to where Aemond is sleeping. It’s a question.

“He’s alright, Aegon,” you say. “He’s resting. He’s healing.”

He licks his lips and skims his fingerprint around the rim of the goblet, pensive. “I wasn’t there.”

“None of us were.”

“Does he blame me for what happened?”

“He hasn’t said anything.”

“But you would know if he felt it.”

Would I? Sometimes you don’t believe you know Aemond as well as they imagine you do. There have always been things he doesn’t tell you. You didn’t know he was planning to claim Vhagar. He is unpredictable, he is a deep reservoir of secrets; he taunts you, he guards you, he ignores you, he comes rushing back. You say to Aegon: “I don’t think he blames you.”

Aegon exhales, drunken exhausted relief. “Good.”

Beneath blankets that Helaena has embroidered with legends from the Age of Heroes, Aemond stirs. His remaining eye—glazed, drugged, an empty anemic blue—flutters opens and drifts to you. “Now we know why you don’t have a dragon,” he says, weak and raspy. “The price has gone up. They cost an eye each.”

You paint a sliver of a cerulean-colored shell with glue. “I’d pay that if I knew it would work.”

Aemond asks, as if it has been weighing on him: “Do I horrify you?”

You smile softly. “No more than you did before.”

From where he still loiters in the doorway nursing his wine, Aegon snickers. Aemond grins, then winces from the pain it causes him. “What are you making?”

“It’s Symeon Star-Eyes,” you say, tilting up the mosaic so he can see it better. “You read us that story, remember? He was a knight who used a staff with blades at both ends to cut down his enemies. He was blinded in combat, so he replaced his eyes with sapphires.”

“Sapphires,” Aemond mumbles drowsily.

“Yes.”

“Blue.”

“Like you,” you say, thinking of his game piece: the blue wolf, a mournful color, a beast that kills.

“Hm,” he murmurs to himself as he sinks back into sleep; and it’s not until Aemond’s wound has healed that you learn of the idea you’ve given him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Vermax is not an especially imposing dragon, a drab sort of green and smaller than Sunfyre, but he is frightening enough when he bares his teeth. He snarls and snaps at you, unloosed fire roiling up in his throat. You stand perhaps ten paces away from him, flinching away from the heat that refracts the air and puts ripples in it like disturbed water. Jace is attempting to soothe Vermax, a palm pressed to the beast’s scales. Rhaenyra and Daemon are watching, confounded.

“Mother wasn’t exaggerating,” you tell them. You are crestfallen; this is a humiliation. You have silver hair and undisputed parentage, and yet Jace is the one whose egg hatched. So who is the true Targaryen?

“Very, very peculiar,” Daemon muses, scratching his chin. He turns to Rhaenyra. “Make her get closer, let’s see what happens.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra says impatiently. In the light of day, you can observe her face more clearly. There are dark semicircles under her eyes, and lines that didn’t exist before Luke was killed. She is ten years closer to the grave than she was the night her father died.

You cannot see the riots from where you’re standing in the castle courtyard, but you can hear them, the ambient rumbling of people rejecting Rhaenyra’s rule. They decry the slaughter of Jaehaerys. They shout demands of proof that the imprisoned Greens are alive and well: Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor, you. Fear of Rhaenyra’s soldiers and her dragons may delay their wrath, but you don’t believe she can quell it. High overhead, Sheepstealer sails past the Red Keep, casting a massive shadow. Rhaenyra’s frown deepens. Daemon pretends not to notice.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra sighs, summoning Jace to return to her and abandon his attempts to quiet Vermax. Dutifully—though perhaps not without resentment—he acquiesces. Vermax is still growling at you. You glower back, wishing that Vhagar was here to eat him. “There are other ways to get to Heart’s Home. A ship will take longer, ten days or two weeks depending on the wind. The journey should be safe. The Sea Snake’s blockade controls Blackwater Bay, and the Greens have no navy.” Rhaenyra looks to you. “That’s still correct, isn’t it? The usurper was refused by the Greyjoys?”

“I don’t know,” you lie.

She gives you a disapproving glare and then turns her attention back to Jace. “Alyn of Hull can take you to the Vale in his ship. I’m sure Corlys can manage without him for a matter as important as this. I’ve sent a raven ahead to the Corbrays. They’ll be expecting you, and you’ll be married upon your arrival, with Lord and Lady Corbray serving as witnesses. You have until then to get accustomed to each other.”

Jace begins to mutter a protest, low enough that you can’t hear. Rhaenyra shushes him. Vermax takes flight and soars out towards the ocean. You step closer to the castle wall and listen to the clamor of the crowds, willing them to rise up and free your family, to destroy Rhaenyra’s. Daemon stalks you around the courtyard, unsheathing Dark Sister and whistling so you know how near he is. You refuse to acknowledge him.

Rhaenyra is telling Jace: “When the war is won, the Greens’ surviving loyalists will accept you as my heir if you are married to her and father her children.”

“What about Aegon? What if Aemond and Criston manage to smuggle him into hiding somewhere, and then one day he reappears and—?”

“Aegon won’t live,” Rhaenyra says confidently. “From what we’ve heard, his burns must be dreadful. He will succumb to them, hopefully slowly and with great pain, and in the meantime Aemond and Vhagar will be pinned down in the eastern Crownlands tending to him. And even once Aemond is unincumbered, he will not want to fly into battle against Caraxes and Sheepstealer together. Vhagar is fearsome, but she is old and slow. Aemond is cunning. He knows this.”

“You told Alicent we’d pardon him,” Jace says, and his tone is accusatory. How could you? How dare you?

“I said I’d spare him if he’s still alive when the war is over,” Rhaenyra replies with a sharp glance. “So let’s make sure he isn’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner is sailfish, which you’ve never eaten before. All afternoon you saw them zipping through the water as Alyn of Hull’s ship cruised out of King’s Landing and towards the Gullet, their sapphire dorsal fins cutting up through the surf. Then the crew caught some and hauled them up onto the deck—large bulging eyes, toothless mouths agape as they suffocated in open air—and you watched as the fish were gutted and their scales and organs scrubbed from the planks with seawater that turned rosy with blood. Refuse washed back into the ocean: bones, fins, disembodied eyeballs dragging tails of optic nerves.

Alyn is a bastard of Corlys Velaryon, you’ve gathered; he is young to have been entrusted with his own vessel, and the resemblance is undeniable. He is chivalrous but very strict. You are not permitted in the room where several caged ravens are kept in case Alyn has to send a message back to the capital. You are not permitted to stand too close to the ship’s railing. You are not permitted to handle anything that could be used as a weapon. You are not permitted to converse with the crew. In truth, you are allowed to do almost nothing.

Now you are below deck, you and Jace seated at opposite ends of a long wooden table and alone except for two guards posted by the door. Tall white candles flicker, wobbling in their brass stands as the ship rocks. You drink too much wine and pick at your sailfish, pinkish lumps of meat seasoned with garlic and lemon juice. Jace pushes roasted parsnips and green beans around aimlessly on his plate. You can’t stop thinking of the family you’ve left behind: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor taken hostage by Rhaenyra, Daeron at war in the Reach, Aegon horrifically burned, Aemond and Criston battling to save him.

I shouldn’t be safe while they’re suffering. It’s wrong, it’s treasonous. I’m the least worthy of us. I’ve done nothing to help us win this war. I haven’t saved anyone.

You keep hoping for a vision of what Aemond is doing, what he is feeling, but you’ve never had any control over the glimpses you get into his mind. They are random, and brief, and fragmented. You don’t know if Aegon is still alive. You don’t know if Aemond is thinking of you.

“So that’s why you don’t have a dragon,” Jace says suddenly, and you look up at him, startled. He’s staring at you from beneath the dark curls that have fallen over his face, the mark of House Strong. He’s not entirely unappealing, if you don’t judge him as a Valyrian, an enemy combatant, a traitor. You can’t tell if Jace is being smug or sincere; you barely know him. “Because they hate you.”

Mother’s words resurface in your skull like sailfish dredged up from the waves: If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.

You aren’t sure how to earn anybody’s affection. With everyone you’ve known before you either had it or you didn’t, and that never seemed like something you could change.

“It’s not for lack of trying,” you say, fidgeting uneasily with your wine cup. “I tried to claim Vermithor when I was a child. He nearly killed me.”

Jace’s dark eyebrows go up. “Did he? On Dragonstone?”

You nod. “Grandsire arranged for us to visit the island while your family was travelling elsewhere. Driftmark, maybe, I don’t remember. I had always wanted Vermithor, and I felt…I knew that if I found him he would bond to me and let me ride him. I followed him all over Dragonstone for days, but he kept moving, and then…when I finally got close enough…” You’d outrun Criston and the other guards, but Aemond had been there to pull you out of the path of Vermithor’s flames; yet you don’t think Jace will want to hear this. It feels impossible to extricate Aemond from your memories. You’ve never known a life he was not intrinsically entwined with. “The Bronze Fury made his discontentment clear.”

Jace narrows his eyes and gives you an ironic smile, as if he’s thinking: Too bad you lived. “So you gave up.”

“Oh no, I tormented the others too. Silverwing, Grey Ghost, Seasmoke, none of them were very welcoming. I don’t recall Sheepstealer being there at the time…maybe he was feeding elsewhere in the Crownlands. I’d know if I’d seen him before, I think.”

“Sheepstealer is very…unique in appearance.”

You smile at the memory of Grandsire calling him hideous, then go somber when you remember he’s dead. “Grey Ghost was sweet, though. He didn’t attempt to burn me, he just flew away.”

“You’ve tried all of those dragons?” Now Jace seems genuinely intrigued. “Just…one after the other?”

You shrug and swig your wine. Jace gives you a disapproving glance; you put the cup down and begin eating instead. “I wanted a beast for myself. Everyone else had theirs, it seemed inevitable that I would find mine if I searched long enough. I even approached the Cannibal.”

“The Cannibal.” Jace shakes his head and forks sailfish into his mouth; it’s the first bite he’s taken tonight. “You were desperate. Or stupid.”

You smirk. “Or both.”

“What color are his flames? Green, like his eyes?”

“No,” you say softly, remembering the massive black dragon covered in spines like the stalagmites of a cave. “No, the Cannibal’s dragonfire is red.”

“Do you think yourself to be…” Jace gestures vaguely with his fork. “Lacking in some way? Less capable than Helaena or your brothers?”

This is a rude question. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I must be inadequate, or I would have a dragon.”

Jace seems to contemplate this as he eats.

“Why do you ask?” you provoke him, before recalling you’re supposed to be winning his affection, if such a thing is possible, and you very much doubt it. “Are you concerned I’ll pass this fault on to my children?”

“Well, it’s an interest of mine,” Jace says. “Locating dragonriders. What makes someone alluring to the beasts, as well as what doesn’t. This war will be won by dragons, I’m sure each side aspires to have more of them.”

You study him, taking nibbles of your sailfish. Recruiting dragonriders outside of the immediate family is not something Aemond would ever consider; he would not trust them, he would view them as supplanters of the natural order. But a bastard himself… “Was it your idea to find someone to ride Sheepstealer?”

Jace grins, cagey and teasing. He spears green beans with his fork. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

Because I can’t be trusted with the Blacks’ strategies. Just with birthing their heirs. “I didn’t know you had ideas.”

“Yes, well, Mother and Daemon try very hard not to notice them.” He points to your braid with his knife. “Do you wear your hair like that because of Visenya?”

You touch it self-consciously. You’re surprised he noticed. “Yes.”

“She married her brother,” Jace says, and this sounds like an accusation.

“She was also fearless, and dangerous, and she had a dragon.”

“Unlike you.”

“Right.”

Jace chuckles to himself. Now he is certainly being smug. Somewhere out in the night, Vermax is trailing the ship and will reunite with Jace once you’ve docked at Heart’s Home. You keep listening for Vhagar, imagining that Aemond will sense it as you sail near where he and Criston are tending to Aegon at Rook’s Rest, and he will fly to you and torch this ship and bring you home like he’s always promised. But perhaps Aemond is forgetting you. Perhaps he resents that you cannot help him win the war; perhaps he is beginning to hate you. Oblivious, Jace eats his sailfish.

“I had a bat named Sailfish,” you say.

Jace is puzzled. “A bat? Like…?” He makes flapping motions with his hands.

You smile and nod. “I kept bats.”

“Why?”

“Because I enjoyed them,” you say, and again you must stop yourself from mentioning Aemond. He cared for them because I did. “They horrified most people, but the children thought they were adorable. I’d teach them how to hold the bats and feed them bugs and fruit, and Jaehaerys couldn’t stop laughing when they licked honey off his fingers…” Then you shudder and go quiet, because you cannot think of Jaehaerys without seeing his hemorrhaging, headless body in Aegon’s arms.

Jace frowns down at the table. The wooden beams of the ship groan; the candlelight flickers. “Just as Mother and Daemon do not often heed my suggestions,” he says carefully after a while. “They do not share many of their plans with me. I knew nothing of what my stepfather arranged to happen that night. And if I had known, I would not have allowed it.”

I don’t believe you can control Daemon at all, you think. But instead you reply hoarsely: “I’m glad you recognize it for the atrocity that it was.”

“I know I’ve spoken harshly in the past. But if you are truly to be my wife, I wish for us to be in harmony as much as possible. I hope you feel the same way.”

“I do.” You don’t have much of a choice. How can you sleep with a man who hates you, who you hate in equal measure? “And Jace…I didn’t know what was going to happen to Luke or Baela. I had no part in either of their deaths.”

“I can’t…” His voice breaks; he swipes at his dark glistening eyes, like flecks of onyx. “I can’t talk about them.”

You are alarmed. “Jace—”

“Goodnight,” he says as he leaves, already halfway across the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

The first time you’re together—at your vanity, late for dinner—Aemond doesn’t try to put his fingers inside you, and he doesn’t the second time either, or the third, or even the fourth. And this is just fine as far as you’re concerned, because the way Mother has mentioned the duty of a wife implies that there is a great deal of sacrifice involved for the woman, discomfort, pain, even harm, and what you have with Aemond—despite its many peculiarities—has never been painful, and you don’t want to ruin it. You don’t want to find out what other women mean when they talk about boredom and dread and blood.

Then one day you are in the garden, and you and Helaena are trying to teach the children how to play the game with the animal pieces, but they must not be quite old enough because they won’t listen. Jaehaera pokes Jaehaerys with Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Maelor chomps indifferently on Daeron’s purple shadowcat. You and Helaena laugh and give up the attempt as maids swoop in to corral the children.

“We’ll try again in a few months,” you say. “Perhaps they’ll be more tame by then.”

Helaena begins to gather up the game pieces. “We should ask Aegon to carve new animals for the children. Jaehaerys likes seals…” Then her hands go still and she stares at someone who’s standing behind you.

Before you can turn, Aemond leans down to where you’re kneeling on the cobblestones, grabs your braid, and wraps it around his fist. “Follow me,” he whispers into your ear.

“Why? Where?”

“Follow me,” he says again, more forcefully now. “I’m not asking.” Then he releases you with a rough shove and walks away.

You rise from the cobblestones and go after him, weaving through the paths of the garden, fountains trickling and flowers blooming and bees droning in the air. Aemond glances back to make sure you’re in pursuit, then disappears into an arbor grown over with roses, a tunnel of red blossoms and snagging thorns. Aemond sits on a stone bench that is draped in shadows and hidden from view; no one will see you unless they enter the tunnel. You can hear the distant sound of the ocean waves, and gulls and blue jays and the red-tailed hawks the noblemen hunt with. You take a seat beside Aemond, and immediately he lifts your legs so they rest across his lap, reaches beneath the hem of your maroon gown with his right hand, skims his way up the inside of your thigh as you pretend to fight him, all the while smiling and needing him closer, all your blood and muscles screaming for him, your bones aching like fractures that must be set.

“Look at me,” Aemond commands, catching your jaw in his left hand and holding you still, the transparent blue of his eye fixed on your face, where he reads every line and movement like a dead language, like the High Valyrian almost no one left can understand. “I want to know if I’m hurting you.”

Beneath your gown, his fingers are stroking you, waiting for you to be wet and relaxed enough, parting your lips.

“Are you afraid?” Aemond asks.

“No.” Maybe you should be, but you aren’t.

There is an unfamiliar fullness, strange but not unpleasant, and then when Aemond’s fingers begin to move inside you, you moan softly and close your eyes, breaking the spell. He lets go of your jaw and his palm shifts to cradle the side of your face, to bring you in closer, to hold you against him. And now you know that when he finally takes you, as a husband does a wife, it will be painless; and it will never be something you warn your silver-haired children about with dark resignation in your voice.

“What if they won’t let us marry?” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, dreading this more than anything. You don’t know that Targaryens and their dragons will soon be dying. “What if they send me away to wed some lord in the Reach or the Westerlands or the Vale?”

“Then I’ll find you,” Aemond says. “And I’ll burn down his castle, and I’ll bring you home.”

“You’re a monster,” you purr; but there’s a grin on your lips as he kisses you, something scalding and primordial like magma flowing beneath the earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

Heart’s Home is a small grey castle in a vast grey world, the shadows of mountains filling the horizon, the sky overcast and bleak and the air tasting like metal. The last time you were in the Vale was as a girl, when Aemond pushed you into a frigid stream and you caught a chill that almost killed you, and he never apologized but he slept on your floor like a dog so he could be there to climb into bed and hold you when you shivered, and surely that is a greater sort of repentance than two vanishingly small words that anyone could say and perhaps not even mean.

You and Jace disembark from Alyn of Hull’s ship on the banks of where an inland river meets the saltwater of the Narrow Sea. Outside the castle walls, Heart’s Home has a stable and a sizable field, surely green and fertile in the summer, that is surrounded on three sides by a thick forest of coniferous trees. Cawing ravens perch on the branches; a hunting party emerges from the pines accompanied by braying hounds and carrying corpses of foxes to be skinned. You are greeted warmly by Lord Leowyn Corbray—who is tall and ancient, over seventy years old—and his wife Lady Carolei, around fifty and very round, with dark hair and pale skin that the harsh mountain wind rubs pink. While her husband fawns over Jace—“We were so honored by the queen’s request,” “We will ensure that your every need is attended to, Prince Jacaerys”—Lady Carolei Corbray watches you with an amused little smile, as if there are many questions she is impatient to ask you. Then you and your betrothed are ushered into the castle and served mutton pie full of gravy and vegetables, dark bread slathered with butter, blackberry oatcakes for dessert. You drink too much wine, because you know what will happen next. Jace does not reprove you this time; he’s drinking a good amount of ale himself.

The people of the Vale worship the Seven, and for all you know Jace does too, because there is no mention of a Valyrian wedding with fire and blood. Instead you exchange your vows in a tiny sept with plain glass windows and cold slate stones. A weathered, bony septon presides over the ceremony, and Lord Corbray stands in for your dead father. Even if Viserys was still alive, he wouldn’t feel like much less of a stranger. You are covered with a maiden’s cloak of your house—Lady Corbray announces proudly that it was sewn especially for this occasion—but it’s wrong, because they’ve used the old black and red sigil of House Targaryen rather than Aegon’s banner, a golden dragon on a green background. But you suppose it’s fitting because Jace’s cloak isn’t right either, as it depicts the seahorse of House Velaryon rather than the tri-colored flag of House Strong.

At the septon’s direction, Lord Corbray removes your cloak from your shoulders and Jace covers you with his own. And once you’ve exchanged the requisite words and Jace kisses you—him swift and uneasy, you trying not to flinch away—you realize that this is the first time you can remember him touching you. On the journey northward, Jace would sometimes find you pacing the ship’s deck and ask you silted, shallow questions: What kind of weather do you like best? What are your favorite desserts? Do you prefer swimming or horseback riding? What colors do you favor? Your nightly ritual was trying not to discuss your murdered relatives over dinner.

You are put to bed in a grand chamber at the top of one of the castle’s towers. There is a fireplace where logs snap and hiss, and a rug made of a shadowcat’s pelt; a chandelier of lit candles hangs from the ceiling. Through the window, you can see a silvery full moon obscured by clouds. You and Jace—freshly bathed and wearing loose, cotton nightclothes—wait in the quiet once your hosts have left, the blankets pulled up to your waists. All the bedlinens are white, you realize; you don’t think this is by accident.

They want to know if I’m truly a maiden. They want to know if I bleed.

You have no idea if you will or not. Nothing that Aemond has ever done to you has resulted in blood.

I don’t want it to hurt, you think with abrupt panic. You look around for a jar of oil, olive or rose, something to help him enter you. You open the drawers of your nightstand and are disappointed to find them empty.

“What are you doing?” Jace asks.

“Nothing.” You can’t explain without revealing you know more than a virgin should.

Jace turns to you. “You really haven’t done this before?”

Your nervousness must be evident. Surely no whore who had already been defiled by her monstrous brother would be sitting here wringing her trembling hands. “No.”

“Okay.” Jace takes a deep breath. He seems resolved to be brave for both of you; that is a husband’s burden, after all. “I haven’t either.”

“But you’ve…I mean, you’re a man, it’s different for you. You have experience of some sort, I assume…?” With Baela? With anyone?

Jace blushes and can’t meet your eyes. “I’m not above temptation. We kissed a few times.”

This is not reassuring. “Do you think you’ll be able to…? With me?” The daughter and sister of enemies?

He nods and smiles faintly. “Oh yeah, I think it’ll all work as it should.” Then he looks at you, dark eyes, dark curls, not ugly but not who you’ve ever imagined you would give yourself to. His gaze settles on your braid. “Here,” he says, and then he gently begins to unravel it.

You aren’t sure what to do. You’re not going to hit Jace, or fight him, or shove him or grab him or scratch him, and so you don’t know where you should put your hands. Once your hair is loose, you sink down to the soft feather mattress until you are lying flat on your back. Jace yanks off his shirt and tosses it to the floor, then he leans towards you, gesturing to your nightgown.

“Is it okay if I…?”

“Sure,” you say, and help him pull it off you. Even beneath the blankets, your bare skin feels the chill of the night air, and with the apprehension and fear there is something else too, a longing, a craving that has gone unsatiated. It’s crude to think, but it’s true: you’re used to being fed, and you haven’t been since Aemond went away.

Unexpectedly, Jace’s eyes don’t go to your breasts or lower; instead, they catch on the scar that cuts down from your left collarbone. He touches it with careful, weightless fingerprints. His voice is tender. “What happened here?”

“An assassin’s blade,” you say. “The night Jaehaerys died.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Here—in bed, in the firelight—he is not Rhaenyra’s eldest son and someone you are supposed to hate, someone who is a threat to your life, someone who once played a part in Aemond losing his eye. Here Jace is just a man, and you are naked, and beneath the blankets he is taking off his cotton trousers and then positioning himself between your legs. You are a little wet already, you can feel it, but you know you need more, you know he needs to make you ready with his fingers and his mouth, but Jace isn’t aware of this and you can’t tell him.

You gasp as he starts to push himself inside you, overwhelming burning pressure. “Jace, I’m afraid.”

He stops and looks down at you with seeking, sympathetic eyes. His skin is flushed, his breathing quick. If you could read his face, you’d think it says: What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything. “We can stop.”

“No, just…just please go slowly, okay? Please don’t hurt me.” No more than you have to.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, and then—perhaps because he doesn’t know what else to do—he kisses you, and at first it is formal and unnatural like it was in the sept, but then Jace’s lips begin to move with yours and the kiss glows warm like embers. Your fingers go to his hair—not a Targaryen’s, a Strong’s—and tangle in his curls. His hands explore your breasts, grazing and circling your nipples with his fingertips. You wrap your legs around Jace as his tongue darts into your mouth, wanting this, maybe even wanting him.

Jace thrusts into you, and there is a moment of blinding pain that makes you cry out; and for everything that has been said about Aemond—a monster, a murderer, violent and arrogant and wicked—nothing he has ever done to you has hurt like this. Immediately, Jace moves to pull away, but you stop him. “Don’t.”

He shakes his head. “But you’re hurt—”

You hold his face in your hands to make him listen. “I’m alright, I promise. Just wait here, just give me a moment.”

“Okay,” Jace sighs into your throat that’s damp with perspiration. He kisses you there, tasting your salt, fear that has turned to lust. “Okay, okay…”

Already the pain is fading, and your muscles are relaxing, and you are slick with wetness to ease the razored friction. And it’s nothing like the way Aemond knew how to touch you—you are nowhere near a climax—but still, there is something pleasurable about it, there is something nice about being tangled up with a man this way again.

“Go on,” you tell Jace; and he rests his forehead against yours as he thrusts into you, very slowly, and he’s shaking all over, and between breathless kisses he is moaning, in shock that a feeling this good exists, in mindless ecstasy, and then he spills himself inside you and collapses onto your chest, still kissing you, thanking you, asking if you’re alright. Before you can answer, he throws back the blankets and examines the sheets. When you look down, you can see that between your legs is a stain of pale pink, a miniscule amount of blood.

Is that all? you think, relieved. It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so good either, but it was tolerable. And it will get better.

“No, no, no,” Jace murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. He is distressed, he is repentant. “I wounded you. I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll be alright, Jace,” you say, rather amused.

He crawls back to you and lies down beside you on the bed. He is struggling to keep his eyes open. “You weren’t lying. You’ve never done that before.”

“No.”

“I won’t hurt you again.” He kisses your cheek. “My wife. My princess.” And then he rests his head on his pillow and within a minute he is snoring softly.

“My prince,” you whisper, trying it out. It doesn’t feel right yet, but maybe one day it will. You have to clean yourself off; Jace doesn’t know this about women, but you do. You climb out of bed, and Jace stirs as you leave.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s a reflex he’s repeated a thousand times, like it takes no thought at all. You stare bewildered at him. Jace’s eyes are still closed. And you think of Aemond—suddenly, with great clarity, as Jace sleeps in your shared bed—and you will yourself to be able to see where is and what he’s thinking. But there is nothing: only silence and firelight and the full moon hovering in the overcast, indigo sky outside.

Is he thinking of me? Does he feel lost too?

You have the maids draw a hot bath and you wash it all away, the sweat and the blood and the wetness and Jace’s seed that might give you a child with the unruly dark hair of the Strongs, and still you cannot stop thinking of Aemond.

Did he love me then? Does he love me now?

Back in your bedchamber, you gaze into the flames of the fireplace and try to remember the sound of Aemond’s voice, but you can’t. It keeps bleeding into the words of other people: Aegon, Daeron, Maelor, Jace.

[readychilledwine]

Heavy

Summary - Being a mother is so much harder than you expected, especially when Cassian is gone

Warnings - motherhood, signs of postpartum

A/N- I needed therapy, and this happened. To all my readers who are moms, readers who want to become moms, or dedicated aunts who are bonus moms: you are all amazing, strong, and valued.

You closed your eyes as your daughter cried out for the fifth time tonight. 

She had just fallen asleep. She was warm, content, fed, clean diaper. You didn't know what you were doing wrong, but when she wasn't on your chest, her small wails would break the silence of the House of Wind. You sat up, picking her up to try to stop the crying and sat against the headboard. 

Cassian had been gone for the past 4 days in Windhaven. He had, begrudgingly, agreed to go with Rhys and Azriel. Each item he packed was slammed into his bag haphazardly before he finally realized his anger was keeping your daughter awake, her little wings fluttering with each loud noise. He had slept with her skin to skin the whole night. He refused to allow anyone else to hold his girl before he left in the morning. 

And Gods her cries when she realized daddy wasn't there, that daddy wasn't going to cuddle after feedings with mommy that day, they shattered you. 

She loved her daddy. She loved you. She wanted you both at all times.

But daddy had to work, you would whisper before crying too. 

Tonight had been your last straw. You didn't remember the last time you bathed and changed clothing, the last time you slept for more than 30 to 45 minutes at a time.

The tears came before you could stop them. Cassian's absence had taken a huge toll on your mental health as you constantly had your newborn attached to your breasts, in your arms sleeping on you, crying for you if you so much as left the room to go to the bathroom.

You leaned your head back crying with her little sniffles, “I know, babygirl. I miss daddy too.” 

Cassian glared at Rhys as your stress and emotion stuck him. You had grown so exhausted that keeping the bond locked tight was no longer an option. "She's fine, Cassian. She's a great mom," Rhys said softly. "I wouldn't have pulled you away if she couldn't handle it."

Azriel made a face, having stayed the past week with you and Cassian at the house to be an extra hand. "She's an amazing mother, Rhys, but Sulwyn is a daddy's girl," Azriel leaned against the wall in the cabin. "This is probably overwhelming for all three of them. It's only be 4 weeks."

Cassia was about to respond, thanking Azriel for understanding, but you sent him one last wave before you realized the bond was open. It was that last emotion that hit him that had him standing without warning and taking off. 

That he had never felt from you before. That feeling of completely worthlessness, of self doubt, of complete self loathing. 

He pushed himself, straining each sore muscle before landing hard on your shared balcony in record time. 

And the sight inside broke his heart. 

Your daughter crying on your chest, and you with her, telling her you didn't know what else to try, what was wrong.

“Give her to me,” he said softly. “Give me our daughter. Go bathe. Do something for you.” You shook your head, holding her tighter. “y/n, give me our baby. You need a break, sweetheart. I can feel it. I can feel you falling apart. I can feel the pit forming. Let me take care of you two.”

“But Rhys-”

“Can fuck all the way off. My wife isn't okay. You need to give me Sulwyn and take a break.” You moved slowly, handing Cassian the tiny Illyrian female who instantly calmed in his arms. His face softened immediately, heart warming. “I missed you too, baby.” 

He felt the moment that shattered you too. Another heavy emotion hitting the bond. 

You sat curled up in the tub for what felt like hours. It was long enough Cassian had put Sul down and now sat next to you.

“Tell what’s going through your head,” he pushed wet hair behind your pointed ear. “Talk to me, sweetness.”

“I feel worthless. Like I've lost my sense of who I am and all value I held to the court.” You paused, wiping a few stray tears. “I feel like a burden to you, her, and now our family.”

That one struck Cassian straight in his heart. “You could never be a burden.”

“I can't even calm our daughter to sleep,” you broke again, voice shaking as you began to sob. “All I am her is her personal food slave. No one said it would be this hard.”

“I know, y/n.” Cassian sighed deeply. “We need to get you out of the House,” Cassian tilted your head to him, kissing your forehead lightly. “Madja warned us about this, remember? She warned us that you potentially would start to feel really down. Everything you are feeling is normal, even if it's so far from true.”

Cassian kissed your lips gently. “I need you to listen to me and hear me right now, okay? You are not a burden. You are not worthless. You are not her personal feeding dummy. You are her mother. Her  best friend. Her safe place.” Cassian paused, wiping your tears. “You are my wife. My mate. You are the strongest female I know. You birthed an Illyrian with the wrong anatomy and somehow survived. You're caring for a newborn the size of your torso, and you do it with a smile and without voicing these feelings. She and I would be lost without you.”

He paused again, a small squeak being heard from the bedroom before silence fell back over. “You are her favorite person. She lights up at just the sound of your voice. I have to cuddle her under your blanket. Yes, she was upset and missed me, and Gods I missed her, but you are her world. And you both are mine, and it is killing me to see you like this.”

Another small squeak came. “She's hungry,” you whispered. 

“Would a shitty mom know that just from the noise she's making?” You shook your head, allowing him to help you stand And wrap you in a warm towel. “I'll hold you two while she eats, so you can fall asleep if you want?” 

It was such a little gesture. One of his small smiles gracing his face as he carried you back into your shared room. 

Cassian dressed you gently kissing your fingers, your palms, your cheekbones. He laid in the bed with you two motioning for you to come between his legs and holding Sulwyn to you. 

“Tomorrow mama is going to leave for awhile, Sul. You, daddy, and Auntie Nesta will hang out while Uncle Az takes mom to the Cafe they like to go to so they can discuss the latest in gross spy shit-” Cassian froze behind you. “Stuff.”

He smiled looking down and realizing you had fallen asleep in his arms. “You, little baby,” he looked at Sulwyn, “Are beyond loved. We need to make sure mama feels that way too, okay? Daddy is going to tell Uncle Rhys to shove it tomorrow. Then we're going to work on spoiling mommy.”

Your daughter gave Cassian a small smile, looking up at him with bright doe eyes as she continued eating. “That's my girl.”

[unabletonotlovesatoru]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ teddy’s notes: spider-man! midoriya because it makes sense. not proofread!! sorry for mistakes . also i want to specify that izuku really reminds me of tom hollands portrayal of peter parker, literally two puppy eyed losers, so obvi that movie is more of an inspiration than tasm.

spider-man! midoriya, who’s been called useless and felt the same thing his entire life only for it to change when a curious spider bit into his arm. now, he can at least do something and even if it mostly goes unnoticed by civilians and stuff — he doesn’t care because the sense of justice and duty in him is too strong. but he does dream of his favourite hero, all might, noticing him one day.

spider-man! midoriya, who has to get a new school uniform because not only is he taller than he was before, but he is also wider and overall bigger, which needs to be hidden, obviously. although, kacchan does notice the fact that he’s the same height as him now, even a little bit taller, which becomes something everyone likes to tease the blond about. bakugou on the other hand is fucking furious, demanding izuku tell him how he got so tall right fucking now, or i’ll kill ya, nerd.

spider-man! midoriya, who hides his proud grin whenever he overhears people being impressed with his abilities as they watch videos that other civilians took. videos of him flying around, hanging from his self-made webs and apprehending bad guys he encounters, and it’s a nice feeling until someone starts to bash him for stealing police’s work. police could never be like him tho!!

spider-man! midoriya, who sleeps for 2-3 hours every night and comes to school with cuts and bruises and spends his time thinking of how he can improve and be a better hero. he does hours of research and spends all of his scholarship on different materials and stuff that could make his suit more durable and resistant to all kinds of things: tears, rips, rain and all that.

spider-man! midoriya, who thinks he’s so slick with everything and he’s got everything under control. little does he know about you, silently watching him from afar.

spider-man! midoriya, who despite being gifted with an amazing eyesight, is blind to your surveillance of his behaviour. how you notice every time he disappears in the middle of a lesson after taking a brief look at his phone, how he forces himself to slow down when p.e. classes come around and pretends to not be able to pull himself up more than 4-5 times, which only gets a delighted howl from katsuki, the self-proclaimed “best”. you notice how he winces sometimes, bracing a hand against the table as the other clutches his side or his ribcage and how he stays late after chemistry classes. maybe it’s just that you like him so much that it makes you be so observant of him, however there’s something off about izuku midoriya.

spider-man! midoriya, who thought he was a magnet for trouble, but you seem to wear that title just as easily as him.

spider-man! midoriya, who saves you because for some reason you attract trouble like no one else does. someone tries to pickpocket when you lean down to feed a stray kitten, you nearly walk into a pole when you’re too immersed in whatever you’re watching on your phone, or someone almost runs you over when you’re crossing the road — izuku really doesn’t understand how it happens so many times.

spider-man! midoriya, who is pleasantly surprised by the newfound connection between the two of you. he doesn’t mind spending unnecessary amounts of time walking you home through the long path so he can continue rambling and dodge your silly questions about his abilities and how did he get them, thoroughly enjoying the frustration that covers your features. you don’t even know it’s him, your classmate of two years now — izuku midoriya, who is the proclaimed nerd of the said class.

spider-man! midoriya, who didn’t even know you were this talkative since he always hangs out with the same people and the only reminder of your presence in class is when the teacher is checking the attendance. you’re always somewhere in the background yet you always seem to know what they’re talking about. maybe it’s because mina seems to be friends with you and since her mouth is like a unstoppable force once opened you slide into the conversation very easily, and no one seems to mind. after meeting you one too many times as spider-man, izuku’s attention always somehow drifts to you yet he doesn’t notice the familiarity that sometimes fogs your gaze as you listen to his replies attentively.

spider-man! midoriya, who has to cover his face so no one notices how red it is when he accidentally catches you doodling spiders in your notebook.

spider-man! midoriya, who is delighted to be paired with you for a project. you offer to study at his place, referring to your house as ‘too loud’, and izuku is totally fine with it. he has no idea that you’re already sitting in his room by the time he’s done with his usual patrol routine.

spider-man! midoriya, who slides into his room through the window and when he turns the lights on, the last thing he expects to see is your shocked face: brows nearly disappearing into your hairline, eyes wide open, mouth ajar and ready to scream.

[hqbaby]

four — just a little

mess it up — gojo x reader & sukuna x reader

⁀➴ when i told you i’m fine, you were lied to. when the love of your life falls for someone else, you decide to move on—by pretending to date your best friend, the campus fuckboy.

previous — masterlist — next

word count. 1.8k content. profanity, alcohol consumption, a lil bit of tension???

booger: r u up?

It’s 4 AM and you should not, in fact, be up. But you are. And apparently so is Sukuna.

You contemplate ignoring him. You can get back to him in the morning and act all high and mighty like, “I’m a proper human being with a life, so no, I don’t stay up until 4 AM like you, loser.” It’s not like anything good has ever come from you replying to his late-night/early-morning texts. You recall another time you replied to him at this hour; the two of you ended up almost getting arrested after sneaking into a reservoir.

Alas, you’re still up and you’ve been rotting your brain on your phone for hours, so your better judgment has gone the way of your last few brain cells.

you: what do u want

You watch as he types something. “Damn, so hostile,” probably. He deletes it. Then, he types again. “Why are you up?” maybe. Deletes it. Then, “Wanna fuck?” before he remembers who you are. He types again and actually sends the message this time.

booger: be there in 5

Part of you wants to prank him. Go to sleep and let the poor guy pound on your door until one of your neighbors—probably the grumpy old lady who lives beside you—scolds him and threatens to call security. It’s a good prank. You go as far as thinking about it.

When gets there, he’s got his hood pulled over his head. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, black sunglasses, and a serious expression on his face.

“Damn, you look so cool,” you say. He cracks a grin and you crack up. “What the fuck are you doing? You look ridiculous.”

His face falls into a frown as he steps into your apartment, closing the door behind him. You’ve already left him behind, crashing onto your couch as he changes his shoes into one of the slippers you keep for him by your door.

“You’re a real bitch, you know,” he says. He sheds the sunglasses and pulls his hood away. You’ve ruined the whole vibe he was going for. “Aren’t you gonna offer me a drink or something?”

You lift your head and point at the console table by the door. “There’s a bottle of Cuervo there,” you tell him. “Get it for me.”

He huffs but does as you say anyway. He picks the bottle up and walks over to you, sitting on the floor in front of the couch. “You’re a shitty host,” he says as he opens the bottle.

“You’re an intruder,” you say, snatching the bottle away from him before he takes a sip. You raise it to your lips to take a swig. “Why are you here?”

“Am I not allowed to see my girlfriend?”

You choke on the tequila. “What?” You cough as he laughs and pats your back. “Don’t say shit like that.”

He grabs the bottle from you and chugs a good amount. “I love teasing you,” he says, pinching your cheek. “It’s so easy.”

You slap his hand away and sit up. “I hate you.”

He just grins and passes you the bottle. “You love me,” he chirps. “Wouldn’t put up with me otherwise.”

“Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s saying I’m incapable of love.”

You don’t know why you say that. It’s not part of the script, the usual back and forth between the two of you. For a moment, you worry that you’ve said something wrong.

“Who says that?” He looks serious now. Like he’s about to beat someone up. You know, the usual. What were you even worried about? “You got a gun for me to use on them?”

You laugh at his dour expression. It’s true, of course, that people have been spreading this new rumor that you’re a cold, ruthless bitch who doesn’t have room in her heart for someone, let alone a boyfriend. It’s why you broke up with Satoru apparently. You know it’s stupid and people don’t really know what they’re talking about, that they’re bored and just making shit up, but for some reason, you can’t shake the thought.

What if they’re right?

You put the Cuervo on the floor beside Sukuna and hug a throw pillow to your chest. “I had a dream.”

“Is this where you break into song?”

You roll your eyes at him. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

He doesn’t take the challenge lightly, immediately hopping onto the couch beside you and dropping his head onto your lap to stare up at you. He bats his lashes at you and says, “What did you dream about?”

You place your hand on his face. Then, you feel something wet on your palm. 

His fucking tongue.

“You’re so gross,” you whine, wiping your hand on his hoodie. “What do girls even see in you?”

He smirks. You’ve just given him an opportunity and you wholly regret it now. “It’s not so much what they see, but how big it is,” he says, amused by the disgusted face you make. He pokes your cheek with his finger now. “Tell me about your dream.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

He pouts, his lower lip jutting out as he looks at you with big eyes, practically getting teary-eyed now. He’s a great actor, you’ll give him that. He’d probably get better grades if he was a theater major.

“I wanna know,” he says softly. “Tell me.”

There’s something about the way he looks at you that feels unnervingly familiar. You’re used to his antics, you’ve had to deal with them since the two of you were in high school, but it’s moments like this that you remember just how much you know each other. It’s a constant thing, always lurking beneath your banter and jokes—it just surprises you when it’s in your face.

You place your hand on his shoulder and sigh. “It’s stupid,” you say. “I just keep having these dreams where I’m running from something. Different things every time. Zombies, ghosts, clowns—”

“You run away from clowns?”

“Clowns with murderous intentions.”

“Okay. Valid.”

You shake your head, smiling now as the teasing reminds you of who you’re talking to. It’s just Sukuna.

 “Anyway,” you say as you stare off into your empty living room. “I just… run. And I get to a point where I feel safe until I realize that I’ve actually been cornered. I wake up before anything happens.”

When you look at him again, his brows are furrowed, already in deep thought. He considers your dream carefully. You wonder if he’ll crack another joke, change the tone of the conversation, but of course he doesn’t.

“What do you think it means?”

You squeeze the throw pillow beside you. “I don’t know,” you say. “I should probably ask Nobara. Psych majors know all about that shit, right?”

He nods. “Yeah, they got that Freud dude.”

“I’m not sure that Freud dude is necessarily accurate about dreams.”

“You never know until you try.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment. You can hear the air conditioner buzz, the fridge rumble. You’ve gotten used to these sounds of silence, what with you being more alone than you’ve been in a while. This time though, you can hear Sukuna’s breathing. Quiet, but steady, a reminder that you’re not completely alone this time.

“Is that why you’re still up?” he asks eventually. “You can’t sleep?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not.” Earnest. Sincere. “I just wanted to know.”

You look at him skeptically, but he just stares up at you from his place on your lap, blinking in the light of your living room.

“I mean, it’s not just the dreams,” you tell him. “I’ve been feeling a little lonely, you know. Since… Satoru.”

He cringes at the name but schools his expression before it turns into a full on snarl. “Still don’t know what you saw in that guy.”

“He was good to me,” you say. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He must’ve if you broke up with him.”

You hesitate, but you find it in yourself to insist, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sukuna stands up. “If you say so,” he says. He reaches his hand out in front of you. “Come on. You gotta sleep.”

You stare at his hand. “You don’t think you’re taking me to bed, do you?”

“I am taking you to bed.”

He stays there for a moment, watching you watch his hand, unmoving. “I’m not getting in bed with you. Chill, bro.”

A beat.

“It’s not that,” you say, taking his hand and letting him pull you up. “It’s just…”

He raises a brow. “What?”

Yeah. What?

“Nothing,” you whisper. This is stupid. “You can sleep beside me. It’s fine.”

It’s his turn to be taken aback. Suddenly, he thinks that your hand being in his feels terribly comfortable. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, pulling your hand away. You pad over to your bedroom, walking straight ahead without looking back. Pretending like you don’t care if he follows. “We’ve slept in the same bed before. It’s no big deal.”

But it is. Somehow, you feel like it is.

You’re already under your blanket when he follows you into the room. He stands at the foot of the bed a little awkwardly. Like a lost puppy.

“When was the last time you slept in the same bed as a girl you didn’t fuck?”

He’s sheepish now, stripped of all his usual brazen demeanor. “A long time.”

His hand reaches for the hem of his hoodie.

“What are you doing?” you ask, eyes wide. “This isn’t—”

“Relax,” he says, pulling the hoodie off his head. He’s wearing a t-shirt underneath. Plain red, one you’ve probably seen more times than you can count. “I just run warm is all.”

You feel your face heat up. What did you think he was doing?

Your best friend slides into bed beside you. This isn’t anything strange for the two of you. You used to sleep over at each other’s houses back when you were in high school and one of you wanted to avoid the chaos of your home. You’ve slept beside each other before. It was never a thing.

But it’s been a while since then. You’re no longer the kids you were, all playful and shameless.

It feels different this time. Somehow.

He’s keeping his distance and you can feel it. Your body is turned away from him, but you can feel his eyes on you. He wants to be closer to you.

You want to be closer to him too.

“You can—”

His chest hits your back as he rolls over to lie directly behind you. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly. You can feel his breath on your neck.

You swallow. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

You feel his hand carefully move around your waist. He doesn’t touch you, his arm hovering just above the thin fabric of your top. “Is this—”

“Yeah.”

He rests his arm on your waist and you feel yourself relax into his touch. He wasn’t lying when he said he runs hot, it feels like you’re melting against a furnace. Still, somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to mind.

If anything, you might just admit that you like it. Maybe. Just a little.

notes. soooo the besties are doing a thing 👀 how do we feel about reader and sukuna so far 👀 we also haven't seen much of gojo yet but next chapter is gonna be interesting ;)

[hannahluvsbillie]

one more chance?

casual part 4 ; final part

☆彡 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ~ you wake up to billie next to you; the memories of what happened last night flood your mind.

☆ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧��� ~ billie eilish x reader

☆ 𝐜𝐰 ~ none

ꨄ 𝐚/𝐧 ~ hi guys! this is the final part of casual, i think. thank you all for your support on this series! keep a eye out for new fics here 😉

you wake up to the sound of soft rain pattering on your window, the sound stirring you awake. you open your eyes, and suddenly feel a weight on top of your arm. your eyes widen and it all comes back to you.

last night billie cried in your arms for hours until you finally made her go to sleep. she never even told you what happened. originally you said you’d sleep on the couch, but when billie looked at you with those sad eyes, eyes that looked exhausted, and asked you to hold her, you couldn’t help but give in.

now, you’re regretting that decision. you gave into her, you told yourself you were done with her, you wouldn’t text her or let her into your house anymore- you especially wouldn’t let yourself get in the backseat of her porsche anymore.

you sigh, looking up at the ceiling lost in your thoughts.

suddenly you feel billie move a little, her arm wrapping around your waist and her head nuzzling into the crook of your neck. this is when you give up, you could tell she really needed someone right now, she needed you right now.

you shift a little and cradle her head in your hand, the other hand gently tracing shapes on her back. something about how she’s breathing told you this is the best she’s slept

in awhile.

a few minutes later she stirs, her arm moves from your waist for just a moment to rub her eyes. her face is still a little swollen.

when her eyes open and meet yours, she rests her head on your bicep, sighing.

“hey” she says lowly, her voice still raspy from sleeping. she looks at you like your the world to her, you remember that look, it no longer makes you feel good.

you smile weakly at her, exhaling a breathe that felt like you’ve been holding it forever.

“billie you know this was a bad idea.” you say, biting your lip without thinking.

you hear her swallow, her eyes straying from yours, moving to the wall behind you. “i know, i’m sorry. i just didn’t know what else to do- or who to call. you’re the only one that can handle me like that.” she says, looking away.

you sigh in defeat, rolling over a little and looking at the ceiling above you.

she sits up, moving from your arms. “y/n i know i fucked up okay, but these past few months have been hell without you. i can’t see other people without feeling guilty and i don’t know why.” she says, not looking at you once

you glance over at her, you can tell she’s being honest. billie doesn’t just say that.

“billie you made me feel used and when i told you, you told me i was dramatic.” you say, looking forward. you couldn’t bare to look at her in the eyes.

she sighs, turning to face you. “i realized that, i never once wanted to make you feel used. it’s just- you scare the shit out of me.” she says laughing softly like she can’t believe it, your brows furrow in response.

“it scares me- the way i feel about you, it was supposed to be just a causal fling. but when i wasn’t around you i felt like i was running on autopilot or some shit- the only time i felt alive was when i was with you. and it scared me. i didn’t know how to deal with it- and i didn’t want to ruin what we had” she says, looking over at you. she speaks like she’s been holding it in for months, which she probably has.

you look over at billie, your eyes soften seeing her expression.

“you wouldn’t of ruined what we had…” you speak softly, and she looks up at you

like she can’t believe it. she can’t believe you felt the same way all along.

“y/n im in love with you. i was 3 months ago and i am now.” she speaks, letting out a deep breath at the end of her sentence.

your brows raise, you never thought you’d hear her say those words.

“give me one more chance, please.” she says, looking into your eyes with desperation. you blink a few times, before gently cupping her face and kissing her.

it felt like a thousand fire works were set off, you missed her lips so much. the way they molded together so perfectly, it was like they were meant to be together. the way her hands gripped your waist was gentle. one of her hands go up and tangle in your hair, holding you in place.

you used to kiss and do this all the time- but this felt different, it wasn’t out of lust anymore, just pure love. it was a good kind of different though. it felt a lot better.

she was first to break the kiss, resting her forehead on yours, looking into your eyes. a soft smile lingers on her face. her hands gently brushing through your hair to smooth it out from her hands roaming your hair.

“so.. can i have one more chance?” she says, raising her brows with a little smile.

you take a moment to pretend like you were thinking about it, but you knew the answer already. you knew the answer the minute you blocked her even if you ignored it. you’d give her as many chances as she needed.

“yes.” you say, smiling back at her.

she giggles softly and kisses you again, her hands gripping your hips and pulling you on her lap playfully. small giggles were heard from both of you as you kissed, both you and billie’s hands roamed around the places you missed most.

maybe you’d regret this in the long run, but fuck if it didn’t feel good to be under her grip again.

[imaginespazzi]

Part 6: To Trying Again

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

I don't wanna mess this thing up (I don't wanna push too far)

(In which an "evil" writer might surprise you guys just a little bit with this part)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Fluff and Angst

Words: 5.6K

TW: Swearing (I think that's it?)

A/N: Happy Monday lovelies! This is sort of a filler-ish short chapter though I do think it's important to both plot and character development. I'd like to preface this by saying I've never been to Minsk or Park Pieramohi so I'm very much going off of pictures. Editing and I remain on very, very bad terms so pretty please let me know of typos so I can fix them. As always, let me know what you liked, what you disliked and what you'd like to see going forward. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

July 2018 

“You’re being too loud,” Azzi whisper-screams at the blonde girl in front of her as she closes the door to her room behind her with a little too much force. 

Paige turns her head back every-so-slightly with a pronounced eye roll, “will you please relax.”

“I would if you’d just be a little more careful,” Azzi glares, taking cautious steps as if the sound of her sneakers across the carpeted floor could potentially wake up any of the coaches. 

“Azzi,” Paige says exasperatedly, “the coaches are all the way on the other end of the hallway. Besides, they're probably all sleeping.”

And despite her stubbornness, Azzi can concede that Paige has a point there. It’s nearly midnight and the game against Spain earlier in the day might have had a final score that made it seem like the USA U17 women's basketball team had won handily, but the game itself had been draining to say the least. The post-victory dinner had featured a bunch of worn out teenagers gobbling their food without much conversation and a cohort of coaches who seemed like they needed an hour of drinking followed by good night’s sleep. But even the exhaustion of the day hadn’t been enough to prevent Paige Bueckers and her diabolical mind from coming up with the idea to sneak out into the city of Minsk. 

“No,” Azzi had said immediately even before the words had been spoken, that shimmering glint in Paige’s eyes a dead giveaway as she sidled up to Azzi at the salad bar. 

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Paige had pouted. 

“You never say anything good.”

“That’s crazy. You’re so mean to me.”

“So mean,” Azzi had nodded in agreement, “so how about you go and bother someone else.”

“Azzi please. We haven’t had just Paige and Azzi time in ages. Don’t want someone else. Just want you.”

And after that well, there wasn’t really any chance of saying no. Azzi’s only fifteen and she doesn’t know that much about love, but sometimes when Paige looks at her with those earnest blue eyes and a smile that promises i’ll always be here, she thinks the way her heart starts to flutter erratically to a beat of and i wouldn’t want anyone else to stay, might just be the start of her finding out. 

“See,” Paige grins triumphantly as the two girls find their way out of their hotel and onto the street, “told you we wouldn’t get caught. Shit’s just too damn easy.”

Azzi rolls her eyes at the attitude, “don’t tempt fate.”

“Fate’s got nothing in front of Paige Bueckers. I make my own fate,” Paige winks as she links her arms through Azzi. 

It’s a mundane amount of contact, absolutely nothing special to it, but Azzi feels herself shiver in spite of the humidity that’s circling around them. She doesn’t quite know how it happened. One moment she was staring across the court, judging the skinny blonde practicing free throws and coming to the conclusion that she’d be no threat; the next moment said girl was next to her on the plane back from Argentina and Azzi, a self-admitted introvert, found herself rattling off about everything and nothing with this girl who seemed to have discovered the keys to all of Azzi’s locks. Hours of talking had bled into days and days had bled into months and despite the fact that facetime had taken the place of in-person conversations, the word friendship had seemed too cavalier a word to describe the relationship Paige and Azzi were building. 

Paige had whittled away all of Azzi’s carefully constructed armor until she was buried deep underneath her skin and Azzi’s sure there’s no knife in the world sharp enough to carve the blonde out from where she lives underneath Azzi’s ribcage. Azzi doesn’t want anyone to try and dig her out. She  thinks she might bleed out if they do. 

“Az,” Paige whines, waving her free hand in the younger girl’s face, “are you even paying attention to me?”

“That depends,” Azzi hums, “are you saying anything interesting?”

“I’m always saying something interesting.”

“You’re always saying something. The interesting is subjective,” Azzi teases, laughing when Paige pouts. 

“I sneak you out to give you an adventure and this is how you repay me? With insults?” Paige puts a dramatic hand to her heart.

“Walking boring streets is not an adventure. Virginia has streets too.”

“It’s not about the streets, it’s about where the streets lead to,” Paige says with grave seriousness. 

Azzi raises an eyebrow, “are you entering your philosopher Paige era?”

“I’d make a good philosopher,” Paige waggles her own eyebrows as they two girls find themselves entering park Pieramohi. 

“Virginia has parks too, you know Paige?” Azzi says skeptically. 

Paige lets out a dramatic sigh, “will you just keep walking, woman. Sometimes I wonder if you even like me?”

It’s said like a joke but there’s a hint of insecurity beaded into it that buzzes in Azzi’s ears as she wraps a careful hand around Paige’s wrist, stopping the two of them where they are. 

“Hey,” she whispers softly, nudging the older girl, “you don’t ever have to wonder with me. I’m always gonna like you Paige. Even if you’re a pain in my ass half the time.”

“Had to ruin it with the last part, didn't you?” Paige complains but her eyes twinkle at the reassurance, “Just so you know I’m gonna be a pain in your ass forever.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Azzi promises as they continue strolling through the park. 

The silence is peaceful and the breeze that flows around them is like a comforting hug. And Azzi thinks that she’d be okay if there wasn’t a destination for them to get to, as long as the journey came with Paige by her side. 

“We’re almost there,” Paige says slowly, a slightly nervous edge to her voice. 

“You sure you’re not just getting us lost-” the teasing quip dies on Azzi’s tongue as she stares at the scenery in front of her. They’re standing on the edge of a bridge overlooking a lake and it looks like something out of a disney fairytale; the picturesque image of green trees silhouetted against a magically starry night is captured perfectly on the still surface of the water that’s flowing beneath. As Azzi peers across the railing, Paige right next to her, she feels her breath hitch at the reflection that peers up at her. Because the view in front of them is beautiful but Paige’s eyes are on Azzi and she’s staring at her as if the view is nothing in comparison. 

“C’mon,” the blonde says softly, lacing her fingers through Azzi’s as she tugs her along, “I have a plan.”

“There’s more?” Azzi asks in awe as Paige guides her to the gazebo in the middle of the bridge. 

“Just a little bit,” Paige says and oh- that shy smile is different. Azzi doesn’t think she’s seen that one yet and she makes a mental note to herself, to memorize it and store it along with all of Paige’s other smiles that make Azzi’s insides swoop like a rollercoaster. 

She watches intently as Paige begins to peruse through the purple rucksack she’d been carrying. The first thing out of it is a picnic blanket and then a horde of different snacks, all of Azzi’s favorites. Two plastic champagne glasses are next and then a sheepish grin as Paige pulls out a bottle of soda. 

“Couldn’t quite risk trying to get alcohol,” Paige scratches at her neck. 

“Next time maybe,” Azzi shrugs as she helps Paige set up the arrangement and she feels herself fluttering at the thought of doing this again and again and again. 

“How’d you even find this place?” she asks as Paige begins to pour out the soda. 

“You ever heard of googling?”

Azzi rolls her eyes at Paige’s teasing smirk, “how’d you even have time to do this?”

Paige is quiet for a second as she passes Azzi her glass, “wanted to do something special for us,” she says quietly, keeping her eyes intently on what she’s doing as she pours out a drink for herself, “wasn’t hard to find time for you.”

“You could be a poet, Paige Bueckers,” Azzi whispers and she knows it’s unfair of her but she thinks it anyway. As long as all your poems are about me. 

“The poets are lucky I chose a ball instead of a pen. They’d be out of a job otherwise,” Paige says, trying to ease back into the more familiar arrogance. 

“Always so humble,” Azzi says, rolling her eyes as she holds up her glass, “alright what are toasting to?”

“I came up with this whole thing. You can come up with a toast,” Paige scrunches her nose and Azzi shakes her head at it. 

She thinks for a second before smiling brightly at the girl in front of her, “let’s just keep it simple and toast to us.”

“How original,” Paige teases but she clinks her glass against Azzi’s anyways, “here’s to us.”

“Here’s to us,” Azzi repeats as they both take sips of soda. 

They melt into a comfortable silence, relishing in this rare moment where there isn’t a screen separating them from each other. Facetimes is a wonderful creation but a blurry screen, Azzi decides, doesn’t nearly do justice to just how damn pretty Paige is. Her hair is golden as it basks in the glow of the moon and Azzi wonders if the stars are jealous of how brilliantly the blonde’s blue eyes twinkle.

It’s Paige who speaks first, her voice hesitant, “you uh- you never asked me how my date went a couple of weeks ago.”

Azzi feels her whole body go rigid. She’d almost forgotten about Paige’s wretched date. The blonde had told her about it a couple of days before the actual event and Azzi had played the dutiful role of a best friend, teasing Paige with a light-heartedness she didn’t feel and congratulating her with an excitement that came from anywhere but from the heart. She’d purposely avoided Paige’s calls the day of the date and then two days after, coming up with some sorry excuse she no longer remembers. On the third day, when the hollow ache of i miss her voice in her chest had become too hard to ignore, Azzi had finally picked up the phone and diverted the conversation straight to a different topic. She hadn’t thought of the date since. 

“Guess it slipped my mind,” she says airily, fingers gripping the edge of the picnic blanket. 

“I could tell you about it now,” Paige says slowly. 

I’d rather you didn’t, Azzi thinks but that’s a thought that veers a little too out of the sphere of best-friend-isms and so she simply nods her head, “y-yeah tell me about it. How was it?”

“It was nice,” Paige begins and there’s something hidden in her tone that Azzi can't quite place but she’s a little too busy sulking at the idea of Paige with anybody else to try and decipher it, “dinner was good. Took her to a movie after. That was good too.”

“That’s cool P. I’m glad- I’m glad you had fun,” Azzi says nonchalantly, gripping the glass in her hands just a little too tight. 

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t really have that much fun,” Paige clarifies and Azzi gawks at her in confusion as the older girl fidgets with the frayed edges of the picnic blankets, “just didn’t- didn’t feel right. Don’t think she had much fun either. She never texted me after.”

“What a bitch,” Azzi bites out, suddenly irrationally angry at a girl she’d never met because how could anyone possibly not have fun with Paige, “I’m sorry P. You deserve-”

“I didn’t care that she didn’t text back-”

“Still. It’s just the decent thing to do,��� Azzi rants. 

“Maybe,” Paige shrugs, “but I didn’t have time to care about that. I had other things on my mind. Like the fact that you weren’t talking to me.”

Azzi flinches at the accusation, rushing out her previous defense, “I was busy.”

“Bullshit,” Paige sneers. 

“Paige-”

“But I get it,” the older girl says softly as she reaches for Azzi’s hand, tugging the brunette closer to her and Azzi feels something inside her erupt at how close their faces are, “I probably wouldn’t have talked to you for two days either if you went on a date with someone else.”

“Oh,” Azzi breathes out and there’s probably something more eloquent she should say but there’s this realization of maybe you feel it too that’s beginning to creep up her spine, rendering her speechless as Paige continues to stare at her like she’s mapping out all the tiniest details of Azzi’s face. 

“The whole date, I kept thinking how you wouldn’t order what she ordered off the menu or that you would probably hit my hand if I tried to steal something off your plate but then give it to me anyway. And that the movie would never have been so quiet with you and we’d probably get yelled at for giggling too much and I-” Paige pauses, dragging in a deep breath, “I definitely would’ve kissed you at the end.”

A sigh of relief escapes Azzi’s lips, “you didn’t kiss her.”

“No,” Paige confirms as she drops her forehead against Azzi’s, “but I-,” the blonde gulps nervously and Azzi can’t help the way her hand reaches up to caress the blush forming on Paige’s cheeks. 

“Ask me,” she whispers.

“I really want to kiss you,” Paige confesses, voice shaking slightly, “can I kiss you?”

Azzi doesn’t say anything, choosing to reply instead by pressing her lips softly against Paige’s. They move slowly at first, testing each other’s boundaries and savoring their first taste of each other. Azzi pulls the older girl onto her lap, hands firmly on Paige’s hips as the other girl clasps her own hands around Azzi’s neck.  It’s a little messy and uncoordinated and Azzi thinks they might need to practice a little more to really get it right but still, it’s everything.

And Azzi just knows

She knows it then just the way she knew Tim was meant to be her dad. The way she knew Jon and José were meant to be her brothers. The way she knew she was meant to play basketball. Azzi knows that she’s meant to fall hopelessly in love with Paige Bueckers. 

March 2033

There are three things Azzi should do. 

Push Paige away 

Tell her this a bad idea 

Run the fuck away

She does none of the above.

Instead Azzi kisses Paige back. 

And it’s still everything. Like the sun and moon are colliding and creating something so insanely powerful; something that feels so eternal. 

There’s nothing soft or slow about it as Paige presses every inch of herself into Azzi until she can feel Paige’s heartbeat as strongly as she can feel her own. It might be impossible but she swears their hearts are talking to each other, tapping out rhythms against each other’s chests that confess all the things their owners are too scared to say. And Azzi wants nothing more than to lose herself completely in the moment because Paige’s lips feel like a drug and Azzi thinks she might just be an addict in relapse. 

Except to relapse, you need to have recovered. And Azzi doesn’t think she ever fully recovered from Paige. 

It isn’t until she feels her back hit the edge of a desk and the sound of something crashing onto the floor infiltrates her ears, that Azzi finally comes to her senses. She tears her lips away from Paige as the older woman groans in protest, arms tightening their hold on Azzi’s waist so she can still have some semblance of control over the situation. And really Azzi knows she’s strong enough to escape Paige’s grip, could easily fight it if she wanted to. But well, she doesn’t want to. And Azzi’s tired of doing things she doesn’t want to do. 

“Paige-”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘we can’t do this’, Azzi I swear to god I’m going to kill you,” Paige threatens, pressing her forehead against Azzi’s. 

Azzi laughs softly and she can feel Paige’s whole body relax at the sound of it and like clockwork, she feels the tension beginning to release from her own muscles, “if you kill me then we definitely can’t do this.”

“I’ll revive you after or something,” Paige says with a half-smirk. 

“Or something,” Azzi rolls her eyes, “but we can’t-”

“Azzi,” Paige groans. 

“We can’t do this right now and definitely not here,” Azzi amends, alluding to the fact that they’re still in Steph’s office. 

Paige raises an eyebrow, cocking her head slightly, “but we can do this later? Somewhere else?”

The question lingers between them as Azzi bites her lip. She knows what this is, knows that it’s Paige putting the ball in her court. A ‘no’ would likely be the end of things and that scares her more than she’s willing to admit but she’s not quite ready to commit to a ‘yes’ yet, even if that flame of desire inside of her, the one that can only be lit by Paige, is blazing hot through her veins. 

“I don’t know,” Azzi says carefully, shivering at the way Paige’s thumb is rubbing circles against her waist, the flimsy material of her shirt doing nothing to prevent the goosebumps forming on her skin, “TBD.”

“That’s not a no,” Paige says carefully, hope blossoming freely on her face. 

“That’s not a yes either,” Azzi warns half-heartedly. 

“But it’s not a no,” Paige presses. 

“No,” Azzi admits, playing with the neckline of Paige’s shirt, “it’s not a no.”

And Azzi’s so scared of the future, scared that if she lets herself burn, she’ll incinerate everyone around her but there’s something in the way Paige smiles at her words. Something that feels a lot like a promise of i’ll be the rain that washes out the fire before you can turn us to ashes. 

“I can work with that,” Paige says softly, tilting Azzi’s chin up. 

“So desperate to get back into my pants Bueckers,” Azzi teases and she expects a witty remark in return but instead she’s met with nothing but sincerity. 

“So desperate to get back into your life,” Paige whispers, voice cracking on the last two words. 

Tears prickle against Azzi’s waterline as she stares in awe at the girl in front of her. Sometimes she thinks Paige doesn’t even know that there’s a halo of goodness sitting above her head, doesn't even know just how beautiful her soul is. Paige is stunning on the outside; it’s something no one can deny. But it’s nothing compared to how gorgeous she is on the inside, nothing compared to how kind, how humble, how forgiving Paige is. 

“Why?” Azzi asks, her tone rife with heaviness. 

“Why what?” 

“After everything, after all this time, why would you still want to be in my life?” the tears fall harder as Azzi struggles to breathe, “I- I broke your heart. I broke us. How could you possibly want that again. How could you possibly want me again?”

Paige's eyes soften as she cups Azzi’s cheeks, thumbs brushing away at the drops of water running down them, “because you’re Azzi. My Azzi. And I get it- I get that you’re not ready to be all in on this with me yet and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not completely ready either. But we can work on it right? Take it slow and see where it goes and maybe we’ll- maybe we’ll be even better this time.”

“You think so?”

“I believe so.”

Azzi presses her lips delicately against Paige’s, reveling in the way it makes Paige’s breath hitch. She pulls away faster than she would like herself and Paige chases her lips, eyes still closed. 

“What was that for,” the blonde asks, slightly dazed. 

“For being my Paige.”

***

Azzi taps her foot impatiently against her wooden patio as she glances at her phone clock for the umpteenth time. Paige is almost twenty minutes late to pick her and Stephie up to go to dinner at her parent’s house. The invites had technically been separate but Paige had insisted that they needed to go together because Paige didn’t want to walk into the house alone. Azzi’s not sure why Paige is nervous to see her dad and brothers again, not when she’s pretty sure they’re bursting with excitement to see the blonde whose pictures still have a permanent place on the family photo wall, but if Paige wants Azzi by her side, well she’s not going to say no. Not anymore. 

 It’s been a week since they’d agreed to take things slow and Azzi’s still not quite sure what exactly that means, but she thinks she likes it. She likes being able to call Paige and not having to come up with a lame excuse for why. She likes that she and Paige can take Stephie out for ice cream after Curry Camp and they don’t have to pretend they’re only tolerating each other’s presence for the little girl’s sake. She likes that they can brush their pinkies while walking and instead of jolting away, they simply just link them together. There’s boundaries of course. No sleepovers at either of their houses. No doing anything more than kissing. No kissing in front of anyone else and definitely no kissing in front of Stephie. No doing anything in front of Stephie really. And there’s still so much mountain left to climb but as long as they’re pushing up it together, Azzi doesn’t think there’s any incline steep enough to stop her from continuing up this path.

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie squeals as Paige’s car rounds the corner into Azzi’s driveway. 

Paige steps out of the car, arms wide open and ready to catch Stephie as the little girl goes tumbling down the front porch, aiming straight for the blonde. Azzi’s not an artist by any means but if she was, she thinks she could paint a thousand pictures of Stephie and her Miss Buecks. It terrifies Azzi a little bit, just how perfectly Stephie fits into Paige’s side but it calms her too because there’s a part of her that’s in love with how much they love each other.

“You’re late Bueckers,” Azzi chides as she follows her daughter’s path down the patio stairs. 

Paige grins, shifting Stephie on her lap as she opens the side door to her car to pull out two bouquets of flowers

“Will these make up for it?” she asks slyly as she hands the larger one, an assortment of pink flowers, to Azzi and a slightly smaller bouquet of purple hydrangeas to Stephie. 

“These are so pretty Miss Buecks,” Stephie gushes before pressing a kiss to Paige’s cheek left cheek and Paige beams at the compliment, “thank you Miss Buecks.”

“You took that long to get flowers?” Azzi asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Mama,” Stephie chides immediately, “you’re supposed to thank someone when they give you a gift.”

“Yeah Azzi,” Paige’s eyes glimmer with mirth, “thank me like Stephie thanked me. Don’t you think Mama owes me a kiss on the cheek Steph?”

Azzi narrows her eyes at the scheming pair in front of her as Stephie nods animatedly at Paige’s question, “yeah Mama you owe Miss Buecks a kiss on the cheek.”

Shaking her head, Azzi walks over to Paige taking deliberately steady steps. Slowly Azzi leans in, puckering her lips. Paige closes her eyes and Azzi winks at Stephie who’s eyes widen. 

“I’m waiting,” Paige sing-songs, a self-satisfied smirk taking over her features. 

And instead of the promised kiss, Azzi licks a sloppy strip down Paige’s cheek and the blonde shrieks as both Azzi and Stephie burst into laughter.

“EW AZZI GROSS,” Paige whines, hurriedly rubbing her shirt against her cheek, “is this what you’re teaching your daughter?”

“I’m teaching my daughter not to let anyone manipulate her,” Azzi says, giving Paige a careful look, “now why were you late?”

Paige grins sheepishly as she opens the door to the backseat of the door. A lavender car seat is placed on the left side of the car and Azzi feels her heart lurch with no one’s ever cared like this. 

“It’s pu-ple,” Stephie claps excitedly, “is it for me?”

“Of course it is,” Paige confirms, booping Stephie’s nose before looking at Azzi, “it’s just- we uh- we always have to take your car cause it has the car seat and moving it between cars is such a hassle. So I just thought- you know- I just thought it’d be cool- useful- practical- if I had one too? And this way if you ever need me to take Stephie off you then I uh- then you don’t have to worry about me driving. I don’t- I don’t really knows much about car seats but I looked it up online before and the person at the store agreed that this is definitely the best one- like I swear it’s safe-”

She’s cut off by the feel of Azzi’s lips pressed to her cheeks. 

“Thank you Paige.”

***

Just as Azzi expected, Paige merges herself back into the Fudd family with the same ease she’d first had when she’d carved out a place for herself almost a decade and a half ago. It’s a little emotional at first when Tim opens the door, a smile almost as big as him decorating his face as he pulls Paige into a hug even before she can say a word. 

“Welcome home kid,” he whispers into her blonde hair and Azzi doesn’t have to see Paige’s face to know that her best friend is blinking away tears. 

Guilt surges in Azzi’s stomach and she tries to swallow away the lump of i took this from her that’s blocking her throat. It had been so simple at 15 to give Paige a part of her world; Azzi hadn’t thought twice about it. And then with the snap of her fingers, she’d taken that world away. She knows her parents had never cut Paige out; hell they’d been at her wedding to some other woman -and Azzi had pushed them to go knowing Paige would need it- but it was a far cry from what they’d been. A far cry from when Paige’s schedule was a key factor while planning Fudd family summers. 

“Hey,” Stephie pouts, tiny hands crossed over her small body “I thought you always gave me the first hug Pops.”

“We’ll make an exception today,” Tim says with a wink before letting Paige walk into Katie’s arms and spinning his granddaughter around, “but you’re always gonna be my favorite.”

“I better be,” Stephie threatens and the adults around her laugh. 

And finally it’s Azzi's turn to be pulled into one of her dad’s patent bear hugs. She goes willingly, always at her most warmest in the arms of the man whose blood might not run through her veins, but whose love had always protected her from the cruelties of the world. 

“You look really happy today sweetheart,” Tim says softly. 

Azzi’s eyes flitter over her father’s shoulder to where Jon and José are embroiling Paige in a group hug with Stephie in the middle of it, screaming about finally having their “white sister” back, as Katie and José’s fiancé Tallulah roll their eyes at the group of them, and she can’t help but smile into her dad’s shirt, “I feel pretty happy today.”

*** 

“You cheated,” Jon yells. 

“Miss Buecks does not cheat,” Stephie yells back loyally. 

“Don’t get into this Stephie. You don’t know her like we do,” José glares at Paige who narrows her eyes at him, “she’s been stealing from the bank.”

“Miss Buecks does not  steal,” Stephie defends again, wrapping her arms around Paige’s neck from behind as the blonde presses a quick kiss against Stephie’s temple. 

“It’s okay Stephie,” Paige reassures, gently swinging the little girl into her lap, “some people are just sore losers.”

“Can’t be a sore loser because I didn’t lose-” José coughs and Jon corrects himself immediately, “because we didn’t lose.”

“Y’all let it go,” Tallulah groans, leaning her head back against the sofa, “it’s literally just monopoly. Please, I'm so tired.”

“Just monopoly? JUST MONOPOLY?” José guffaws dramatically, “I can’t believe I’m marrying someone who doesn’t understand that it isn’t just monopoly Tallulah. It’s about liars and cheats and honor-”

“Miss Buecks has plenty of honor,” Stephie says stubbornly, leaning her head back against Paige’s chest.

Jon rounds on Azzi, who’s been silently watching the situation, “did you help her cheat?”

“Excuse me?” Azzi asks, glaring at her brother from where she’s been comfortable reclining on the sofa. She’d opted to be the banker instead of playing, content just handing out money to the rest of them while watching the game unfold. But really she hadn’t been paying much attention to anyone else but her daughter and Paige. Stephie didn’t quite understand the rules yet and so she was always on someone’s team. It had been a given tonight, that of course she would be with Paige. And Azzi had watched, trying not to be too obvious, with a foolish grin on her face, as her two favorite people whispered to each other, Paige listening intently to all of Stephie’s ideas whether they were good or bad. 

“Oh good point,” José turns to look at Azzi too, “you’re the banker, did you help Paige cheat?”

“Mama would never cheat,” Stephie argues defiantly as Azzi pushes herself up from the sofa to send a menacing look to both of her brothers. 

“I’m not going to dignify that accusation with a justification,” Azzi says, standing so she’s towering over her two brothers who are still sitting on the floor, “now clean up the game. It’s almost Stephie’s bedtime.”

 They might be well into their twenties and José might be taller than her now, but they’re still not quite  immune to Azzi’s wrath. Tallulah and Paige snicker as the two men, sulking at each other, obey their older sister's command without another word. 

“You’ve gotta teach me how you do that,” Tallulah says, hi-fiving Azzi who smirks in response. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie whispers, “what does dig-ni-fy mean?”

“Mean she’s not gonna entertain your uncles being dumba-”

“Paige!”

“Being dumbapples,” Paige corrects and both Azzi and Stephie give her an odd look at her ridiculous attempt at saving the bad word from leaving her lips. 

“Alright Stephie-bean,” Azzi says, pulling her daughter off of Paige’s lap, “it’s late enough. Off to brush your teeth you go.”

Stephie looks hesitantly between the staircase leading up to the guest bedroom -where she and Azzi normally stayed- and Paige. 

“Can Miss Buecks stay with us tonight?” she asks softly, one hand bunching in Paige’s shirt as she stares up at her mother with large doe eyes, “please Mama.”

“Stephie I don’t think-” Paige begins, ready to stick to the boundaries they’d laid out for themselves and really Azzi should let her; should follow her lead really.  

Except the words are tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them, “yeah she can- she can stay.”

“YAYY,” Stephie squeals, jumping into Azzi’s arms as Paige stares up at her in surprise, “thank you, thank you, thank you Mama. I’m so happy,” she swings from Azzi to Tallulah, “aunty Tully did you hear? Miss Buecks is gonna stay with us and you can make her your famous pancakes in the morning.”

“I can, can I?” Tallulah asks with a raised eyebrow as she lets Stephie and her excited chatter lead her towards the bathroom. With Jon and José both having already started towards their own rooms and Azzi’s parents fast asleep, it leaves just Paige and Azzi in the living room. 

“You’re okay with me staying?” Paige asks softly, finally lifting herself from the floor and onto her feet. 

Azzi scratches the back of her neck, “if- if you want to. You don’t have to. I can- I’ll explain to Stephie-”

“I want to,” Paige says, taking a cautious step towards Azzi, “but the rules?”

“This doesn’t count,” Azzi justifies and Paige smirks, taking another step towards the brunette. 

“It doesn’t?”

“We said no sleeping over at each other’s places. This is my parent’s house. So technically it doesn’t count,” Azzi shrugs, trying to keep her face from breaking into a grin as Paige moves one more step closer. 

“And where exactly am I sleeping?” Paige asks with a knowing grin as she loops an arm around Azzi’s waist, briefly checking to make sure no one’s around. 

Azzi tilts her head, letting the grin break through, “I think Stephie would like it if you slept with us.”

“Ah well if that’s what Stephie would like,” Paige says, nodding commiseratingly. 

“For Stephie’s sake,” Azzi repeats as she wraps her arm around Paige’s neck, pressing her forehead against the older girl’s and letting herself just breathe in the peace that comes with being all consumed by Paige. 

“Azzi,” Paige’s voice is laced with uncharacteristic vulnerability as she speaks again, “you won’t- you won’t run away again tomorrow morning will you?”

“No,” Azzi promises, gently brushing her lips against Paige’s, “I won’t run away again.”