#but this is still a nightmare to pull off

[t4kalcvr]

MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 5,200 ) genre :: forbidden romance, erotica, && secret desire. content contains :: spicy read, acrobatic + designer reader, reader has a nightmare, obsession, devotion, infatuation, big sister mira. PART ONE !! PART TWO !!

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the city is quiet in the way only cities can be—restless, humming beneath the silence, like it’s holding its breath. your shoes tap against the pavement, the sound too sharp in the stillness of almost-4am, too loud against the thunder in your chest. the streets are empty, but your mind is full—of him. of what you let happen. of what you whispered.

the night air wraps around you like a reminder, cool against the sweat still clinging to your back. your thighs ache with the memory of him. not in pain, but in presence. like he never left. like parts of him are still inside you. and in some way, they are. the echo of his hands. the rasp of his voice. the way he said your name like it belonged to him now.

you try not to think about it. about how you kissed him like he was salvation. how he held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked. you try not to feel the aftershocks trembling through you. not just physical—but something deeper. like a spell you accidentally cast on yourself.

you reach the front steps of the HUNTR/X building and pause. the lights are off. too dark for this early in the morning. you don’t hear laughter. no midnight snacks being made in the kitchen. no whispered conversations from the hallway. no Mira.

they’re not home.

your heart stutters for half a beat, then steadies. probably out hunting. or scouting. or celebrating something you weren’t invited to. doesn’t matter.

none of my business, you think, like a shield.

you punch in the access code and the door clicks open, letting you inside. it’s colder than usual. the kind of cold that wraps around your ankles and climbs your spine slowly, thoughtfully. like it knows something you don’t.

you ignore it.

your footsteps echo against the tile floor as you make your way through the halls. the building feels hollow, like it’s holding its breath. or like it knows. maybe it does. maybe the walls remember the way Mira screamed your name. the way you screamed hers back. the sound of heartbreak wrapped in rage.

you push your bedroom door open and don’t bother turning on the light. there’s nothing you need to see. you peel off your jacket and let it drop to the floor, then toe off your shoes, letting them fall wherever they land. you stand there for a moment, bare feet on cold floor, eyes closed.

his hands. still on you. his voice. still in your head. his teeth. still pressing faint ghosts into your collarbone. you touch the spot without thinking and exhale, low and quiet.

what the hell are you doing.

but you already know.

you slip into bed and the sheets are cold, untouched, empty in the worst way. not even your own warmth is enough to distract you from what you left behind in that bathhouse. or what you brought back with you. you curl onto your side, pulling the blanket to your chin, and try to slow your breathing.

you don’t sleep yet.

you just lay there. bones aching, heart loud, the taste of sin still on your tongue.

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

you don’t remember falling asleep. one minute you’re staring into the darkness, letting the silence wrap around you like a warning, and the next—you’re running.

the dream doesn’t warn you. it doesn’t build slowly. it drags you in, shoves you down, and tears you apart all at once.

he’s there—baby—knees in the dirt, breathing heavy, body bruised and broken in ways you’ve never seen before. the light in his eyes is dimming. fading. he’s surrounded. not by monsters. not by demons. by them. by your girls. the ones you’ve fought beside, bled beside. rumi’s got her spear drawn, pointed right at his chest. mira stands behind her, jaw set. and zoey—zoey’s the one who pulls her daggers last.

you try to scream but your throat’s full of smoke. you try to run but your legs won’t move. all you can do is watch as they fall on him, as steel meets skin, as he groans your name one last time like it might protect him.

you wake up gasping, eyes wide and stinging, the blanket tangled around your legs like chains. your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break out of you. the room is too quiet, too still. for a second, you think you’re still dreaming.

then you hear it.

voices. soft laughter. the sound of shoes being kicked off in the hall. a bag hitting the floor. someone humming something that might be a pop song or a lullaby or a warning. your heart stutters.

you lift the blanket slowly, peeking over the edge just in time to see your door creak open, light from the hallway spilling in like an apology.

“heyyy,” zoey says softly, head tilting, micro bangs framing her face like always. “you awake?”

your throat’s dry, your body still stiff from sleep, but you nod. barely.

“can i come in?”

you nod again.

she steps in and closes the door behind her gently. no judgment. no weapons. she crosses the room like she’s walking into a church, careful and quiet, and sits on the edge of your bed. the mattress shifts beneath her weight.

“you okay?” she asks, voice calm, patient.

you nod again, even though you’re not sure. her eyes flicker down to your fingers, clenched in the blanket. she notices everything. she always has.

“you eat today?”

you hesitate. shrug.

“drink water?”

you roll your eyes faintly. “yes, mom.”

she smiles, small and kind. but there’s something beneath it. something knowing.

“you’ve been… quiet lately.”

“i’m always quiet,” you mutter, voice low.

“this is different.”

you don’t answer.

zoey adjusts, shifting slightly so she’s angled more toward you. her voice softens even more.

“you’ve been… distant. distracted. like you’re somewhere else even when you’re here.”

you sigh. look away. the blanket feels like it’s smothering you now, but you don’t move. your hands clench tighter.

“so,” zoey says gently, “you wanna tell me who you’re dreaming about?”

you freeze.

not flinch. not panic. freeze. because she says it like she already knows. like the name’s been on the tip of her tongue for days, and she’s just been waiting for you to be ready.

“you know,” you whisper, voice hollow.

she nods. “mira told us some of it. but… i wanted to hear it from you.”

so you tell her.

not all at once. not perfectly. but honestly. piece by piece. like pulling thorns from your throat. you tell her about the bathhouse. about the silence in his voice and the fire in his touch. the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. the way you feel safe with him, even when he’s terrifying. especially when he’s terrifying.

you tell her about the guilt. about mira’s eyes—how they burned. about the shame. about the fear that loving a demon makes you unlovable too.

but then you tell her the other thing.

“rumi was born from a demon and a hunter,” you say, voice shaking. “and she’s the best of all of us.”

zoey is quiet for a long time. not judgmental. not skeptical. just… listening.

you finally look up, eyes still rimmed with the dream. “i know it’s wrong. i know it’s dangerous. but it doesn’t feel wrong when i’m with him. it feels… like breathing.”

zoey reaches out, placing a hand gently over yours.

“then maybe it’s not wrong,” she says quietly. “maybe it’s just different.”

you blink at her. startled.

“we’re trained to kill demons,” she continues, “but maybe we were never taught what to do with the ones who make us feel something.”

you stare at her, heart raw and open.

she smiles. “just… promise me you’ll be careful. and if he hurts you—if anything happens—you’ll come to me first.”

you nod.

“and you’ll hydrate.”

you let out a soft, broken laugh. “yes. water. got it.”

she squeezes your hand once, then stands, brushing imaginary dust from her pants.

“get some sleep,” she murmurs, halfway to the door. “i’ll keep the others off your back. for now.”

and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her like a secret being sealed.

you lie back down, eyes on the ceiling, heart a little steadier.

maybe you can sleep now.

maybe this time, he’ll live.

when you wake, the light has changed. it’s softer now, slipping through the curtains in lazy stripes, the kind that makes your room feel smaller, quieter. your limbs are stiff, tangled in the sheets, body sore in ways you can’t name. you blink slowly, the memory of your dream still dragging across the corners of your mind like ash. but the ache in your chest has dulled. a little.

the scent of food hits you first—something warm, faintly sweet, a whisper of comfort in the air. you lift your head just as the door creaks open again, soft footsteps padding across the floor. zoey appears, carefully balancing a tray, a cup of juice tucked between her fingers. her smile is tired but kind.

“good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, cheerful enough to sound normal—but not enough to hide the tension beneath.

your heart lurches.

you sit up too quickly, blanket falling into your lap. “where’s rumi?”

zoey pauses mid-step.

“and mira?” you press, sharper now. you look past her—toward the open hallway. nothing. no voices. no clinking armor. no sarcasm or scolding. just… quiet.

too quiet.

zoey sighs.

“look, i didn’t want to be the one to tell you—”

“zoey.” your voice cracks. “what’s going on?”

she winces, setting the tray on your desk before sitting beside you, the mattress dipping again under her weight. her hands fiddle with the hem of her sleeve. she doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“they went to find him.”

silence.

“they just wanna talk,” she adds quickly, glancing up. “they’re not gonna hurt him.”

your stomach twists. “how do you know that?”

zoey exhales, long and slow, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask.

“because…” she lifts her hand, pinky extended. her eyes meet yours. solemn. “i made them pinky promise.”

you stare at her.

for a second, all you can do is blink. the absurdity of it. the softness. the desperation. your voice comes out quieter than before.

“zoey…”

“i know, okay?” she says, finally turning fully to face you. “i know it doesn’t mean much. but i made them swear. mira looked me in the eye and said they were just gonna talk. ask questions. see what this thing really is.”

you shake your head, heart pounding. “she hates him.”

“she’s angry,” zoey says. “and scared. but she’s not stupid. she knows what hurting him would do to you. and rumi… rumi’s curious. she wants to understand.”

“he won’t talk to them.”

“maybe not. but they’re trying.”

you wrap your arms around your knees, pressing your forehead against them. the blanket still clings to your skin like sweat, like fear. your voice is muffled when you speak.

“he’s not like us, zoey. if they corner him… if they even look like a threat…”

“i know,” she says gently.

you lift your head, eyes wide, throat dry. “how long ago?”

“not long. they left about an hour after we talked. figured you needed the sleep.”

you swing your legs out of bed, already grabbing for your jacket.

“where are you going?” zoey asks, standing too.

“i don’t know,” you say, stuffing your feet into your shoes. “but i have to find them.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the night is humid, neon-lit and humming with city breath. baby’s halfway to the convenience store entrance when it happens.

romance is mid-flirt with the cashier inside—grinning through the glass, pointing at his own reflection, probably blowing kisses at himself. abby’s behind them both, casually carrying a case of water like it weighs nothing, his shirt already discarded for reasons no one questioned.

and baby—he’s quiet, eyes low, teal hair damp from the late summer heat, one hand tugging the edge of his hoodie lower. then—

“don’t take another step.”

the voice slices through the air before the point of mira’s spear does.

it catches him mid-step, just a breath from the doorway. a smooth drag of polished steel pointed straight at his chest. the energy behind it is old, righteous, and personal.

he doesn’t flinch.

“oh,” baby drawls, voice like smoke on gravel, “this is the part where i pretend to be surprised.”

rumi appears behind mira—sword already drawn, glowing faintly in the sickly light of the vending machine. her expression is unreadable, calm in a way that makes people nervous. a different kind of wrath. surgical. poetic.

romance spots the scene through the window and mouths “ooh damn,” pressing his face to the glass with a grin. abby just sighs and leans against the wall like he’s waiting for the popcorn to arrive.

“what do you want with my sister?” mira snaps, her grip tightening.

baby raises both hands, lazy and amused. “you sure you want me to answer that?”

rumi’s sword twitches.

“don’t play games,” mira growls. “what are you doing to her?”

he smiles, slow and wolfish.

“just using her body, mostly. breaking her in nice and slow. once she’s good and ruined, i’ll carve out her soul for gwi-ma as a little souvenir. maybe keep her heart for myself. decor, you know.”

the steel in mira’s eyes burns hotter.

but rumi’s sword moves faster.

in a blink, it’s pointed at his crotch—low, unshaking, terrifying in its precision.

baby finally shuts up.

“you’re not funny,” rumi says, voice calm and ice-cold. “and you’re a terrible liar.”

his smirk falters.

the air shifts.

gone is the snide bravado. gone is the smug devil-may-care grin. what rises in its place is something darker. heavier. more dangerous in its honesty.

he looks between them. and when he speaks next, it’s quieter. rougher.

“i love her.”

silence falls like a stone.

romance slowly pulls out his phone and starts filming, mouthing “this is so messy.”

baby ignores him. his eyes stay on mira and rumi. steady now. not pleading. not defending. just true.

“i didn’t plan to,” he says. “i don’t even know if i’m allowed to. but i do. i’m not using her. i’m not breaking her. i’m not… hurting her. i just—”

he pauses. swallows.

“—i just want her.”

mira exhales sharply through her nose.

“then do better,” she says.

baby frowns. “what?”

“if you’re gonna love her,” mira spits, “then take her on a real date. buy her dinner. walk her home. get her flowers. and stop humping her loose in her damn bed like a dog in heat.”

romance chokes on his laughter from across the street.

baby groans, dragging a hand down his face, actually blushing. “god, why would you say it like that—”

“say yes,” rumi cuts in, tone flat. “or i cut it off.”

he raises both hands again, eyes wide. “alright, alright. damn. yes. fine. i’ll take her out. like… dinner. candles. chairs. clothes. the whole thing.”

mira finally lowers her spear.

“you’ve got one chance,” she warns. “and if she ends up crying—”

“i’ll be the one crying next,” he mutters. “got it.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

you’re angry.

not the burning, explosive kind. no. this is the quiet, seething kind. the kind that builds in your chest like smoke under glass—slow, tight, suffocating. you’ve spent hours chasing their shadows through alleyways and rooftops, feet sore, mouth dry, breath coming in short frustrated bursts. no trace of them. no messages. no calls.

you don’t know what they said to him.

you don’t know what he said back.

and that not-knowing wraps around your ribs like barbed wire.

by the time you’re back in front of headquarters, your throat’s dry and your mind’s louder than your footsteps. the early evening light dips behind the skyline, painting the walls in that golden-lonely kind of way. you’re already reaching for the keypad when you see it.

him.

leaning casually against the wall beside the entrance. dressed better than usual—dark jacket, clean shirt, boots without any new blood on them. teal hair still damp from a recent shower, falling across his forehead like he’s not trying too hard, but definitely trying. and his eyes—

god. those eyes.

they catch on you like a match striking dry wood.

he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t do that. but there’s something in the way he straightens when he sees you. something alive. burning beneath the surface.

“i’m here to take you on a date,” he says, blunt and unapologetic.

you blink.

the air between you shifts, warps, curls.

“what?”

he shrugs, like he didn’t just ambush you with the most bizarre, un-demonic sentence of the century.

“you heard me.”

you cross your arms, eyeing him carefully. “who told you to do this?”

“does it matter?”

you scowl.

“fine,” he admits, rolling his eyes. “mira. and the sword one. they threatened my anatomy. but i agreed.”

he pauses.

“i wanted to agree.”

the last part lands differently. like truth. and that’s what makes you hesitate.

you glance him over again—this cleaned-up, waiting version of the demon you swore you’d only see in shadows and sheets. you should say no. demand answers. yell, maybe.

instead, you sigh.

“give me five minutes,” you mutter.

his brows lift slightly, surprised, but he steps aside, hands shoved into his pockets as you disappear inside.

you move quickly through the hall. your fingers tremble a little as you strip out of your clothes. you don’t know why you’re dressing up. you don’t know why you pick the outfit you do—the one that clings to you like intention, the one that says yes, this is a date, but we both know how it’s going to end.

the top dips low. the skirt rides high. your throat gleams with the faintest hint of perfume. and when you step in front of the mirror, it’s not just you staring back. it’s want. it’s warning. it’s what he does to you.

you don’t rush.

when you finally return, pushing the front door open with an unbothered toss of your hair, you don’t even look at him first.

but you feel him.

his stare hooks into you before you speak. before you even breathe. it drags down your frame like velvet over a blade.

and when you finally meet his eyes, he’s already standing straighter. already swallowing hard. already watching you like he’s counting the seconds until this whole thing ends exactly the way you both know it will.

“you look…”

he stops. clears his throat.

“…intentional.”

you smirk. “that’s the idea.”

his jaw clenches slightly. not from anger. from restraint.

“this is going to be a very short date,” he mutters under his breath.

“we’ll see,” you hum, walking past him.

but the look in his eyes as he follows you?

yeah. he knows.

he’s not making it through the night untouched.

and neither are you.

it starts off simple. awkward, almost.

baby doesn’t take you far. just a tucked-away rooftop diner with flickering neon signs and food that smells like grease and late-night cravings. he doesn’t hold your hand on the way there—he keeps them shoved deep in his pockets like they might betray him if he lets them wander. but he stays close. always close. his shoulder brushes yours every time you turn a corner. his gaze flickers to your mouth every time you speak.

you notice.

and you use it.

you cross your legs slow under the table. lean in when you ask him questions. you let the strap of your top fall just barely off your shoulder when you reach for your drink. everything you do is effortless—but he’s unraveling by the minute.

he’s trying. god, he’s trying. he orders food. pays in cash. makes sarcastic comments about the menu. stares at the people around you like they’re aliens, and you’re the only thing in the room that feels familiar.

but you can see it.

the tension in his jaw when you lick the sauce off your thumb. the way his eyes flick down to your collarbone like he’s picturing the same thing over and over again—his mouth there instead. the way his leg starts bouncing under the table when you laugh too sweetly, lean in too close, speak too low.

“this was supposed to be normal,” he mutters, halfway through the meal.

you blink, feigning innocence. “this is normal.”

he gives you a look that says liar, and you give him one right back that says make me.

you pick a piece of food off his plate just to watch him twitch. his breath stutters when your fingers brush his. you chew slow. deliberate.

he swallows hard.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he growls under his breath, voice rougher now. darker.

you smile sweetly. “doing what?”

his hand fists the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him from dragging you onto his lap. his eyes are gold now—subtle, but glowing. dangerous. like he’s losing grip on the leash wrapped tight around his own throat.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he says, leaning closer. “trying to sit still. trying to be… good. when everything in me is screaming to drag you into the shadows and make you say my name until you forget your own.”

your pulse jumps. but you keep your expression calm.

“and yet here you are,” you murmur, “being so well-behaved.”

he laughs. low. sharp. pained.

“for how long, though?”

you say nothing. just uncross your legs. recross them the other way.

his eyes flick down like a reflex. his jaw flexes again.

the food goes mostly untouched after that. conversation gets thinner. tension gets thicker. and by the time you’re walking down the block again, the space between you has turned electric.

you glance up at him under the streetlight. “so. was this everything mira hoped it’d be?”

he lets out a bitter chuckle. “i don’t think anyone hoped i’d survive it.”

you smirk. “you’re doing okay.”

“no i’m not.”

you both stop outside headquarters. he hesitates. like he’s not sure if he should follow you inside. like he knows if he does, there’s no going back to pretending.

“what happens now?” he asks.

you turn to face him, eyes wide and soft and dangerous all at once.

“you walked me home.”

your voice drops.

“shouldn’t you kiss me goodnight?”

his breath catches.

and just like that—

he’s gone again. unraveling. undone.

you stand with him at the threshold of your world and his—your hand on the door, his eyes on your mouth. the city hums behind you, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding of your own heart. it’s stupid how close you are. how close you’ve been all night. the air between you practically burns with it.

he’s trying not to touch you.

you can see it—how his fingers twitch at his sides, how his jaw tightens when you shift closer, when your perfume hits him again like a spell. you tilt your head, just slightly, the way you know makes him weak. and still, he waits.

“so…” you whisper, soft as a prayer. “about that kiss?”

his eyes flick down to your lips.

slow.

like surrender.

then he leans in—hands still in his pockets, mouth hovering over yours, breath warm and uneven. when he finally kisses you, it’s devastating in its gentleness. not rushed. not rough. it’s everything he’s been holding back all night, pouring into one fragile moment. his lips part against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. his nose brushes yours. your hand curls into the fabric of his shirt.

but just when you lean into him—ready to fall all the way—

he pulls back.

slow. breathless. lips flushed and swollen, eyes glowing that soft, barely-there gold.

“goodnight,” he murmurs, voice low and shaking.

then he turns. walks away.

just like that.

you blink. frozen. stunned into silence. his warmth still on your mouth, his voice still curling through your spine. you don’t move until he’s completely gone from view, swallowed by the dark.

and then—

you open the door.

the scent of whatever zoey’s cooking hits you instantly—something sweet and spicy and chaotic. you walk in, heels clicking against the floor, still dazed. still glowing. at the kitchen island, zoey’s multitasking between five different dishes like she’s feeding a village. her hair’s tied up. music plays softly from someone’s phone.

you glance to the left. rumi and mira are on the couch, hunched over a board game, tension thick between them but not hostile—focused. mira looks up when she hears the door close. her eyes land on you.

you don’t say anything.

neither does she.

but the look you share is enough.

an entire conversation, wordless and heavy.

you make your way past them, up the stairs. your legs feel like mist. your chest still aches with the weight of the kiss he gave you—too soft to be real, too restrained to be final.

your room is dark, still and quiet. safe.

you shut the door gently behind you. flick the lock out of habit. toss your phone on the nightstand without checking it. you’re too tired to wash your face properly, so you just wipe it with a cool cloth, let the night cling to your skin a little longer.

you light a candle.

the flame dances, flickering warm shadows across your walls. it smells like something earthy and faintly sweet—home, maybe. peace. you peel your clothes off one by one, slow, lazy, the exhaustion finally setting in.

your fingers graze the zipper of your skirt, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

you feel it.

a pair of hands.

from behind.

slow. familiar. tender.

they slide up along your sides, from the curve of your hips to the dip of your waist, not rushing, not groping—caressing. like a worship. like a secret. you gasp, nearly lurch forward, but the hands anchor you in place, one of them pressing lightly to your stomach, the other brushing your hair aside.

his breath hits the back of your neck.

“couldn’t stay away.”

you close your eyes.

you knew it.

you knew that kiss was a lie.

his hands move like they’ve missed you for centuries.

there’s no rush in the way his fingers trace your skin, no frenzy in the way he breathes against your neck. it’s slow. aching. as if he wants to memorize you through touch alone. as if he’s terrified this will be the last time.

“you’re always warm,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion, not desire. “like you were made to melt me.”

his fingers slide to your zipper, slow and careful, undoing the metal with a tenderness that nearly breaks you. your skirt slips from your hips, pooling at your ankles like a fallen promise. his palm smooths down the line of your thigh, trailing back up until it finds the edge of your underwear—his knuckles grazing your skin in a way that makes your breath catch.

“i told myself i’d be good tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “that one kiss would be enough. that if i walked away, i could still pretend to be… something better for you.”

you tilt your head as he presses a kiss beneath your jaw—soft and slow and shaking.

“but the way you looked at me,” he continues, “like you knew what you were doing. like you wanted me to break—”

his hand slides higher, gently peeling away the last layer of fabric clinging to your hips. his other hand holds you close, steadying you as the silence wraps around both of you, thick and reverent.

“—i’ve never wanted anything the way i want you,” he breathes. “not power. not blood. not even freedom.”

he kisses your shoulder.

“just this. just you.”

he turns you gently in his arms, his eyes flickering gold in the candlelight. and there’s nothing cocky in them. nothing wicked.

only worship.

he looks at you like you’re his miracle. like the one beautiful mistake he wants to make again and again.

“you undo me,” he whispers. “and still, i keep coming back.”

he’s still watching you. not hungrily. not greedily. but like you’re something he’s never been allowed to have. like your skin is scripture and he’s trying to read it with his hands.

he kisses you again—this time on the mouth—and it’s not like before. this kiss is full. deeper. his hands slide to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. his body is hot and steady, trembling slightly like he’s still holding back some part of himself that aches to ruin everything.

“you feel like fire,” he whispers between kisses, forehead pressed to yours. “and i want to burn.”

you reach for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging it upward, over his head. he lets you. arms raise. the fabric slides off, slow. beneath it—warm skin, muscle under tension, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s barely keeping himself together.

he picks you up like it’s easy. like you weigh nothing and everything at once. carries you to the bed as if it’s a holy place. and when he lays you down, he doesn’t fall on top of you like some feral thing—he sinks, slow and reverent, beside you. kissing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

his hands trail lower.

“you don’t even know,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling, “what you do to me.”

his mouth finds the softest places, pressing kisses so gentle they almost make you cry. he doesn’t grope. doesn’t grip. he touches. open-palmed and patient. like your body is a question he’s trying to answer with every stroke.

and when he finally aligns himself with you—when he finally slides into you—it’s not rough, it’s not rushed.

it’s slow.

anchoring.

he groans your name like a prayer—low and deep in his chest, as if just being inside you undoes the last thread of restraint he’s held all night. your body opens to him like you were made to fit. and he holds you. tight. like if he lets go, you’ll disappear into the dark.

he doesn’t move right away.

just stays.

buried in you. forehead pressed to yours. the only sound in the room your joined breathing and the soft flicker of candlelight.

“i love you,” he whispers again, broken this time. like he almost doesn’t believe he’s allowed to say it.

and then he starts moving.

not fast. not hard. just deep. full. slow strokes that drag every inch of him through you like he’s trying to imprint himself in your bones.

your name tumbles out of him over and over. each time softer. more wrecked.

his hand finds yours, fingers tangling.

“you’re mine,” he says, voice shaking. “and i’m yours. even if it kills me.”

and it might.

because the way he’s loving you isn’t safe.

it’s not careful.

it’s something dark and ancient and eternal—something that claws through both your souls and binds them tighter with every breathless, sacred, and sinful moment.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HERES PART THREE TO THE FAN FAVORITE, MIRAAAA CAAAANT KNOOOWWWW 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ ENJOYYY THE READ MY LITTLE SODA POPS 😛 i will be working on TWIN SIN PART THREE and will include jinus perspective 🙈 AND coming up with a new baby fiiiic

update : just got two requests !! WILL BE PRIORITIZING THOSE BECAUSE THEY ARE YUMMY YUMMY

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @aspensnowwalker @strawbeii @chiharuhashibira @ateezswonderland @turkey-tom-mybbgalpha @decayingstrawberries @towfuu1 @bakugotypecrashout @kinichportablecharger @randomfan218-blog @azzberry @hurts-my-brain @miyakoa

KO-FI 🎧

look here for more reads 📚!

[insomniacirl]

FEMALE DESTIEL.

EVERYBODY SIT DOWN AND LISTEN THIS IS A THREAT.

Cas with long, long pin-straight black hair.. until her grace is lost. Then it's wavy and messy and curly. She ties it back sometimes. In the Endverse she chops it all off in a drug-filled mania.

Dean with a rugged short cut, not long enough to get in her way or be grabbed, but long enough to make her appealing to the guys she picks up in bars. Demon!Dean's hair hits shoulder length and she sits pulling on it. In the Endverse she slicks her short cut back, makes it look military and mean.

Cas in her trenchcoat and suit, Dean in her low-waisted jeans and tight tops, heavy leather jacket on her shoulders, rings and bracelets and Sam's necklace. Cas wearing nail polish and digging her pretty fingers into a monster's eyes or mouth. Dean falling asleep in smokey eyeliner and leaving it on the next day.

Dean holding back Cas' hair when she's sick, pushing strands away from her eyes when they're researching, plaiting it when they're lying together- Dean too plagued by nightmares and Cas promising to watch over her.

Cas gets dressed up one time and Dean loses her MIND. This is almost as bad as Cas' sex hair. Cas in a tight black dress and Dean biting her lip as she offers to help her with her makeup.

Endverse!Destiel are so toxic I love them. Genderswapped they're equally as destructive. Cas popping any pill she can find because hey, that's one way to fly, angel. Dean barking orders and running to Cas on her lonely nights because all they have is each other, yet neither of them are who they were before all this. Dean mourning Cas' long hair, Cas trying desperately to mess Dean's hair up from it's too perfect style, trying to kiss Dean hard enough that they both forget and emerge beautiful and soft once more. It never works.

Dean s4, bucking Cas' orders because she's still convinced angels aren't real and Cas looks much too normal to scare her, much too pretty to resist. But Cas' eyes harden and suddenly Dean is flushed and quiet, eyes darting away from those long-lashes and that icy stare. Cas' dark, manicured eyebrow raised in challenge.

Something something, Deanna raised to believe that kissing a girl was unnatural, cowardly, not a real type of love. Raised to believe that kissing a girl happens, because you're friends so it doesn't matter, it's funny if anything- stupid, drunk fun. It's nothing real.

Imaginr if there were Two women with something Gay & Weird going on

[meadowfics]

survival

kang dae-ho x f!reader

this is another featured throwback to my 'kang family' series.

summary: how did you and daeho get out of the games alive?

warnings: character death (not daeho)

SUGGESTIONS: read 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ�� 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 -> 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜, 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 , ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 , 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒?, 𝑐𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ for more context on this chapter and the series.

the dormitory is a tomb of grief, the air heavy with the scent of despair and the faint metallic tang of blood that lingers from the past few hours.

you’re still in daeho’s arms, your sobs echoing off the cold concrete walls as the guards carry geum-ja’s coffin past. the lifeless form, draped in that knotted blanket, burns into your memory.

she was your mother in this nightmare, the only true mother figure you had in this hellhole. despite her past, the weight of her sin in killing her son, she’d been kind to you, her gentle hands wiping your tears, her stories of regret a quiet comfort in the dark.

now she’s gone, taken by her own hand, and the loss rips through you like a blade.

your right hand rests on your stomach, your fingers trembling as you pray to whatever god might exist that seo-ah, your unborn daughter, survives this place.

kang seo-ah.

the name came to you last night, as you held daeho after the failed rebellion, his body shaking with guilt and fear.

it’s a name that feels like hope, like a promise you’re desperate to keep.

you haven't told daeho about the name yet. you hope he loves it.

as rub your tear-filled eyes, the world blurs around you. your body feels heavier, the weight of your five-month pregnancy pulling at you, making every movement a struggle.

daeho notices, his arm tightening around you as he helps you stand, his touch steady despite the blood still seeping from his wounded ankle thats starting to scab.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm, his hand lingering on your back as you find your balance.

you glance over at gi-hun, who’s sitting across the room, his head bowed, his red vest stark against the dim light.

the man's eyes, once burning with hatred for daeho, are empty now, like he’s given up.

maybe he’s tired of the bloodlust, or maybe he’s just as broken as the rest of you.

daeho’s gaze follows yours, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t say anything.

“i’m going to check on junhee,” you say, your voice hoarse from crying, “before the next game.” daeho nods, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop you. your man's hand squeezes yours briefly before letting go.

you can feel his worry, the way his eyes linger on you, but he doesn’t stop you. you make your way across the dormitory, your steps slow and deliberate, the weight of your pregnancy making you cautious.

junhee is in a corner, cradling her newborn daughter, her face pale but glowing with a fierce, protective love. hyunju sits beside her, her posture rigid, her eyes scanning the room like a bodyguard ready to strike.

in a way, she is.

junhee’s ankle is swollen and broken, a sickly purple that makes you wince just looking at it.

you can’t imagine the pain she endured, giving birth in the maze while hunted by red players like you.

you stop a few feet away, your hands clasped in front of you.

“hi." you mumble, holding your hands together in front of you.

junhee gives you a light smile, her eyes also dried from tears. hyunju nods, ackowledging your presence.

"I- I jus-. I just wanted to say that I was never going to hurt you guys back there,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper, the memory of hyunju’s deadly glare in the maze still fresh.

“back there, when you looked at me like that… I was scared. i’d never do that to you or a baby.”

hyunju’s expression softens, but only slightly.

“i know,” she says, her voice gruff but not unkind, “but i’m not sorry for making sure. junhee and her baby...they’re the most vulnerable here. i had to protect them.”

hyunju's eyes flick to junhee, who’s gently rocking her daughter, kind of oblivious to the conversation since she is zoned out from pain.

you nod, understanding the instinct to shield the defenseless.

“i get it,” you say, your hand unconsciously moving to your stomach. “i’m pregnant too.”

the words slip out before you can stop them, and hyunju’s eyes widen. junhee looks up, her gaze softening as she takes in the way you cradle your small bump.

“five months,” you add, unzipping your player 399 jacket to reveal the subtle curve of your belly through the thin cotton shirt. it’s not as pronounced as junhee’s was before her birth, but it’s there, a quiet testament to the life you’re carrying.

junhee smiles, a tired but genuine curve of her lips.

“i figured,” she says softly, “the way you hold yourself… i could tell. congratulations.” junhee's voice is warm, a rare spark of kindness in this place.

hyunju reaches out, squeezing your hand in a gesture that feels like both acknowledgment and solidarity.

“take care of yourself,” she says, her tone serious.

you nod, a lump forming in your throat as you glance back at daeho.

he’s watching gi-hun now, his eyes narrowed, the roles reversed from before the game.

gi-hun, for his part, seems focused on junhee and her baby, his gaze soft as he checks on them from a distance. the sight stirs something in you...a need to confront him, to make him see reason before the next game tears you all apart.

you take a deep breath and walk over to gi-hun, ignoring the way daeho’s head snaps up, his body tensing as you approach the man who wanted him dead.

beside the bunk, you sit beside gi-hun on the cold floor, your knees brushing against the rough concrete.

he doesn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on some distant point, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“are you a father?” you ask gi-hun, your voice quiet but steady. you know he is...you’ve seen the way he's been protective over the younger women here. he at least has a daughter... but you need him to hear you.

g-hun doesn’t respond, his silence a wall between you. you press on, undeterred.

“i look at junhee and her baby, and it’s like… like she’s my own daughter,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion.

“i’m five months pregnant, gi-hun. with a daughter. we named her seo-ah, and I just found out about her before the recruiter made me play ddakji with him. i didn’t even know that I was healthy enough to even be pregnant...”

gi-hun’s head turns slightly, his eyes flicking to you for the first time. you take it as a sign to keep going, the words spilling out like a dam breaking.

“my life hasn’t been easy,” you say, your voice raw.

“my mother hated me. she took me from my home country when i was six, dragged me to korea, where i’ve been the only foreigner in every room. even after all these years, i feel like i don’t belong. like i’m always on the outside, looking in. my sister died right when her and I started to get along again, and it broke something in me. i thought i’d never have anything good, anything real..... but then i met daeho.”

you pause, your hand resting on your belly, seo-ah’s presence a quiet strength.

“he’s the father,” you continue, your voice softening.

“gi-hun... daeho gave me something i thought i’d never have which is love. real, and imperfect love. he’s kind, gi-hun. he’s not perfect, and yeah, he lied about being a marine, but he’s not the monster you think he is. he’s a father, just like you, with hopes for humanity, for our daughter. can you really kill another father? someone who’s trying to hold onto hope, just like you?”

gi-hun’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see something shift....grief, maybe, or guilt.

he shakes his head, a slow, deliberate motion, like he’s wrestling with himself.

you stand, your movements careful as the weight of your pregnancy pulls at you. gi-hun’s gaze drops to your small bump, his expression unreadable.

“good luck in the next game,” you say, your voice firm but not unkind, “and please… make sure junhee and hyunju are protected. they need it.”

you walk back to daeho, his eyes tracking your every step, his relief palpable as you return to him.

he doesn’t ask what you said to gi-hun, but his hand finds yours, his grip tight and grounding. the dormitory is quieter now, the guards gone, geum-ja’s coffin a fading nightmare.

you sit together, your shoulder against his, the weight of the day settling over you like a heavy fog.

“what did you say to him?” daeho asks finally, his voice low, cautious.

“i told him the truth,” you say, your eyes fixed on junhee and her baby across the room, “about us. about seo-ah. about you. i told him you’re not the enemy, even if you messed up.”

"wait... seo-ah?" daeho's eyes soften. those gentle large hands cradle your belly as you realize that you never talked to daeho about your shared daughters name.

"yeah... our daughter. I figured seo-ah would be a perfect name for our first girl. if you have something else in mind, we can make up a compromise.. I promise you can name the next girl we have when we get out of here." your eyes twinkle with worry.

daeho’s jaw tightens, his guilt still raw about gi-hun but you can see the love in his eyes for you.

“seo-ah is perfect, love.... fuck, i don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his hand squeezing yours.

“stop that,” you say, turning to face him.

“you made a mistake, daeho. a big one. but you’re here, and you’re trying. that’s what matters. we’re going to get through this for kang seo-ah, okay?” your voice softens, and you place his hand on your belly, letting him feel the faint curve where your daughter grows.

he leans his forehead against yours, his breath shaky but warm.

“i love you,” he whispers, and you feel the truth of it, even through the cracks of his lies. “i’ll do better. i swear.”

you nod, your anger still there but softer now, overshadowed by the love that’s carried you this far.

“i know,” you say, and you mean it.

hours later... the air in the jump rope arena chokes you.

the metallic tang of fear mingles with the faint scent of rust from the platform’s 'train track' edges. the two massive dolls, their painted faces frozen in eerie smiles, swing the heavy rope back and forth, each thud against the air sends a jolt through your body.

you feel like you’re going to throw up, the nausea a mix of your pregnancy and the sheer terror of the game.

daeho stands in front of you, his body a protective barrier, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist as you both watch the rope’s relentless rhythm.

your head turns back to look at junhee, sitting on a bench by the entrance to this game. the woman's newborn daughter no longer in her arms since gi-hun is holding the baby.

junhee's broken ankle swollen and purple. tears stream down her face, and you know she’s thinking the same thing you are: she can’t jump.

not with that injury, not with her baby depending on her.

you step back from daeho, your hand on your belly. you try to practice jumping, testing your body’s limits. your legs move, awkward but capable, and you manage a few small hops before exhaustion hits.

your pregnancy makes you tired quickly, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. you hope...no, you pray...that the adrenaline and the fight/flight mode in your body will carry you through.

the timer overhead clicks down, the numbers glowing red: 12:01

daeho turns to you, his face set with determination.

“i’m going first,” he says, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “you stay right behind me, y/n. we do this together.”

tears fill your eyes, spilling over as you grip his hand.

“i’m scared, daeho,” you whisper, your voice trembling, “I-i don't know ’m so scared.”

“i know, baby, i know,” he says, his voice soft but fierce. he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

“i’m sorry. for everything. do i need to carry you?”

you shake your head, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“no way,” you say, “i can do this.” but your words are cut off by a scream.

player 124, namgyu from what you've heard, steps onto the narrow platform first, his movements cocky as he tries to chase a necklace across the train track platform.

the platform is a death trap, a strip suspended over a 300-foot drop, a gap in the middle wide enough to swallow anyone who missteps.

the rope, heavier than you expected, catches namgyu off-guard, its weight knocking him off balance when namgyu realizes that his necklace does not have the drugs he needs.

he flails, his scream echoing as he plummets into the abyss. the audio blares.

“player 124 eliminated.”

you clutch daeho’s arm, your stomach churning.

“it’s too dangerous to wait,” he says, his voice urgent, “we go now, before more people try and it gets crowded.”

he takes your hand, his grip firm, and you nod. your heart is pounding as you step onto the platform together. you want to throw up as you finally step on the track with the rope swinging closer, its rhythm relentless.

daeho shouts, “jump!”

you move as one, your bodies in sync, leaping over the rope as it passes beneath you. the adrenaline you prayed for surges through you, dulling the ache in your legs, sharpening your focus.

the gap in the platform looms ahead, a yawning void that threatens to swallow you whole, but daeho’s hand in yours keeps you grounded.

“jump!” he yells again, and you do, your legs burning as you clear the gap, landing on the other side with a stumble. you’re panting, your chest heaving, but you’re alive.

daeho pulls you forward, his voice a constant anchor.

“one more jump , y/n, come on!” the final jump is the hardest, the rope swinging faster now, but daeho yanks you with him, his strength carrying you both over the line.

you collapse onto the safe side, your legs giving out as you sob, relief and exhaustion crashing over you like a wave.

“we made it,” you gasp, tears streaming down your face as you cling to daeho.

“we’re alive.” he holds you tightly, his own breath ragged, his eyes wet with unshed tears. you’re the only ones who’ve crossed so far, the platform behind you empty except for namgyu’s absence.

your legs cramp painfully, the strain of the jumps catching up to you, and daeho guides you to a nearby flower bed, its wilted blooms a stark contrast to the arena.

you sit, closing your eyes, focusing on your breathing, on seo-ah, on the fact that you’re still here.

when you open your eyes, you see movement on the platform. gi-hun is there, junhee’s baby cradled in his arms, his face set with grim determination as he times the rope’s swing.

hyunju is behind him, her movements precise but tense, her eyes locked on gi-hun and the baby. your heart lurches as gi-hun nearly stumbles, the rope grazing his leg, the baby’s tiny form jostling in his arms.

daeho’s grip on your hand tightens, his shock mirroring yours.

“he’s so-,” daeho pauses, his voice low, “I can't believe he is carrying a baby through that?”

you can’t tear your eyes away, your breath catching with every jump.

gi-hun’s focus is unbreakable, his body moving with a desperate grace as he clears the gap, hyunju right behind him. when they reach the safe side, the small crowd of survivors cheers, a rare moment of unity in this hell.

gi-hun, panting, hands the baby to hyunju after showing junhee (from the beginning side) that her baby is okay.

hyunju cradles her tightly, tears in her eyes.

“i promised junhee i’d get her across,” gi-hun says, his voice hoarse as he looks back at the platform, “i’m going back for her.”

however, the platform is crowded now with more players stepping up to try their luck. a man who makes it across, has his face twisted with something dark...triumph, maybe, or greed.

he turns, and before anyone can react, he starts shoving other players off the platform as they try to jump to safety.

screams fill the air as bodies fall, the audio announcing eliminations in rapid succession. you gasp, your hand flying to your mouth as daeho pulls you behind him, shielding you from the horror.

“what the fuck?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

the man yells, his voice carrying over the chaos.

“we can end this now!” he shouts, pointing at gi-hun, hyunju, you, daeho, and the baby.

“we’re the only ones who made it! we can take the money and leave if we stop the rest from crossing!” his words hit like a punch, the brutality of his logic stripping away any hope for humanity in this place.

you and daeho exchange a horrified look, the weight of his suggestion sinking in.

is this what you’ve all become? animals fighting over scraps, willing to kill for a chance at freedom?

hyunju hands the baby to you, her eyes blazing with fury.

“hold her,” she says, her voice sharp as she steps toward the man.

you take the baby, her tiny weight a shock against your chest, her soft breaths a reminder of seo-ah, of the life waiting for you in four months.

you hold junhee's baby close, using her presence to block out the chaos as hyunju charges at the man.

she’s fast, her anger a weapon, and she shoves him hard, sending him stumbling over the edge. the man's scream is cut off as he falls to his death.

the platform clears, players rushing to try their jumps now that the threat is gone. you witness players 100 and 203 fall to their deaths, good riddance.

you clutch the newborn baby, your heart pounding, her warmth grounding you as you watch. there are only two players left on the other side: player 333 and junhee, player 222.

the timer ticks down, 45 seconds left, the red numbers glaring. gi-hun shouts, “junhee, i’m coming!”

you smile when you see her move. however, your smile drops when you notice that she is not moving towards the tracks to play jump rope.

junhee's limp is heavy as she drags herself to the edge of the platform. your stomach drops.

“no,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

everyone freezes, eyes locked on junhee as she stands at the edge, her face calm but resolute.

“junhee, stop!” gi-hun yells, his voice raw with desperation.

“i’m coming for you!”

hyunju steps forward, her voice steady.

“i’ll do it, junhee. i’ll get you across.”

junhee shakes her head, her voice carrying over the platform as tears form in her eyes.

“no,” she says, her tone firm despite the tears in her eyes.

“enough people have died for me.... i can’t let you or gi-hun die too.”

"just make sure that she makes it out of here alive, please?"

before anyone can react, she steps off the platform, her body disappearing into the void.

“player 222 eliminated.”

the timer hits zero, signaling the end of the game.

you cry out, a sob tearing from your throat as you hold junhee’s baby tighter, her motherless weight a crushing reminder of the cost of this place.

hyunju collapses to her knees, her hands covering her face as she wails, her failure to protect junhee a wound that won’t heal. gi-hun stands frozen, his face drained of color, his eyes hollow with trauma.

you look at daeho, who’s staring at the baby in your arms, his expression a mix of fear and sorrow.

“she’s gone,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

you nod, tears streaming down your face as you rock the baby gently, her tiny form a fragile hope in the midst of despair.

“she did it for her,” you say, your voice breaking. you look down at the baby, her eyes closed, oblivious to the horror around her. your hand rests on your belly, somewhat understanding junhee's thought process.

daeho pulls you close, his arm around your shoulders, his lips pressing against your temple.

you lean into him, unable to speak with your tears soaking his jacket as you hold junhee’s baby, a motherless child in an evil place.

the guards herd the survivors back to the dormitory, their pink jumpsuits a stark contrast to the blood and grief staining the air.

hyunju carries the baby now. gi-hun trails behind, his steps heavy, his spirit broken.

you walk with daeho, your hand in his, your legs still cramping but your resolve unbroken.

the vote to leave the games looms ahead, a flicker of hope in the darkness.

the concrete walls echo with the ghosts of those lost to the games. you sit with daeho, your hand resting on your belly.

your heart heavy but hopeful as the vote to end the games is here. hyunju sits nearby, cradling the motherless baby, now named gi-yeong, her tiny form nestled against hyunju’s chest.

you see the resolve in hyunju’s eyes, the unspoken vow to raise gi-yeong as her own. she was there when junhee gave birth in the maze. in a way, naming the baby was hyunju’s way of giving her a piece of identity, a piece of hope.

“she needed a name,” hyunju had said after the jump rope game.

you’d nodded, understanding the weight of that simple act.

when the audio system crackles to life, the mechanical voice announcing that the majority has voted to go home, you collapse against daeho, happy tears streaming down your face.

you didn't have words. your nightmare here was done.

everyone breaks into relief.

in you and daeho's mind... seo-ah will have a chance at life outside this nightmare.

daeho’s arms tighten around you, his lips pressing against your hair, his own tears mingling with yours.

“we’re going home,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

“you, me, seo-ah...we’re going to make it.”

you glance at hyunju, who’s rocking ji-yeong gently, her face a mix of grief and determination. gi-hun stands across the room, his eyes hollow but soft as he watches hyunju and the baby.

you know hyunju will take ji-yeong, will raise her with the fierce love she showed junhee in the maze.

it’s a silent understanding.

the guards step forward, their pink jumpsuits stark against the dim light, their masked faces unreadable.

“congratulations to those who have survived,” one says, their voice flat, devoid of humanity. “prepare to depart momentarily.”

the words feel surreal, like a dream you’re afraid to believe.

you cling to daeho, your hand on your belly.

gi-hun approaches, his steps slow, his shoulders slumped with the weight of everything he’s seen and done.

daeho tenses, stepping in front of you, his body a protective barrier. the man's anger toward gi-hun still simmers, the memory of gi-hun’s pursuit in the maze a wound that hasn’t fully healed.

you place a hand on daeho’s arm, a silent plea to let this moment pass.

gi-hun stops a few feet away, his eyes flicking between you, daeho, and hyunju, who’s watching him warily, ji-yeong cradled close.

“i don’t need the money,” gi-hun mumbles, his voice low.

the voice was almost lost in the hum of the dormitory.

hyunju’s head snaps up, her eyes narrowing.

“what?” she asks, her tone sharp, protective.

gi-hun exhales, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“i won before,” he says, his voice heavy with a truth you hadn’t known.

“i don’t need it. the money… my share should be split between you three.” he gestures to you, daeho, and hyunju, his hand trembling slightly.

“for her,” he adds, nodding toward ji-yeong, then at your belly.

“and for yours.”

you’re stunned, your breath catching as you process his words. daeho’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak, his eyes searching gi-hun’s face for any hint of deception.

gi-hun looks at him, his expression raw, unguarded.

“it wasn’t your fault,” gi-hun says to daeho.

daeho’s shoulders slump, the anger draining from him as gi-hun’s words sink in. he nods, just once, a silent acknowledgment of the apology. you squeeze daeho’s hand, your heart aching with a mix of relief and gratitude.

gi-hun turns away, his steps heavy as he walks back to the other side of the dormitory, his figure a shadow against the flickering lights.

it’s the last time you’ll ever speak to seong gi-hun again, the man who wanted daeho dead, the man who saved you all by carrying ji-yeong through the jump rope game, the man who’s giving up everything to give you a chance at a future.

you turn to daeho, your tears still falling but lighter now, tinged with hope.

“we’re going home,” you say again, your voice stronger this time. he pulls you close, his hands on your lower back.

“yeah,” he whispers, his lips brushing your forehead.

“we are.”

hyunju watches you both, her expression softening as she rocks ji-yeong.

“we’ll be okay,” she says, her voice quiet but firm, a promise to the baby in her arms and to herself.

you nod, a silent agreement that you’ll all carry the scars of this place but also the strength to move forward.

hours later when you and daeho woke up, the first thing you felt was wrong.  

your chest burned, your lungs fought for air, and before you could even think, a violent cough wracked through your entire body. your throat clenched painfully as something forced its way up. 

your body convulsed, shaking as you choked, your breath ragged and uneven.  

suddenly, you coughed it out.  

a gold card that clattered against the pavement, wet with saliva, landing near your trembling fingers. you gasped for air, hands pressing into the concrete beneath you, grounding yourself, trying to steady your breaths.  

you weren’t the only one.  

hyunju was next, her body jerking as she expelled the same thing from her throats. the woman's reaction just as frantic, just as terrified.  

daeho was the last.  

he coughed, gasped, his hands twitching against the pavement before his body finally lurched forward. the man’s entire frame trembled as he expelled a black card, his breaths shallow, shaking. 

your eyes darted around, your surroundings finally hitting you.  

seoul.  

the city.  

there was no island or colorful games anymore. everyone voted to leave.

some cars passed, and people walked by, completely unaware of what had just happened.  

the four of you, including the baby in hyunju's arms, were just standing there after untying yourselves from the robes, in the middle of the street, as if the last week had never happened.  

hyunju clutched junhee’s newborn baby close to her chest, rocking the infant gently, though her face was still streaked with dried tears.  

junhee and 333, the babies’ parents, had not made it.  

your gaze flickered to daeho.  

he wasn’t moving since his hands were still shaking, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. daeho’s breathing was erratic, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly.  

he was still coming down from it, still trying to wake himself up from the nightmare that had already ended.  

had it really ended?  

the games had changed him.  

they had broken him in ways that cannot be repaired overnight.  

he had already been fighting his own demons before this...his past, his father… but the games had only made it worse.  

daeho's lie only sends him into more guilt.

it had taken whatever was left of his hope for life and ripped it apart.  

you weren’t much better. 

you had seen too much, lost too much, killed too much.  

your mind had become desensitized, too exhausted to even process the reality that you were finally free.  

despite it all there was a flicker of hope inside you because as your vision cleared, as the weight of everything settled into you... your hands drifted down.  

your stomach had grown and you did not notice due to those oversized jackets during the games. you looked down, the tight black shirt you wore now stretching just enough to reveal the undeniable curve of your pregnancy.  

it had been under a week, five days inside of the games, almost a week of suffering, a week of torture and all the while, your daughter had been growing.  

you weren’t the only one who noticed your bump, daeho saw it.  

your man’s tired, traumatized eyes locked onto your stomach and something inside him broke. 

daeho’s body moved on instinct and before you could even react, before you could even say his name, he dropped to his knees.  

right there.  

in the middle of seoul.  

daeho’s hands trembled as they came up to touch you, palms pressing gently against your stomach. without hesitation he wrapped his arms around your bump and held you.  

he cried after his facial cheek made contact with your round bump.

it was raw.  

it was painful.  

it was loud. not quiet, not held back.

loud. 

daeho’s entire body shook as he sobbed into your stomach, his forehead pressing against the fabric of your shirt, his fingers gripping you tightly like he was afraid you would disappear. you gasped at the sensation, your own breath catching as the weight of everything hit you all at once.

your hands instinctively moved to his head, fingers threading through his dark hair, holding him close, grounding both of you. for the first time in a long time you allowed yourself to cry, too.  

the tears fell freely, your shoulders trembling as the emotions came crashing down on you.  

it was the painful proof of just how much you had to suffer just so your daughter could have a good life and just so she could have the good life you and daeho never had. 

despite everything…  

despite the suffering, the trauma, the nightmares that would surely never leave you… you would do it all over again for your daughter, the girl you’ve only found out ten days ago at the hospital.

it’s because she was worth it, because she deserved a life without pain.  

without debt.  

without fear.  

daeho let out another choked sob, his grip on you tightening.  

through his tears, through his gasps, through the overwhelming emotions threatening to consume him, he whispered,

"i love you. i love you both so much."  

your breath hitched.  

you clutched him tighter.  

"i love you too," you whispered back.  

you meant it, with everything in you, you meant it. 

full series masterlist

[bruisedboys]

── SQUID GAME MEN when you have a nightmare

ft. kang dae-ho, lee myung-gi, thanos, nam-gyu, and hwang jun-ho (all except junho are set during the games)

note: guys I have a severe case of squid game brainrot. doctor said my only chance of survival is writing fanfic

★ KANG DAE-HO, player 388

daeho is so sweet about it! he’s very very soft on you, and he just hates to see you upset or scared. when you wake from a nightmare one night during the games, he’s up with you in an instant. he’s quite a light sleeper, and he’s been worried sick about you anyway, so his sixth sense for you sort of kicks in and he wakes the moment you do. he climbs over to your bunk and sits with you, gives you a sip of water from his water bottle and then gives you a hug, rubbing your back with a big, warm hand. he’ll stay up with you if you don’t want to go back to sleep. if you ask him to lie with you, he’ll do it in a heartbeat, making sure to give you enough space but still keeping close enough to help you feel safe. he’ll stay awake until you fall asleep, and in the morning when you thank him for comforting you during the night, he shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “don’t mention it, pretty,” he says with a shrug, and you have to stop yourself from swooning.

★ LEE MYUNG-GI, player 333

he’s very soft with you! though he won’t wake up unless you wake him up on purpose. when you jolt awake, half frightened to death, you consider letting myunggi sleep — he looks peaceful, after all, and the games have taken their toll on him. but your nightmare really freaked you out, so you clamber over to his bunk and nudge him awake. he’s disoriented, his eyes still half-closed, but he’ll ask you what’s wrong worriedly. when you tell him, he sort of blinks at you, unsure what to do or how to comfort you. but when he sees how upset you are, he’ll wrap you in his arms, and then encourage you to lie down with him in his bed. he pulls you into his chest and lets you sleep with him, murmuring a promise into your hair that you’ll be safe as long as you’re with him.

★ CHOI SU-BONG, player 230

he’s so insensitive at first, he hates being woken up in the middle of the night. you’re already in his bed — he insisted you sleep next to him so he could “protect” you. when you wake up, thanos is snoring next to you, his arm thrown over your waist. you grab his shoulder and shake him awake, and he grumbles and groans. “what’d you wake me up for?” he murmurs, irritated. when you tell him, he just scoffs and rolls over. it shocks you, though it shouldn’t, really. upset and annoyed, you start to climb out of the bunk to find an empty bed, but thanos grabs your wrist before you can make it very far. “hey, wait, I’m sorry,” he says, pushing himself up on one elbow. “come back, y/n, please? I’ll keep you safe.” and, despite yourself, you let him pull you back into his arms. he holds you to his chest and promises to fight the nightmares off with his bare hands if they come.

★ NAM-GYU, player 124

namgyu is surprisingly sensitive about it! he seems like the type of guy to have nightmares of his own, though he won’t ever admit it. so, when he wakes up from one of his own bad dreams, and pushes himself up onto his elbows to find you awake, sitting quietly in between yours and his bunk, he guesses you’ve just had a nightmare. he slides out of bed and joins you on the metal steps in between the bunks. you seem unsurprised as he settles in next to you, his knee brushing yours. “nightmare?” he asks. you meet his eyes and nod, “how’d you know?” namgyu just shrugs, then slides an arm over your shoulders and pulls you into his chest. he doesn’t say anything — he doesn’t need to. it’s enough to just have him hold you like this, your thighs pressing together and your head against his chest, listening to the steady thud thud thud of his heart.

★ HWANG JUN-HO

junho is so good with nightmares — he’s very attentive and knows all the tricks. he tends to sleep with his arms practically locked around you, so when you wake, he does too. you’re trembling, and he knows what’s wrong without you even having to say anything. he’ll sit you up and give you a good, long hug, rubbing your back and murmuring to you in a soft voice. if you’re crying, he’ll pull back to wipe your tears for you, hands gentle and warm as they cup your face. he’ll ask if you want to talk about it, and he’ll listen if you do but won’t press if you don’t. when you’ve calmed down, he’ll lie you both down and let you curl into his chest like a cat. he’ll rub your arm soothingly, his thumb pressing slow circles into your bicep until you fall asleep in his arms.

-

thank you for reading! reblogs are appreciated as always ᡣ𐭩

[yunyuu]

. . . DADDY'S GIRL – L.S.K ࣪ ✿◌ ۪

⧣₊˚﹒SYNOPSIS ✿゙ you always knew Leon would be a good father. but you didn’t expect this. not the way his entire soul would fold around a tiny heartbeat. not the way he would look at your child like she hung the goddamn moon.

✿゙. PAIRING … Leon S. Kennedy x Fem Reader pt 1

✿゙. GENRE … soft, emotional, a little angsty, domestic life with Leon.

✿゙. WORD COUNT … +4k

✿゙. A/N … sorry y'all I just love girl dad leon sm (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⁾⁾

He’s quiet, at first.

When she’s born, Leon holds her like she’s made of glass. The world has broken too many things he cared about, and he refuses—refuses—to let her be one of them.

You see him pacing the nursery at night, bare-chested, cradling her against his shoulder. He's tired, always tired, but there's a strange sort of peace in his eyes when she falls asleep to the beat of his heart.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs to her. “You’ll never see what I’ve seen.”

Protective doesn’t even cover it.

Leon triple-checks every lock on the house. Security system, cameras, motion sensors—you name it, he’s installed it. You swear he’s got a backup plan for the backup plan.

The first time she gets a fever, you have to physically stop him from calling a med-evac.

“She’s just teething, Leon.”

“She’s sweating. She’s shaking.”

“She’s a baby.”

He sits up all night anyway, holding her upright against his chest so she can breathe easier. He doesn’t blink. You find him at dawn, still rocking her, muttering about pathogens and emergency routes to the hospital.

He’s scared of messing up.

That’s the part he doesn’t say. Not out loud. But it shows.

It’s in the way he watches you change diapers like it’s a combat maneuver.

The way he double-sterilizes her bottles.

The way he checks on her three, four, five times a night.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he admits once, sitting on the edge of the bed with your daughter curled up between you both.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper, hand brushing through his hair.

“She deserves better than me.”

“No,” you say. “She deserves you.”

You’re not sure if he believes you, but you catch him smiling into her hair after she burps against his shirt.

And the little girl adores him.

When she starts walking, it’s to wobble toward him.

She clutches his pants leg, yells when he tries to leave for a supply run, climbs up his legs like he’s a jungle gym.

She likes to sleep with her head on his chest. It’s the only way she’ll stay down through the night. She even pulls at his dog tags when she’s sleepy, fingers curling around the cold metal until she dozes off.

“Already got her trained,” he jokes softly, but there’s something glassy in his voice.

He tells her stories.

Never the real ones. Not yet.

But he makes up fairy tales in that deep, slow voice of his. He gives her imaginary castles, dragon-fighting princesses, heroes with big hearts and messy hair who always win in the end.

You lie in bed some nights and listen from the door.

“And then the knight kissed his daughter on the forehead and told her there’s nothing in this world that could ever take him away.”

Leon never thought he’d live this long.

But now he’s here.

With you. With her. With the quiet.

And for once, the nightmares stay away.

Because when your daughter climbs into bed in the middle of the night, curls between you both, and sighs out his name like it’s a lullaby—

“Daddy…”

He holds her close, lets his eyes fall shut, and believes—maybe for the first time—

That he’s finally safe, too.

Your daughter’s name is Lily.

Short for nothing. Just Lily.

Because it’s soft. Because Leon said it reminded him of something gentle—something he didn’t want the world to ruin.

She’s five now. And she’s got his eyes.

Blue like a storm that’s trying to behave.

You see it every time she narrows them in suspicion—tilts her little chin up just like him when she thinks someone’s lying.

“You sure the tooth fairy really took my tooth and not just you?”

Leon raises a brow. “What are you implying?”

“You look like a thief.”

You try not to laugh. He tries not to cry.

Leon ages like a photograph kept in a wallet.

Worn at the corners. A little faded.

Still beautiful. Still there.

His hair is touched with gray now, at the temples and behind his ears. You catch him staring into the mirror sometimes, tracing the lines around his eyes like he’s trying to count the things that made them.

She climbs onto his lap while he’s sitting on the porch one evening, beer untouched beside him.

“You’re gonna die before mommy,” she says suddenly, matter-of-fact, as kids do.

He stills.

You freeze at the door, watching from the shadows.

Leon exhales through his nose, then pulls her close.

“Yeah, maybe. But I'm not die for a long time.”

“How long?”

He kisses the top of her head. “Long enough to scare away your boyfriends.”

“Ew, boys are gross.”

He smiles.

But the nightmares still come.

Some nights he wakes up gasping.

Sweat-soaked. Shoulders trembling.

You hold him until the shaking stops, rub circles into his back, whisper you’re here.

He doesn’t talk about it.

But you’ve learned his silences by now.

When he’s quiet too long. When he stares too hard at nothing.

When he doesn’t kiss Lily goodnight because he’s afraid he’ll bring something dark into the room with him.

You find her curled up outside your bedroom door once.

A little blanket. A stuffed lion. A frown on her face.

“Daddy’s sad,” she says.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “He’s trying.”

He never lets his guard down in public.

Lily never notices, but you do.

Leon always sits with his back to the wall.

Always knows the exits.

Always checks the people walking in and out.

Even at the ice cream shop.

He’s holding a triple scoop of strawberry for Lily and still tracking a man in a black coat by the window.

“She’s got sprinkles in her hair, honey,” you murmur, nudging his arm.

He glances down. She’s smiling up at him, pink all over her lips and chin.

He breathes out and kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you a napkin, baby.”

Then one day, something happens.

A car.

A scream.

A man trying to snatch a child near the park.

It’s not your daughter, but she’s close—too close.

Leon moves like instinct.

Gun drawn, voice sharp, posture coiled like a soldier.

He subdues the man before you even realize what’s happening.

The cops thank him. People whisper.

Lily just tugs on your hand and whispers, “Daddy’s mad.”

When you get home, she draws him a picture.

It’s him with a cape. And glowing eyes. Holding her hand.

“You’re a superhero,” she tells him, pushing the crayon paper into his lap.

Leon stares at it like it hurts.

Like she’s giving him something he doesn’t know how to deserve.

Then he folds her into his arms and whispers, “Only for you.”

Sometimes you wonder if she understands.

That he’s not normal. That most dads don’t clean their guns with surgical precision at 2 a.m.

That most dads don’t flinch when a balloon pops.

But then you see her tuck a tiny toy gun into her backpack.

“Just in case, like Daddy.”

And Leon kneels in front of her, adjusting the straps, voice soft:

“Remember what I taught you. You don’t run toward danger. You get safe, then you tell someone.”

“Like you?”

He smiles. “Like me.”

And then—there’s the quiet moments.

When she’s asleep between you both, limbs everywhere.

When Leon’s hand is tangled in her hair and yours is wrapped around his chest.

When the TV glows in the background and your living room smells like popcorn and baby shampoo.

He turns to you sometimes, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You gave me a life,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “What?”

“This. You. Her. It’s more than I ever thought I’d have.”

And maybe he’s not whole. Maybe he never will be.

But he’s yours.

And he’s hers.

And for once in a long, long time—

Leon is alive.

Not just surviving.

Living.

꒷꒦ © yunyuu. do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[justmymindandstuff]

Dutyfull Wifes - (Cregan Stark x WifeReader)

summary: You've been avoiding Cregan's touch all day. As you finally tell him the reason, his worst nightmare becomes true. He hurt his wife. The reason you didn't tell him sooner shocks Cregan deeply.

words: 3.925

warnings: sexual trauma (kind of), generational trauma, canon-typical misogyny, internalized misogyny, established relationship, mention of domestic violence, consent issues

a/n: please mind the tags // english is not my first language// not proofread

be kind 🧡

requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist/ AO3.

The sun shines into the room and tickles Cregan's nose. He grimaces. Doesn't want to open his eyes yet, so he turns onto his other side and reaches his hand out. But instead of feeling your warm body next to his, Cregan just touches the cold sheets. His eyes fly open. A slight headache throbs at his temple as he stares at your empty side of the bed.

Is it that late already?

He rubs his face, tiredness pulling him back into the soft pillows, but he overcomes himself and pushes himself out of bed. Without his wife beside him, there's no point in staying in bed any longer. Cregan stretches, rolls his shoulders slightly, then pulls a shirt over his torso.

A glance at the sun tells him that the day isn't far advanced. Nevertheless, there's no trace of you in your chambers.

Cregan turns away from the bright sunlight, walks over to the bowl of water on the dresser, and splashes a handful on his face. The cold water feels good, but the tiredness still lingers in his bones.

He shouldn't had the last whiskey last night. However, the card game was too tempting, and so Cregan stayed with his Lords longer than planned.

Cregan gets dressed to set off to break his fast. When he arrives in the hall he expects to find you there with Rickon, but he is disappointed. He asks a servant for you. You went down to the town with Rickon to visit the market. So Cregan breaks his fast alone and then devotes himself to his duties as Warden of the North.

Later a messenger tells him that you are back in the castle. Although everything in him longs to go to you, he must first answer the letters in front of him.

When he arrives for dinner, he's almost relieved to see you sitting at the high table next to Rickon. His footsteps quickly lead him up the few steps to his seat.

Cregan leans forward to kiss you on the lips, just at that second you turn to Rickon, so his lips only land on your cheek. For a heartbeat Cregan thinks you deliberately avoided him, but why would you? The Lord of Winterfell tries to banish the uneasy feeling. However, a spark of doubt lingers in the back of his mind as he sinks into his seat next to you.

Are you mad at him? Because it was late yesterday? No, then you would have told him a thing or two yesterday when he accidentally woke you by dropping his belt and sword with a clatter to the floor while undressing. Yesterday, you giggled and welcomed him into your bed. The goodnight kiss you gave Cregan quickly turned passionate, and when you moaned softly, he was gone.

"I hope you slept well, my Love." your gentle voice pulls him from his thoughts of last night, and he looks at you. You smile at him, but the slight nagging in the back of his mind doesn't go away.

"Honestly; no. I don't sleep well unless you're lying next to me, my Heart."

You give him a smile, his heart stumbles in his chest for a moment. He can't tear his eyes away from his beautiful wife.

"I'm sorry, but I promised Rickon I would take him to the market so he could pick out a new toy. As a reward for his good progress in reading." your voice takes on a hint of pride as you stroke Rickon's dark curls. At the sight of his family a warm feeling spreads through Cregan. You love Rickon like he is your own blood. Cregan is glad for it every day. You turn away from Rickon. Place your fork on your empty plate and lower your voice a little before continuing. "The butcher told me that meat is so expensive at the moment because a pack of wolves is causing trouble."

Cregan smiles at you reassuringly. "Don't worry, we are currently training the dogs. I've got it under control." he suppresses his slight anger at the butcher for bothering you with this. Taking care of such matters is his job. Not his wife's. You shouldn´t have a care in the world. 

You nod. "That's good. We should still make sure that meat prices go down again, perhaps by giving the hunters subsidies. So close to winter our people shouldn´t already have to abstain. Hunger will come soon enough."

"I'll discuss it with the master and the treasurer. Thank you, my Heart."

Servants clear your plate, and the nanny fetches Rickon to take him to the nursery. You stay seated next to him and wait until Cregan has finished his meal.

To ensure Rickon has a regular daily routine, dinner is served even without the Lord of the castle.

The familiar routine almost makes Cregan forget the strange feeling in this mind. 

"You said Rickon is making progress with reading aloud?" Cregan asks. Even though he would like to be more involved in Rickon's upbringing, his duties as Lord of Winterfell often keep him away.

"Yes. He's also stopped skipping longer words," you say with a slight smile. "Counting is giving him trouble." you glance at him sideway as you start to giggle. "He is like his father in that."

Cregan tries to hide his laughter in a snort. "I miscalculated once." he reaches for your hand, out of habit, but you suddenly reach for your cup of wine.

Cregan wants to think it was just a coincidence again. However, the way your hand is shaking tells him otherwise. His jaw clenches uncomfortably. His laughter has vanished, and he feels tension creeping through his shoulders as his brain begins to replay every moment of the last few days you have spent together. Trying to figure out how he could have upset you. He knows something's wrong, but he doesn't know what exactly.

Of course you have noticed his change in mood and start fiddling with the rings on your fingers as you slide back in your chair. An uncomfortable silence spreads between you.

Cregan can handle this unfamiliar situation for exactly three heartbeats before he says the first thing that comes to his mind. "I'm meeting with the saddler right now. He's fitted a new saddle to my stallion.He wants me to try it out." You look at him expectantly, as if you don't know what to say. "Would you like to join me for a little ride?" he suggests. Having to concentrate so his voice doesn't sound desperate. Maybe that way he can figure out what had upset you.

"No, I'm meeting Sara." you answer. For the first time in your marriage Cregan isn't sure if you telling him the truth. "But I have a moment now. I will accompany you to the stables if you like that?"

Relief washes over him like a wave. "Of course." he smiles at you and quickly finishes his meal.

Cregan first descends the few steps from the platform and then tries to reach for your hand like he does every day, but he stops himself. Obviously you don't want to be touched by him. But why? He still hasn't found an answer. Cregan suppresses a frustrated sigh. Instead, he holds out his arm. You falter for two heartbeats. Then a smile creeps onto your lips and you place your hand on his arm.

You walk side by side through the corridors of your home toward the stables. Cregan watches you out of the corner of his eye. You look absently at the path ahead. From the way you slightly furrow your eyebrows he can tell you are deep in thought. He wishes he could read your mind.

Cregan concentrates on the path for the both of you, and when you arrive at the outer gate, two servants with cloaks are already waiting for you. After Cregan has put on his cloak, the servant tries to hand him your cloak so that Cregan can put it over your shoulders. Like he always does. Suddenly he's no longer sure if you want that. He stops and looks at you. You give him a smile and then take your cloak from the servant and put it on yourself. Cregan feels the gaze of the servants and guards on his neck as you step out into the courtyard together. The cold air immediately turns your cheeks and nose slightly red so you take a step closer to Cregan. His heart leaps and butterflies flutter in his stomach as your arm brushes against his. Like a little boy in love he smiles down at you and revels in the sight of you.

You feel his gaze on you and look up at him. Cregan is about to open his mouth to tell you how beautiful you are when the saddler calls him and approaches with his already waiting horse.

Cregan turns to him with a heavy heart and takes the reins.

"Be careful, my Love," you say, and then, to Cregan's complete surprise, you stand on your tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his lips. "Come back safely."

"Always," he promises you, just like every time you say goodbye. Cregan mounts his horse and rides off.

He is grateful that his horse walks the familiar path without instructions. Cregans thoughts are a mess. He doesn't understand your behavior. Did he do something wrong? Or not?

Was it all just a coincidence? His head starts pounding again.

Cregan doesn't feel like he's getting any closer to the solution, even as he extends his ride a little. His thoughts keep coming back to the same point.

The hoped-for solution doesn't come.

The Lord of Winterfell has only one option: He has to talk to you.

Because he returns later than he had planned, he is behind schedule. And because duty comes before love, Cregan has to suppress the urge to run to you immediately to clear everything up.

Cregan doesn't see you again until you arrive in your chambers that evening. He's taking a bath. Your chambers are lit only by a few candles.

"Hello, my Heart," he greets you as you close the door behind you and take off your cloak.

"Hello, my Love," you say. Cregan watches as you go through the room and begin to undo your braids. "I just put Rickon to bed. How was the ride? Do any adjustments need to be made?" you begin to change for the night as you speak. 

Cregan was so lost in thought during his ride that he didn't pay any attention to the saddle at all.

"The ride was good," he answers anyway. Only when you completely got yourself ready and disappeared behind the doors into your bedroom does Cregan notice that you didn't kiss him.

He sighs and slides so far down in the bathtub that his head is underwater. He wants to scream. He just needs to know what is going on. This isn't something that can put off until tomorrow. There is nothing you two can't talk about.

Determined the Lord of Winterfell emerges from the water and gets out of the tub. He quickly dries himself off and dresses for the night. He takes a moment to collect himself, putting his frustration aside. There is no way he will take it out on his sweet wife.

When he enters your bedroom it is also lit by soft candlelight. You are already lying in bed under the warm furs, however when Cregan closes the door behind him you sit up a little. Tension weaves through the room. It makes his skin crawl.

You start picking at your nail beds, now that you are no longer wearing rings to distract you. Nevertheless, you look him in the eyes and take a deep breath.

Cregan holds back his questions. Giving you time to collect yourself.

You press your lips together. Cregan is becoming more nervous with each moment. It feels like he stands right in front of a blizzard, unable to move. He is burning to find out what's going on, to talk everything out that stands between you. His gaze goes to your fingers. Your nail beds are already bloody. Cregan can't bear the sight.

"Please don't pick, my Heart," he says quietly. You immediately stop. Placing your hands in your lap.

"Cregan," you begin after a moment of silence, your voice trembling. He immediately looks into your eyes again. Tears gather in them. Cregan's heart sinks into his stomach. "Last night you were rough and you hurt me." you swallow and take a deep breath.

Cregans whole body goes ice cold as his heart clenches painfully with guilt. The next breath is heavy. He takes a step toward you but stops the next moment. You probably don't want him anywhere near you. His eyes burn so he has to blink.

His thoughts race back to last night. He was drunk. But not so drunk that he imagined your moans. You pulled him closer, your legs wrapped around his waist, right? His thoughts are unclear, slightly clouded by the alcohol. Did he imagine all this? How could he? Cregan has to swallow acid.

"My heart," he begins, but you interrupt him.

"No, wait, please, I have something else to say. Please let me finish. I want to tell you this." your voice still trembles, but you hold his gaze. Cregan immediately closes his mouth again and looks at you, waiting for you to collect your thoughts and continue speaking. Cregan hates that your voice trembles when you speak to him. It should never be like this between you. You two love each other. The thought that you are afraid of him makes him sick. But your fear is justified. He hurt you. He wants to fall to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. "I know you were drunk. I know you didn't mean to hurt me, Cregan. It's just…" you swallow, forcing the words out of your mouth. "I was afraid to say something because I thought it would upset you." you sob quietly, lower your gaze and clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle your sobs.

Everything in Cregan is screaming to take you in his arms and wipe away your tears. He knows that is the last thing you need right now. So he plants his feet in the ground as cold fear courses through his veins. He feels as if he will break under the weight of his guilt. He has to swallow before he can ask the question. Even if he already panics about the answer. 

"My Love, please be honest with me. Have I ever given you any reason to fear that your rejection in the marital bed would upset me? Would be something that isn't entirely fine?" this time it is his voice that trembles.

You gasp in shock and shake your head. "No. No, of course not," you say, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You take a deep breath trying to compose yourself. "No, I didn't mean it like that. I..." you interrupt yourself. You look at him as tears stream down your cheeks again. You start to speak again, but only stutter. "I..." it seems like you don't quite know how to express your thoughts. "My mother, she..." again you pause. Cregan tries to make some sense of your words. He fails.

It takes three heartbeats for you to gather your thoughts. This time when you speak, your voice is calm. "I wanted to share our bed with you yesterday. You didn't force me."  it is a statement, and a tiny bit of guilt lifts from Cregan's shoulders. Still, his heart aches. He hates himself, will never be able to forgive himself for hurting you. "It was beautiful. But then suddenly everything was too much. It was too warm, your breath smelled a little too much of whiskey, the fur tickled. I really wanted to say something. But then I suddenly remembered what my mother said. "Your comfort isn't important as long as you give your husband pleasure." I heard her voice so clearly as if she had been standing next to me and I froze," you explain. "So I just endured it until you were done."

Cregan's mouth goes dry. It feels like you have shoved a sword into his chest. His heart shatters when you use the word "endure" to describe sex with him. It shakes him to his core. Guilt and shame wash over him like a wave.

For a heartbeat he is angry at you for not saying anything. He quickly shakes off the feeling. It is not your fault. Your mother made you believe it. He can't believe your mother said such a thing to you.

You look at him. It takes Cregan a moment to understand that you're waiting for him to say something. "I'm so terribly sorry. I should have known."

You shake your head. "No. You can't read minds."

"Your comfort is above everything. Even above my life," Cregan clarifies, it feels like a vow.

A smile twitches on your lips, but tears still well up in your eyes. You reach out your hand to him. "Please come to me."

His body reacts automatically and moves toward you before his brain has even properly processed your words. He gently takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. You smile slightly and pat his side of the bed with your free hand.

Relief spreads through him when you allow him to climb into bed next to you. He leans against the headboard, turning his head slightly to the side to look at you. You look at your intertwined fingers drawing invisible patterns with your thumb.

"My heart please look at me” he begs. You raise your gaze again. Cregan tries to read every emotion in your expression. "Please. In the future, please let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable. Your mother is wrong. I only find fulfillment in your pleasure. Stop paying attention to her words." he wants to get through to you, even though he knows he can't just wipe away years of upbringing.

"It's hard. She told this things all the time, like a lullaby. Bear everything your husband does in silence. Anger, arguing, screaming, crying. It will only make it worse. Be quiet and endur it. Try to make your husband happy. His comfort matters, his pleasure matters," you repeat her words. "I can't even be angry with her," you almost sigh.

"I am angry with her," Cregan admits.

"It was her way of protecting my sister and me. From false hope and disappointment. She thought she was doing the right thing. My father isn't a nice man. You know that."

Cregan nods. "Will you hit me if we fight?" You hadn't been married for a week when you asked him that. You weren't afraid. Just wanted to know what to expect. As if being hit by your husband was the most normal thing in the world for you. Cregan was deeply shaken by your question. Only weeks later, when you opened up to him completely about your family, did he fully understand why you had asked him that.

As Warden of the North he could do little more than write a letter to Lord Tully about his lord's behavior. The letter remained unanswered.

"Are you afraid I'll become like your father?" his voice sounds rough.

You suddenly laugh and look at him as if he's gone crazy. "You couldn't be further from becoming like my father. I know that, Cregan. I love you. And you love me, I know all that. Yet all I could think about was my mother's words. It's stupid, I know." you sigh.

"It's not stupid," he assures you. He himself still struggles sometimes with the feeling of not being enough, of not fulfilling his duties as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Just as his uncle had told him for years to prepare for his own rise to power. "I only wish you hadn't had to hear all of this."

Now you shrug. "I was lucky," you whisper softly. Cregan's heart sinks. He hurt you last night, and despite that you hold him high. You describe yourself as the lucky one. But you are the one who brings happiness to every moment of Cregan's life. He should thank the gods everyday that they bring you into his life.

"What can I do to make it right?" he knows there is nothing. He will always carry his guilt with him. Let it be a constant reminder to be more attentive, more careful, a better husband.

"There's nothing to make up for, Cregan. Just today. You didn't know what was going on, but you understood. You gave me all the space I needed. You are the proof that my mother has no idea what a marriage should be like. What a husband should be like."

"How can I be a good husband if I hurt my wife?" guilt and pain seeps into his voice.

You stroke his hand, say his name and wait until he looks at you again.“My father beats my mother if she steps even half a step out of line. My sister bled for three days after her wedding night and cried for even longer. Her letters are full of bitterness about her cruel husband. My cousin died in childbirth because her husband forced himself on her again shortly after giving birth, so she became pregnant again before her body could properly heal. The only thing my aunt said about it was that this is the life of a wife." you take a shaky breath as your grip on his hand tightens slightly. This time it's Cregan who gently strokes your skin with his thumb. "And I have you. I never felt pressure from you to lie with you. Your desire for me, yes. But never an expectation. You give me so much love, Cregan,” you say softly. “You are caring, gentle, would never raise your voice against me, never your hand. You love me. And you show me every day that you love me. I pity them that they are so unlucky and I'm so lucky. And sometimes I feel guilty. But nothing could ever make me regret having you as my husband. I love you so much, Cregan. You make me feel safe. Yes, you hurt me. But not because you were mean or wanted to hurt me. It was an accident."

Your words settle like a gentle veil over his heart. He turns his body slightly toward you, about to place his hand on your cheek but stops just before he does. He feels the warmth of your skin. You lean into his touch. Cregan gently caress your cheek.

"May I kiss you?" he asks softly, not wanting to overstep.

"Yes, of course." he leans forward, but your hand on his chest freezes him in his tracks. He immediately searches your eyes for fear, but finds nothing. "I'm not fragile. Don't treat me differently, Cregan. I'm fine. We are good." then you gently pull him forward by his shirt and kiss him. He moves his lips against yours, soft, gentle. He tries to let all his love for you bleed into this kiss. And he swears to himself that he will try to be a better husband for you, a husband who is worthy of you. 

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Vincent, fem!reader

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere, light infantilization, fem+afab reader, periods, period comfort, embarrassment from periods, non-sexual nudity, reader implied to be younger, cuddles, Vincent doting on Reader

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the other part of a commission that was done with Octavian!

You're sure you've never felt as miserable as you do now; your cramps feel like they're going to kill you, you've been nauseous all morning and you just want to stay curled up in bed all day, hiding under your covers.

Unfortunately for you, however, today Vincent is off work. Normally you'd love that, because then you could spend more time together. But right now, it feels like a curse; because how else are you supposed to hide this from him?

You're not ready to deal with it, nor do you want to.

To seem as least suspicious as possible, you try not to clutch your stomach as you descend the stairs towards where he sits, drinking his morning coffee.

Vincent looks up at you with a warm smile. "Good morning, sweetie."

Despite everything going on inside of your body and mind, you force yourself to return his greeting. "Hi."

You walk past him and quickly gather some cereal for yourself. You can tell Vincent notices, because he watches you with curiosity. "What's wrong? No 'good morning, Dad'? Just 'hi'?" He chuckles, but you can tell he's going through a million different possibilities as to what's wrong.

Instead of answering verbally, you shrug, pour yourself a bowl and grab a spoon. Then you make your way over to where he sits, taking a seat beside him instead of across.

Maybe that way his gaze won't be fixated solely on you.

Unfortunately, your plan fails, because he's still staring at you when you glance over.

"I was gonna ask if you wanted pancakes or waffles," he says finally.

"Nah, its fine, I'm alright with cereal this morning," you reply.

Vincent raises a brow, raising a hand to feel your forehead. "Are you sick? Getting a fever?"

"No, no," you stutter. "Nothing like that. I just, um, didn't sleep well last night..."

"Really?" Vincent asks. "Did you have any nightmares? Anything you want to talk about?"

Great. Now you're cornering yourself and lying even further than before. You're pretty sure part of him can tell you're lying, because he's so used to working with other liars. He reads people better than most could, which is probably part of his profession.

Knowing that just makes you more anxious.

For all you know, he probably sees through your facade completely and is waiting to call you out on it.

"I dunno... maybe? I don't remember my dreams," you say quickly.

"Hm." His expression shows that he's not entirely convinced by your answer.

You try changing the topic to distract him, and hopefully yourself. "Do you have anything specific planned for the day?"

Vincent blinks, then smiles fondly at you. "I'm going to leave it up to you. If you want to go shopping or go out to eat, that'd be fine with me. Or we could have a lazy day watching movies together. Anything you like, princess."

You feel nervous at his choices of options, considering you'd prefer not leaving the house today if you can avoid it. Maybe watching films together sounds nice, though even that gives you anxiety.

"I guess some movies would be nice," you mutter.

Vincent smiles, much to your relief. "Sounds good to me. Why don't you pick one for us to start with?"

So you do.

You get settled down on the couch after turning off the lights in the living room and opening the curtains for maximum viewing experience, snuggled tightly beneath a large fleece blanket. Vincent joins you moments after setting things up.

He wraps a strong arm around you, pulling you closer to his side.

Throughout the movie, he glances down at you occasionally as if checking up on something. Which makes sense since he seems worried about you for whatever reason. You pretend to pay attention to the screen while your mind races on elsewhere.

Every now and then there's a painful twist in your lower abdomen causing you to flinch slightly, although you try hiding these reactions from Vincent.

About halfway through the film, you start getting fidgety, wanting to switch positions constantly.

When you decide to curl up into a ball and bury yourself deep within your blankets once again, Vincent shoots you another glance. "(Y/n)?" he asks quietly.

"Huh?"

"What are you doing, honey?"

"Oh..." You look down embarrassedly. "Just getting comfy."

Vincent pauses for a moment before continuing. "Are you sure nothing is wrong? Nothing you want to talk about with me?"

Your heart pounds faster than normal and butterflies swarm your stomach. Your fingers tighten their grip on your sleeves as you answer: "Positive."

"Okay."

The movie continues playing, but neither of you speak anymore during the remainder of it. At certain points you catch Vincent giving you concerned stares again, especially whenever your hands wander absentmindedly underneath the blanket to press against your belly. When the credits roll around, however, he breaks the silence.

"I don't buy that."

You laugh nervously. "You love buying things," you attempt to joke.

He usually always finds amusement in your jokes, even the bad ones, but now he just looks frustrated. Its a rare expression on him, and definitely not one you like. "I'm serious."

You shrink back. "Sorry..."

Vincent's expression goes from stern to guilt-ridden immediately at your scared reaction. "I'm not mad. I'm just worried about you. Please talk to me."

"There's nothing to worry about." Your voice shakes as you say those words.

"(Y/n)." His tone sends shivers throughout your body. "You're lying to me." A pause. "Please don't lie to Dad."

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. "...I... I don't wanna talk about it... please." Your voice cracks. Tears build in the corners of your eyes.

Vincent coos at you, pulling you into his lap. You bury your face in his chest as you cry softly. He rocks you gently, kissing your head every few seconds.

"Its okay, it's okay, sweet girl. Shhh..." Vincent hushes you soothingly. He keeps rocking and swaying slowly. One hand rubs calming circles along your upper back. His other cradles the back of your neck tenderly.

After a couple minutes of crying like this in his arms, he leans away slightly to lift your chin. With a thumb, he wipes the tears streaming down your face away carefully.

Then he smiles brightly down at you. "Hey there, kiddo."

You hiccup and sniffle. "Hi." Your voice quavers. "I feel so gross."

Vincent grabs a tissue from the tissue box on the coffee table, using it to clean off your runny nose and damp cheeks. "Much better now, huh? Crying is healthy for the soul. Even if it breaks my heart to see you cry, I'd rather you cry than hold it in. Just means I get to comfort my baby." He teasingly squishes your cheeks, which manages to bring a smile to your face. "There it is," he chuckles fondly. "How's about I go draw you a nice bath?"

That sounds appealing, honestly. "Yeah... sure," you agree.

"Perfect. Up we go." He hoists you into his arms and carries you upstairs, setting you on the counter in the bathroom.

He rolls up his sleeves before leaning forward and switching the faucets to get the perfect temperature.

You watch as the water fills up the tub, making little splashing noises when it hits the ceramic.

Once he gets satisfied with how full the basin is, he turns the knobs off.

Vincent hums as he searches through various cabinets, grabbing some scented bubble bath bottles. "Orange mango or watermelon?" After you give your answer, he tosses the opposite bottle back into the drawer, pouring the other into the bath. He stirs it in, letting the suds rise. "Let me know if it should be warmer or colder, kiddo."

He turns to grab shampoo and conditioner, giving you the privacy to step in. It feels nice, easing your cramps ever-so-slightly.

"Feels great," you sigh dreamily. "Thanks, Dad."

"Anything for my favorite daughter," he sing-songs.

"Your only daughter," you snort.

He laughs at that, placing the shampoo and conditioner in convenient reach. "Still true." He grabs a cup. "Now tilt your head back so I can..." he trails off.

You're quick to realize why. The water is a brownish-red hue.

To your relief, Vincent doesn't freak out. A look of realization spreads across his face, only after the initial shock. He chuckles in relief. "Oh, thank God. It's just your period." His expression turns to serious again. "Right? You aren't injured, are you?"

"No," you squeak out. "It started this morning. I'm sorry."

He holds his hand to his chest in further relief. "I was just a few minutes away from calling a doctor, you know that?" His expression softens. "Why would you hide this?" His voice seeps with genuine confusion and worry.

"...'cause..." You pause. "Because its embarrassing." You hug yourself anxiously. "And gross."

Vincent looks heartbroken. "Princess... you know periods are natural, right?" When you shrug, he frowns deeper. "(Y/n), I promise its okay." He rubs your shoulder. "Its nothing to be ashamed of. I'd never judge you for anything, let alone this."

"Thank you," you murmur. "It just feels so awkward."

Vincent laughs softly. "I've been preparing for this conversation for a while. Not really a fan of how we ended up here, but I'm just glad you aren't hurt." He sighs fondly. "I'll order you some pads, and when bathtime's done, there'll be a heating pad with your name on it."

You smile gratefully. "Thanks."

"Of course. My little girl is not allowed to suffer," Vincent says lovingly. "No, sirree. None of that allowed under my roof. Got it?"

"Got it," you laugh back. "Um, can we continue our movie marathons after I'm done washing up?"

He smiles warmly. "Of course. Since I'm such a good dad, I'll even let you pick one extra movie."

"Only one?" You groan dramatically. "All your movies are boring."

"They are not."

"They absolutely are. They're either the same 80's comedies over and over again, or the same superhero action movies over and over again."

"You're just saying that because you're a baby with a baby brain, and I have good taste." He sticks his tongue out playfully, showing he isn't actually upset. "Real movies, made for people who know good cinema."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," you roll your eyes. Your face softens. "Thanks, Dad. For being not-awkward."

He beams proudly. "Anytime, kiddo. I'm just cool like that."

You roll your eyes.

[exitingmusic]

▬▬ι════════════════════════════════════ι▬▬

It was mornings like these that you didn't mind.

Mornings where you and Megumi could sleep curled up in his room without having to worry about alarms or time. It wasn't uncommon for one of you two to wind up in the others room in late hours of the night, squished together in the small bed.

Last night you tossed and turned before giving up and sneaking down to hall, a blanket around your shoulders to Megumi's room, walking in and sliding into his bed like you owned the place.

Well technically you didn't own the place, you just owned the heart of the resident. You had been dating for a couple months, it just wasn't a well known fact. Yuji and Nobara know that your definitely more then friends, just not dating.

It wasn't like you were trying to keep it secret, it just wasn't something that you told everyone that looked you in the eye.

He pulled you into his arms without even opening his eyes, one hand wrapped around you, tracing circles on your back while the other gently gripped your thigh that you tossed over his hip.

He probably wouldn't admit it, but he slept better with you in his arms, lulled to sleep by your warmth and quiet breaths.

You quieted his thoughts anyway, unknowingly keeping the nightmares at bay.

He fell asleep easier and actually stayed asleep, and you got the comfort of his embrace, plus a living, less annoying alarm clock.

It was a win win.

Like today, training didn't start until 9, which was perfect because Megumi unconsciously woke up around 7.

So both of you fell asleep, no alarms set, no worries.

Except Yuji and Nobara were a bit worried when neither of you showed up to breakfast.

Even Gojo was starting to get antsy when neither showed up at 8:58, questioning the kids.

So, they set off, searching the halls for either one of you. First, Yuji and Nobara checked your room, finding it empty, your blanket and pillow half off the bed.

Gojo yanked open Megumi's door, letting out a silent sigh of relief, composing himself as Yuji and Nobara barreled down the hall towards him.

Megumi's eyes snapped open the moment the door opened while you grumbled and just buried your face deeper into his chest.

"What?" He snapped, giving them a glare as Yuji and Nobara gaped at the sight, Gojo practically wiping tears of laughter away.

It was hard to be intimidating with bedhead and still gently cradling you to his chest.

Nobara recovered first, throwing a pillow at the two of you, "First of all, it's 9:15, we had to track you both down. Second, why didn't you tell me you were...?" She went on, gesturing to the two of you with a disgusted look.

You didn't even turn to look at her, closing your eyes tightly and trying to get a couple more moments of sleep.

Megumi squints at her, sitting up slightly, "9:15?" He glances at his clock, cursing.

Yuji leans over the doorway, "Have you two... kissed?" He asked, eyeing Megumi's grip on you.

"All of you get out," Megumi hissed.

Gojo, still laughing, yanked Yuji and Nobara out by their collars, giving Megumi a thumbs up and wink once they were out of the room.

"You better be at training," Nobara threatened, getting cut off as the door slid closed, a silent pause filling the room.

Megumi sighed, gently sitting you up, his tone much softer, "C'mon, we gotta get up."

"Five more minutes?"

"Five more minutes."

▬▬ι════════════════════════════════════ι▬▬

A/N: He's a cutie patootie

[lilirae00]

No Matter the Miles - Part 3

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: None 

a/n: Not gonna lie, I maybe cried a little writing this part. Phew, it’s gonna get better, they’re trying. These two love so much it hurts. Thanks for reading, and let me know if you’re enjoying this story. 

Masterlist

–

The weak light of dawn leaked through the motel curtains, turning the walls a tired, washed-out gray. It wasn't really enough to call morning yet, but Azzi's eyes opened anyway, blinking blearily as her brain tried to orient itself.

For a moment, she didn't know where she was.

It felt like waking from a nightmare without remembering the dream—just the leftover ache in her chest, the thick, gritty burn behind her eyelids from all the crying she'd done last night.

But then she felt the weight of Paige’s arm draped heavily across her waist.

Solid. Warm.

Grounding her.

Paige’s fingers were slack against the curve of her hip, palm pressed possessively even in sleep.

Azzi let out a careful breath, trying not to move too much. She didn’t want to break whatever fragile truce they’d found in the small hours when exhaustion had finally dragged them under.

She shifted her head just enough to see Paige’s face.

Even asleep, Paige didn’t look peaceful. 

There was a tiny crease between her brows, the ghost of tension that never fully let go. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, flopping into her eyes. Her mouth was slack but parted a little, letting out slow, uneven breaths.

Azzi watched her.

Really watched her.

Because she could.

Because Paige was here, in her arms, even after all the angry words and slammed silences and that awful moment in the diner when it felt like they’d both gone too far to come back.

Azzi felt something crack in her chest.

God, I love you.

Even when you’re impossible.

Even when you want too much of me.

Especially then.

She blinked against the burn in her eyes and let them wander, memorizing the line of Paige’s jaw, the light smattering of freckles that only showed up when she got too much sun, the tiny scar on her eyebrow from when they were kids and she'd split it open on the corner of a gym bench.

She loved all of it.

Even when she hated how Paige made her feel.

Even when she felt like Paige was asking her for something she couldn't give.

Because Paige deserved everything.

And that was the hardest part.

Eventually, Paige stirred.

Azzi felt her body twitch once, twice, restless even in sleep. Her lashes fluttered and then those pale eyes cracked open, glazed and confused for half a second before they landed on Azzi.

The fight from last night flickered there, unhealed and raw.

But so did the love. So much fucking love.

Azzi swallowed around the knot in her throat. She forced her mouth into the tiniest, tired smile.

"Morning."

Paige didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes just searched Azzi’s face like she was memorizing it all over again. 

When she finally spoke, her voice was nothing but gravel. "Hey."

There was a long, heavy quiet.

They didn’t move to kiss. Didn’t dare.

Azzi didn’t trust herself not to cry again if Paige's mouth met hers.

So instead she shifted her hand just enough to let her thumb trace a slow line along the inside of Paige’s forearm.

A silent apology.

A quiet promise: I’m still here.

Paige’s fingers twitched. Then they curled tight around Azzi’s wrist, holding on like she might slip away.

Azzi’s chest tightened painfully. Last night was still there. It hadn't gone anywhere.

Neither of them had said anything that fixed it.

But they were still here. Still holding on.

Paige cleared her throat and it sounded ragged. "I gotta pee."

Azzi let out a tiny huff of a laugh that was half-sob, half-relief.

"Charming," she rasped, voice still wrecked from crying.

Paige managed a small eye roll, but her lips twitched like they wanted to smile. She peeled herself off the bed, wincing as her joints cracked. She looked like she hadn’t slept in years.

Azzi watched her go, her heart pulling painfully in her chest.

The bathroom door shut with a dull click, leaving Azzi alone in the quiet.

She let her head fall back onto the flat, terrible pillow. Stared up at the water-stained ceiling.

We’re okay.

We’re not fixed.

But we’re okay.

Her eyes blurred again.

I’m not losing her.

Not over this.

She scrubbed a palm over her face, willing the wetness away.

When Paige came back, her hair was damp from splashing water on her face. She didn’t meet Azzi’s eyes right away. Instead, she fidgeted with the hem of her old UConn shirt like it had personally offended her.

Azzi sat up slowly, watching her.

Waiting.

Paige’s eyes finally flicked over, bloodshot and vulnerable.

Her voice cracked when she spoke. "Can we not fight today?"

Azzi felt something catch in her chest.

She looked at Paige, really looked at her—the way she stood there like she was waiting to be told no.

She swallowed hard.

Then nodded. Firm. "Yeah. No fighting."

The tension didn’t vanish. It sat there, thick and unspoken, but it loosened just enough to let them breathe.

They dressed slowly, deliberately.

They’d taken quick showers—separately this time. 

That alone felt like a loss. They usually crammed into the tiny stall together, laughing, bumping elbows, sharing shampoo, stealing kisses under the spray. 

But this morning they’d traded that closeness for silence and space, the distance between them as heavy as the steam that clung to the cracked mirror.

Azzi took her time at the sink afterward, brushing her hair with precise strokes, tongue poking out in focus. It was stupid and childish but she needed something to do with her hands.

She could feel Paige’s eyes on her through the mirror.

When she finally glanced over, Paige didn’t even bother looking away.

Azzi lifted a brow, trying for playful, even though her heart felt like it was bruised.

“What?”

Paige’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile.

“Nothing.”

But she didn’t stop watching her.

Azzi bit back the sigh. She didn’t push.

They packed up the room in a fragile silence.

Paige folded Azzi’s clothes more carefully than she’d ever folded her own, pressing the wrinkles flat with too much focus. 

Azzi noticed. She didn’t say anything, but she felt it lodge in her throat.

When Paige handed her the folded stack, their fingers brushed.

Azzi held on for just a second too long.

Paige didn’t let go right away either.

When they finally walked out to the car, the sky was a pale, washed-out blue.

The world felt too quiet.

Azzi shivered at the morning chill.

Paige wordlessly lifted an arm and draped it over her shoulders.

Azzi let herself lean in just for a moment.

She pressed her face into Paige’s side and breathed.

Paige tightened her arm just a fraction, pressing a kiss to the crown of Azzi’s head before guiding her to the passenger side.

Once they were in the car, the doors shut with a hollow finality.

They sat there for a second.

Breathing.

Azzi pulled her knees up onto the seat, twisting so she could look at her.

Paige kept her eyes stubbornly on the dash.

Azzi’s voice was quiet. "So."

Paige swallowed hard. Flicked her eyes over. "Yeah."

Azzi chewed on her lip, fighting the nerves. "It’s our last stretch."

Paige nodded once, her throat bobbing. "Yeah."

She didn’t look at Azzi.

But her fingers twitched on the gearshift.

Azzi saw it.

And without saying anything else, she reached over and covered them with her own.

—

The air between them felt stiff and uncertain, like the stale motel room they’d left behind. 

Paige gripped the steering wheel too tightly, the rubber biting into her palms as the engine hummed its low, steady note beneath them. She could feel Azzi there, just inches away, and yet it felt like miles.

No music played. No chatter filled the space. Just the rhythmic slap of tires on asphalt and Paige’s own ragged breathing as she tried to keep it calm.

She drummed her fingers once, twice on the wheel, the hollow sound loud in the quiet. Then she let out a slow, controlled exhale, trying to let go of the tension bunched in her shoulders.

Her eyes were locked forward, laser-focused on the unspooling gray highway.

“Your mom’s gonna grill us,” she finally muttered, voice low and gruff, cracking at the end like it didn’t quite make it all the way to a joke.

Beside her, Azzi made a small noise in her throat—a rough, tired sound that was half a laugh, half a sigh that somehow managed to be affectionate and exasperated all at once. 

She shifted in the seat, pulling her leg up and hugging it, turning to face Paige as much as the seatbelt would allow.

“She’s already planning her attack,” Azzi drawled dryly, but there wasn’t real bite behind it. Just resignation.

Paige’s mouth twitched, but didn’t quite make it to a smile. Her jaw flexed, the muscle jumping as she clenched and released it. 

She forced her fingers to relax on the wheel, watching her knuckles fade from white back to pink.

A beat passed, heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

“Your parents are gonna know we fought,” Paige admitted quietly, voice rougher than she meant it to be. 

It wasn’t even really a question—it was just something she had to say out loud, like confessing to a crime. “Like…as soon as they see us.”

Azzi let out a slow exhale, eyes softening even as she watched Paige’s stubborn, tense profile. 

She could see the way Paige’s eyes were too bright, the way she kept blinking hard like she was trying to force the tears back where they came from.

God, Paige. Why do you have to carry it all so heavy?

Azzi dropped her gaze, her fingers running restlessly along the seam of her jeans. 

She hesitated. She could feel the words balancing on the tip of her tongue, knowing they would sting.

“They…well. Mom already knows.”

Paige’s head jerked a fraction, her gaze snapping over to Azzi before flicking immediately back to the road. Her jaw worked again, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What? How?”

Azzi’s heart thudded painfully. She shifted again in the seat, unable to sit still.

“I talked to her last night. When I stepped outside.”

She tried to keep it level, but even she could hear the tremor in her voice.

Paige’s grip on the wheel tightened again until the old faux leather groaned. She didn’t say anything for a second, but Azzi could see the muscle in her jaw pulsing.

Azzi’s stomach twisted. Guilt settled heavy in her chest, pressing on her ribs until it hurt to breathe.

“I didn’t want to make you feel worse,” she said carefully, quietly. “I just…needed someone to talk to.”

She saw the way Paige swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. The way her lashes flickered like she was trying not to blink too fast.

Finally, Paige let out a harsh, shaky breath.

“Shit,” she rasped.

Silence fell again, thicker than before.

It pooled in the space between them, unspoken accusations and regrets mixing with the too-loud hum of the engine.

Paige’s next words were so small, Azzi almost didn’t catch them.

“Does she…hate me now?”

Azzi’s head snapped up so fast her neck twinged. Her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in stunned disbelief.

“Hate you?” she echoed, voice cracking in horror. She shook her head hard, like she could physically banish the thought.

“Paige. No. God, no.”

But Paige didn’t look at her. She stubbornly kept her eyes on the road, blinking furiously. 

Azzi could see the way her lip trembled before she bit down on it.

God, Paige. You’re killing me.

Azzi reached out carefully, her fingers brushing Paige’s wrist before she gently curled them around it. She squeezed, firm but gentle, grounding them both.

“She knows we love each other,” Azzi said, voice rough with the effort of keeping it steady. “That’s all she cares about.”

Paige’s lip trembled harder. Her breath hitched.

Azzi’s thumb traced slow, soothing circles over the bones of Paige’s wrist, feeling every twitch and pulse there.

Azzi’s chest ached so badly she thought she might actually break.

She could see it all on Paige’s face. The fear. The shame. The raw, unfiltered worry that she wasn’t good enough. That she’d pushed too hard. That even Azzi’s mom might turn on her.

Azzi blinked fast, swallowing hard, her own eyes burning.

She doesn’t get it. She’s already part of them. She’s mine. She’s family.

Paige cleared her throat roughly, a ragged sound that was closer to a sob than a laugh.

“Gonna tell her I was a perfect angel,” she tried, voice cracking like glass.

Azzi huffed out a tiny, watery laugh that trembled at the edges. It was weak but real.

She squeezed Paige’s wrist a little harder, letting the moment shift just a fraction back toward familiar territory.

“You cursed at me,” she reminded her softly, voice warm despite the accusation.

Paige winced, her shoulders slumping in defeat. 

She finally, finally flicked her eyes over, and they were so wet it nearly undid Azzi entirely.

“I know,” Paige whispered, voice catching. “I’m sorry.”

Azzi’s gaze softened completely. All the hurt, the fear, the love welled up in her chest so big she didn’t know how it fit inside her.

She didn’t let go of Paige’s wrist. She held on.

“I know,” she said again, but this time it was softer, firmer. Final. Like a promise.

She gave Paige’s wrist one last, deliberate squeeze before she let her fingers slide away, settling them on her own knee. But the warmth stayed between them, humming quiet and alive.

Paige let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders dropping that half-inch that made all the difference.

Neither of them spoke after that.

They just sat there in the muted quiet of the car, hands still barely brushing on the console, the miles rolling under them slow and steady.

And when their eyes met again in the rearview mirror, there was something raw and fragile but undeniably there in Paige’s gaze.

Azzi refused to look away first.

We’re okay.

We’re scared as hell.

But we’re okay.

–

They fell quiet again after that last soft apology, the car humming along in the fading afternoon light. Paige’s fingers kept drifting over to Azzi’s knee on the center console, tapping absently, grounding herself as much as she was grounding Azzi. 

And Azzi let her do it. Let her have that small contact. Because it was Paige’s way of saying I’m sorry again without words.

Outside, the sun dipped lower. The light turned syrupy gold, streaking through the windshield and making Azzi squint. She leaned back in the passenger seat, letting the air from the cracked window flutter her hair around her face. 

Paige watched it out of the corner of her eye, heart squeezing painfully.

She’s so damn beautiful like this. Calm. Here. With me.

But under that was another thought that wouldn’t leave her alone. The closer they got to the neighborhood, the more Paige felt the old weight pressing on her chest. 

She hadn’t been back here in years. Not really. Sure, she’d seen the Fudds at Dallas games, hugged them in tunnels, texted them on holidays. But this house? This driveway?

This was quarantine. This was her at seventeen. Living in Azzi’s room like they were already something no one had words for. 

This was sneaking out onto the porch after midnight to talk about dreams and the WNBA and what they wanted from each other. 

This was the first time Paige realized she could never go back to a life where Azzi wasn’t there every day. And now she was about to walk back into it, older, wearier, no longer the kid they’d taken in. 

Now she was the girl who’d made their daughter cry last night in a shitty diner.

Azzi felt the shift in Paige’s breathing. She turned to look at her, catching the tension in the stubborn line of Paige’s mouth, the way her eyes were too bright, blinking too much. Azzi didn’t say anything right away. She just watched her. Felt her.

God, Paige, please don’t go there. Don’t do that to yourself.

Azzi shifted her foot up onto the dash, just to break the moment. She wiggled her toes, deliberately casual. Paige tried to shoot her a glare, but it was half-hearted at best.

“Shoes off in my car?” Paige muttered.

Azzi smirked, unrepentant. She dragged her thumb along the seam of her jeans, leaning back. “You love me.”

Paige let out a sharp exhale that wasn’t quite a laugh. Her fingers squeezed Azzi’s knee without looking at her.

God, I do.

They lapsed into silence again. But it wasn’t quite the frozen, scared quiet of the morning. It was fragile. Cautious. Like they were both holding a glass ornament between them, afraid to drop it.

The closer they got to Azzi’s street, the more the air changed. Paige could feel it in her bones. 

The damp green smell of mown grass. 

Someone’s charcoal grill. 

The faint sound of cicadas.

Azzi felt it too. She sat up a little straighter. Her eyes flicked to every passing mailbox, every familiar stoop. Her heart was in her throat. 

She’d spent years leaving this house and returning to it like it was her personal North Star. She wanted it to feel the same now.

But she knew it wouldn’t. Not entirely.

Because now she wasn’t walking in alone. She was bringing Paige back with her.

Paige who was still hers. Paige who she’d fought with. Paige who she loved more than breathing, even when she was impossible.

Azzi reached over without a word. She grabbed Paige’s hand on the console, squeezing hard enough that Paige flinched.

Paige finally turned to look at her. Her eyes were wet. Scared.

Don’t start. Don’t do this. Be here with me.

Paige swallowed hard. She nodded once, small. Almost broken.

Azzi didn’t let go until Paige turned onto her street.

The house appeared like it always had. Pale blue. White trim. The porch with its squeaky screen door. Azzi’s heart punched painfully against her ribs.

Please let this be okay.

Paige slowed to a crawl up the gravel drive. She parked but didn’t move to kill the engine right away. Her hands were white-knuckled on the wheel.

Azzi felt her chest tighten. She wiped her palms on her jeans.

“I’m…nervous,” she admitted, her voice cracking more than she wanted.

Paige jerked like she’d been slapped. “Why?” Her voice was raw.

Azzi hesitated. Stared at the house. “Because it’s been a long few days. And they’re gonna see right through us. I’m not in the mood to be interrogated.”

Paige dropped her head, eyes fixed on her lap. She swallowed hard. “Think your mom’s mad at me?”

Azzi’s heart squeezed painfully.

She reached over, thumb brushing Paige’s jaw to make her look at her. 

Paige resisted at first, then gave in, her eyes shimmering.

Azzi’s voice went low, fierce. “She’s not mad at you. She’s worried. Because she knows I love you so much it hurts.”

Paige let out a wet, shaky breath.

Azzi shook her head slowly. “She’s gonna ask questions. Because she cares. But she loves you too. She always has.”

Paige’s lip trembled. She shut her eyes hard against the tears that wanted out.

Azzi’s thumb brushed one away.

Paige’s voice was a ragged whisper. “Yeah?”

Azzi’s own voice cracked. “Yeah. Always.”

They sat like that, the sun dying around them. Breathing. Settling.

Azzi’s hand fell away last, her fingers dragging down Paige’s arm. “Ready?”

Paige exhaled, voice unsteady. But sure. “Yeah. With you.”

Azzi’s heart twisted. She blinked hard, refusing to cry. “Always with me.”

They got out of the car together, gravel crunching. 

Paige looked like she might bolt.

Azzi didn’t give her the chance. She met her halfway, grabbed her face, and kissed her. 

Firm. Quick. Certain.

Paige gasped but didn’t pull away.

Azzi’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing lightly. “We’re okay.”

Paige’s eyes brimmed again. Her voice cracked. “Always.”

Azzi didn’t let her go. She grabbed Paige’s hand, lacing their fingers tight.

And together, step by step, they walked toward the house.

–

The screen door swung open before they could even think about knocking, creaking on old hinges that had a voice of their own. 

Katie stood there, arms crossed but not in judgment—just taking them both in, reading them like only a mother could. 

Her eyes flickered from Paige’s tense grip on Azzi’s hand to the quiet panic in Azzi’s eyes, clocking it all in an instant.

She didn’t speak right away.

She didn’t need to.

Azzi felt her throat go tight, pulse thudding painfully in her ears. Paige’s fingers squeezed hers like a lifeline. 

Katie let out a breath, eyes softening, her composure cracking just enough to show how worried she'd been.

“Get in here, you two,” she finally said, voice catching, betraying every hour she’d spent pacing waiting for them.

Azzi didn’t wait. She tugged Paige forward like she needed her momentum to get through the door. The screen clattered shut behind them, the sound so familiar it was almost cruel.

Inside, it smelled like every part of Azzi’s childhood layered on top of itself. Laundry detergent, old wood polish, a cinnamon candle that never burned anymore but still left its ghost in the walls. 

Paige hesitated just over the threshold, breathing it in, her eyes darting over the living room that hadn’t changed.

Same battered rug. Same slouchy couch with the quilt Katie refused to replace. Same wall of photos documenting a life Azzi had let her into years ago.

Paige’s chest twisted painfully.

This is Azzi.

All of this.

And she brought me here again. Even after last night. Even after everything.

Tim emerged from the hall with his steady, careful steps. He tried to look gruff, mouth pressed into a line, but the corners twitched up the moment he saw them.

“Well,” he rumbled, voice like gravel but warm as an oven. “Look who finally made it.”

Azzi dropped Paige’s hand. She needed both arms to fold herself into her dad’s solid chest. She breathed him in, felt his big hand cradle the back of her head the way he’d always done, like she was still little.

“Missed you, kid,” he muttered into her hair.

Azzi squeezed tighter, voice muffled but sure. “Missed you too, Pops.”

Paige watched, throat bobbing. Then Katie was there, pulling her in, arms strong and certain. Paige went stiff for a fraction of a second—old reflexes, old fears of never quite belonging—then crumbled into it. Her hands fisted in the fabric of Katie’s shirt.

Katie smoothed her back. Rocked her a little.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered, so gentle it made Paige’s eyes sting.

“Hi, Mama K,” Paige breathed, voice cracking wide open.

Katie pulled back to cup her face. Brushed tears away with thumbs that were calloused from years of work but gentle as silk now.

“Okay?” she asked—not letting her dodge it, but not demanding more than Paige could give.

Paige blinked too fast. Swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” she rasped. “I’m…better now.”

Katie exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all week. Brushed Paige’s hair back behind her ear like she was six.

“Good girl,” she said, voice catching.

Tim cleared his throat, eyes a bit too glassy, and clapped Paige on the shoulder so hard she wobbled.

“You break anything in my driveway this time?”

Paige huffed a laugh that shook but was real. “Not this time, sir.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, tension easing out of her in a messy exhale.

“C’mon, troublemaker,” she said, bumping Paige’s hip lightly. “Let’s dump our bags before Mom starts the interogation.”

Katie swatted Azzi’s arm with maternal precision.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, Az. I expect a full report before dinner.”

Azzi shot a look over her shoulder, all dramatic teenager. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth.

They trudged down the hallway, their bags bumping against their knees. The floor creaked under their weight, that same old familiar groan that hadn’t changed since they were teenagers sneaking around for late-night snacks.

Azzi stopped outside her bedroom door. She hesitated, her hand resting on the knob.

She’d been home plenty over the years, dropping in between seasons, helping her mom with dinner, arguing with her brothers on the couch. 

But that door had stayed mostly shut. She had been in there, sure. But the room never felt the same when she was alone. Not the way it did when it was theirs.

Paige nearly bumped into her back and froze, eyes flicking up to read Azzi’s profile. She felt the way Azzi’s shoulders went tight.

Because this wasn’t just a room.

It was their room.

Azzi drew in a shaking breath, fingers curling tight around the worn handle. Her foot nudged the door open.

And they both stood there, staring into everything they’d ever been.

It was like being punched in the chest.

Paige felt it everywhere.

This tiny, creaky room.

The place that had once been the entire world.

Her eyes drifted over the crooked thumbtack medals, the faded USA Basketball lanyard. A photo of them at sixteen, heads pressed together, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, pinned under a pushpin so old it had rust around the edges.

Paige felt her breath catch painfully.

God. This room.

Azzi watched her, frozen in place, her own heart a thunder in her ears.

Finally Paige stepped fully inside, slow and careful, every motion reverent. Her eyes flicked automatically to the far corner, and she let out a hoarse whisper that trembled at the edges.

“I used to sleep on the floor.”

Azzi’s mouth twisted, a pained laugh bubbling up even as tears stung her eyes.

“I made you. Remember? I kept saying the bed was too small.”

Paige’s throat worked around a laugh that cracked halfway. She looked over at the sagging mattress, the old warped headboard that had been witness to so much of them.

“It looks even smaller than I remember.”

They both went silent, standing side by side, just staring at it. The bed that had been too small, too crowded—until they’d realized they never wanted the space anyway.

Paige didn’t realize she’d let the words slip until they were out.

“This is where I fell in love with you.”

Azzi sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling at her sides. The words hung in the small room like the echo of a promise.

“I didn’t know how to say it back then,” Paige admitted quietly, voice shaking. “I was scared shitless.”

Azzi’s lip trembled, her own breath hitching. “Me too.”

Paige swallowed, blinking rapidly as memories crowded in.

“I used to lie there on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Listening to you breathe. Just…wanting.”

Azzi felt her knees threaten to give out. She remembered that too—the heat in her chest, the ache that wouldn’t go away. The absolute terror of wanting your best friend more than anything.

Paige’s voice dropped to a rasp, hoarse with feeling. “I wanted to tell you every night. But I couldn’t lose you.”

Finally she turned to face Azzi, eyes wet but steady, the weight of the years pressing between them.

“You never will,” Azzi whispered back.

Azzi blinked hard, tears spilling as she took one slow step closer until their feet almost touched. She let her gaze fall to the old bed—the faded quilt, the lumpy pillow that had been hers since she was a kid.

Memories from this room hit her in a wave so strong she had to catch her breath.

Their first real admission: I think I like you.

Their first kiss. Awkward, giggly, so scary she thought she might pass out.

Their first ‘I love you,’ whispered at 2 a.m. under a cheap Target comforter.

Their first fight. Screaming. Crying. Azzi telling her to just go home. Paige sleeping on the couch instead.

The first time they’d seen each other bare. Careful fingers. Gasps they tried and failed to muffle.

Azzi so scared she’d shake apart. Paige whispering, you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve always got you.

Azzi let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, covering her mouth as the weight of it all settled around them. 

Paige’s face crumpled at the sight and she reached for her without hesitation, closing the last inch of space between them like she never wanted there to be a gap again.

Hands on cheeks. On waists.

Paige’s forehead pressed to Azzi’s.

Azzi’s voice was raw. “I don’t want to lose us.”

Paige wiped at the tears falling on tan cheeks with her thumbs. Her own streaming just as freely. “We won’t.” 

Azzi’s voice cracked, “what if the distance—” 

Paige shook her head fiercely. “No.” She pressed their foreheads together. Breathing hard. 

“Listen to me. Nothing about us is easy. It never was. But it’s us. And there is no fucking world where I’m not yours.” 

Azzi sobbed. 

Paige’s grip didn’t falter. “Say it,” Paige whispered, rough. 

Azzi blinked through tears. “Yours.” 

Paige kissed her. Hard, desperate, but reverent. 

Azzi clung to her, fists twisting in Paige’s shirt, pulling her closer, until there was no space left. 

When they broke for air, their foreheads still pressed, Paige let out a breathless, shaky laugh. “I remember our first kiss here. I was so scared I’d fuck it up.” 

Azzi barked a wet laugh. “You did. You missed my mouth.” 

Paige’s mouth twitched. “Shut up.” 

Azzi’s grin trembled. “Still the best kiss of my life.” 

Paige exhaled, fingers threading back into Azzi’s hair. Her voice was low. Serious. “Az. Even when I’m an asshole. Even when I’m scared and I say the wrong thing. Even when we’re on opposite sides of the country. I’m yours.” 

Azzi nodded frantically. Her hands flattened over Paige’s racing heart. “Same. Always. Even if I’m stubborn. Even if I push you away. Even if I get drafted to fucking Alaska.” 

Paige huffed a laugh, eyes glassy. “Good thing the W doesn’t have a team in Alaska yet.” 

Azzi giggled like she was 16 again. “Shut up and kiss me.” 

Paige did. This one slower. Deeper.

When they broke, they stayed close, breathing each other in.

Azzi’s voice shook.

“This room holds everything. All our firsts. All our fuckups. All our love.”

Paige’s thumb brushed a tear off Azzi’s cheek.

“And now it’s gonna hold this too,” she whispered.

Azzi blinked at her.

“What?”

Paige’s eyes softened so much they threatened to break her.

“This promise. That nothing breaks us.”

Azzi let out a shuddering breath.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,��� Paige repeated fiercely.

They kissed again.

Gentler. Certain.

Their foreheads stayed pressed together when it was done.

Paige’s voice was a husky rasp.

“I don’t wanna go back out there yet.”

Azzi huffed a laugh that shook with relief.

“Me either.”

Paige’s eyes crinkled with tired humor. “Your mom’s gonna think we’re murdering each other.”

“Or fucking,” Azzi teased softly, voice hoarse but mischievous.

Paige let out a strangled groan, dropping her forehead onto Azzi’s shoulder with theatrical misery. “God. Don’t say that.”

Azzi smirked, arching a brow even as tears clung to her lashes. Her voice was husky, teasing but gentle. “Why? You gonna blush?”

Paige lifted her head and growled something unintelligible before kissing her hard enough to make Azzi gasp, her back hitting the door with a dull thud.

It was messy and grateful, all teeth and salt and forgiveness.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, smiling through wet cheeks.

Azzi bumped her nose against Paige’s, voice gone thick with relief that made her chest crack wide open.

“We’re okay?”

Paige nodded so hard it made Azzi’s hair brush her face, her voice cracking like old wood.

“Yeah. We’re fucking okay.”

Azzi let out a shaking laugh that fell somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Her fingers dug into Paige’s sides like she might fall without them.

“Good,” she whispered, exhaling relief like it was oxygen. “Now help me look like I wasn’t sobbing before we go get interrogated.”

Paige snorted wetly, dragging her sleeve across Azzi’s cheek. “You still look cute.”

Azzi’s lips trembled. “God, don’t be nice right now. I’ll lose it.”

They fussed over each other with tender, unhurried care. Paige’s fingers brushing back damp curls from Azzi’s forehead. Azzi smoothing Paige’s collar flat. Thumbs wiping tear tracks with slow, reverent strokes like they were trying to memorize the shape of each other’s sorrow.

Paige’s hand lingered at Azzi’s jaw, thumb resting in the dip beneath her lip. Her voice was low, ragged with sincerity.

“I love you,” she murmured.

Azzi smiled, eyes shining as she leaned in and pressed one last, softer kiss to Paige’s mouth.

“Love you more.”

[myrleius]

movie date — bokuto k.

bokuto k. x new gf!reader│wc: 1.6k

synopsis: Bokuto wants to kiss you, so he plans a scary movie night to get you close.

cw/tags: fluff, crack, established relationship

Bokuto took a step back and admired his work with a satisfied nod.

Lights off. Curtains drawn. A bowl of popcorn sat within easy reach. The horror movie was queued up, volume set high enough to catch every creek and whisper. And the couch? Perfectly arranged with blankets folded, pillows fluffed on either side, and the middle seat left just open enough for two.

He grinned. “Nailed it.”

Tonight was the night. He could feel it.

He and yn had spent months tip-toeing around each other, caught in a push-and-pull of almosts and not-quites. When they finally started dating two weeks ago, he thought the hard part was over.

Turns out, the real challenge was getting that first kiss.

It had been fourteen days. They’d gone on dates, held hands, hugged plenty… but no kiss. Not one.

It wasn’t for lack of trying either. He’d had his chances, or so he thought. But with each time, something always got in the way.

The first time? He’d walked her home, heart racing, ready to go for it at her doorstep… only for her dad to pull into the driveway right at that exact second. Lights and all.

The second? They’d been sitting together in the park alone. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, leaning in—when the sky decided to unleash a downpour and drench them.

And the third… They had been so close. Their faces literally inches apart, breaths mingling, eyes shut—and then he’d sneezed. Right on her. He still cringed every time he remembered it.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he had a plan. A foolproof, rock-solid, absolutely genius plan.

“Scary movie night,” he said aloud, pacing in front of the couch like a man preparing for battle. “She’ll get scared and sit close. I’ll put my arm around her, real smooth, and be like, ‘It’s okay, babe. I’ve got you.’ Then, she’ll look up at me, and I’ll lean in and—boom. Kiss. Success!”

He stopped, shot finger guns at his reflection in the dark screen of the TV, and whispered, “Bokuto Koutarou: master of romance.”

A knock at the door snapped him out of it.

Showtime.

He practically leapt to the door, quickly fixing his hair, and opened it with the brightest smile.

“Hey! You made it!”

“Would’ve been rude not to after all your excited texts,” yn said with a soft laugh, holding up a bag of snacks. “Hope you don’t mind me bringing reinforcements.”

“Only if I get half,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “Actually, make it more. I am providing the entertainment.”

She chuckled, brushing past him. “We’ll negotiate.”

He closed the door and watched, heart pounding, as her gaze swept over the room.

“Wow,” she murmured, her fingertips brushing over the armrest. “You really went all out.”

Bokuto couldn’t help but puff his chest a little more. “Yeah. I thought, you know, if we’re watching something, I’d set the mood.”

She smiled at him, eyes soft and warm. “That’s really sweet, Bokuto. Thanks, I like it.”

He grinned back like an idiot, his stomach doing somersaults. 

“Anything for you, beautiful,” he replied with a playful wink, because why not go for bonus points?

Her laugh was everything.

Okay. Okay, this was going great.

She got comfy under the blanket, and Bokuto sat down next to her, careful not to sit too close just yet. He needed to wait for the right moment.

“Oh, I haven’t seen this one yet,” she said, reading the title as she opened the chips. “Have you watched it?”

“Nope. But Kuroo said it’s terrifying though,” Bokuto said, stealing one chip before grabbing the remote. “He said it’d give us nightmares.”

“Want me to hold your hand through it?” she teased.

“Pfft. No way,” he scoffed, flashing a cocky smile. “But hey, if you get scared, just say the word.”

She snorted. “Please. You’re a bigger baby than me.”

“Sure, sure.” He hit play. “We’ll see who’s crying first.”

The movie started slow. Just a typical horror movie setup—a family moves into a new house that’s probably haunted. Bokuto kept sneaking glances at her, waiting for a flinch or a gasp.

Nothing.

He relaxed back, determined. She’ll get scared eventually. 

BAM!

The first jump scare hit out of nowhere. A door slammed shut behind the father down in the basement, the creepy music playing.

Bokuto jumped.

Yn cursed under her breath.

“... You good?” he asked, voice higher than usual.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, but she didn’t sound so confident.

From there, their tough fronts started to crumble.

They both leaned in unconsciously, huddled under the blanket, with their feet tucked up. The food was forgotten on the coffee table as their eyes remained glued on the screen.

“Nope. Nope. I don’t like this,” Bokuto said, raising the blanket to his chin.

“It’s gonna be in the mirror. I know it’s gonna be in the mirror,” she whispered, clutching the pillow to her chest.

The mirror scene hits, and they both jolted anyway.

And the scares just kept coming.

“Oh no. Why’s the music doing that?!” yn said, inching closer to Bokuto, when her foot brushed his.

Bokuto let out a shriek, kicking the blanket off. 

“WHAT?! WHAT HAPPENED?!”

“SOMETHING TOUCHED ME!”

“FUCK! WHERE?!”

They both flailed for a good five seconds before realizing… it was just their feet.

“…Oh,” Bokuto breathed.

And just as they settled back down—another jump scare came, causing more yelling and panic.

Soon, they were both openly hiding.

“Nope. I’m not looking at this one. You tell me what happens,” yn said, face buried in her hands.

“Forget that. I’m not looking either,” Bokuto mumbled, peeking through his fingers. “... Okay, I think it’s safe now—WAIT NO. NOT SAFE. SHE’S RIGHT THERE!”

The chase scenes were absolute chaos.

“Yes! Yes! GRAB IT—NOOO!” Bokuto shouted at the screen, slamming his fist into the pillow.

“Oh, now you run fast?” yn yelled. “Where was that energy five minutes ago, idiot?!” 

By the climax, they were fully tangled up under the blanket, gripping onto each other for dear life.

“Don’t go down there, Bobby,” Bokuto whined, clutching her arm. “You’re gonna die, man. Don’t do it.”

“He’s gonna die. Definitely,” yn muttered, deadpan.

Seconds later, Bobby died.

“BOBBY, NOOO!” yn cried, devastated.

“Goddamnit, Bobby!” Bokuto groaned, raising his hands in frustration. “I liked him!”

As the plot twist was revealed, they both gasped.

“Wait… WAIT.” Bokuto sat up, eyes wide. “DOES THAT MEAN—?!”

Yn nodded, looking horrified. “Yep. They just screwed themselves over from the start.”

The final chase had them both on edge. The last survivor sprinted through the house, the ghost in hot pursuit.

“OH FUCK, OH FUCK SHE’S GONNA DIE!” Bokuto screamed, practically latched onto yn.

“WHY ARE YOU GRABBING ME?!” she yelped, laughing despite herself.

“I’M STRESSED! HE’S RIGHT BEHIND HER!”

The girl tripped on-screen, and yn panicked, trying to cover her eyes.

“Bokuto! Let go! I can’t block my eyes—WAIT! NOO! I DON’T WANT TO SEE—!”

By the time the credits finally rolled, they were slumped against each other on the couch, completely wiped out, still half-hugging.

“... Let’s never do that again,” Bokuto muttered, voice muffled by her shoulder.

She let out a shaky laugh, still tucked close. “Agreed.”

Then—screech.

One last jump scare in the post-credits sent them screaming again as the screen went black.

Silence followed, the two of them shaken up.

“... Wanna watch cartoons before I walk you home?”

“Yes, please.”

Bokuto let out a long, exhausted sigh as he finally stumbled out of the shower, his hair still damp.

He tugged on an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, still feeling a little on edge. The damn movie spooked him. Every time he caught his reflection in the mirror, he half-expected some creepy ghost lady to show up behind him.

“Nah,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “That was just the movie.”

Still, he avoided looking directly at the mirror. Y’know. Just in case.

He flopped onto his bed, grabbing his phone to distract himself, and saw a new message waiting for him.

Kuroo [11:07 PM] yo so did you finally kiss her or what?

Bokuto froze.

Wait.

He read the message again, his brain catching up in a slow, horrifying realization.

The kiss. His whole plan.

He’d forgotten.

Like, completely.

He dropped face-first into his pillow, letting out a muffled, mortified noise.

How did I forget the kiss?!

He scrambled to reply, thumbs flying across the screen.

Bokuto [11:08 PM] DUDE I FORGOT

Kuroo responded immediately.

Kuroo [11:08 PM] LMAOOOO how???

Bokuto sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

Bokuto [11:09 PM] I DON’T KNOW ONE MINUTE I WAS FINE THE NEXT I WAS YELLING AT THE SCREEN

Kuroo [11:10 PM] so you’re telling me you had her alone in your house watching a movie and your brain decided to focus on GHOSTS???

Bokuto slammed his phone down onto the pillow, eyes shut in pure regret.

He could already picture Kuroo’s smug face from here.

Still, he grabbed the phone again and typed back.

Bokuto [11:11 PM] IT WAS REALLY SCARY YOU ASSHOLE

Kuroo [11:11 PM] you’re hopeless

Bokuto groaned aloud.

Bokuto [11:11 PM] DO YOU THINK SHE THINKS I’M NOT INTO HER??

He stared at the screen, his stomach twisting.

Kuroo [11:12 PM] oh she definitely thinks something

Bokuto sat bolt upright, panic rushing in again.

Bokuto [11:12 PM] I’M GONNA TEXT HER RIGHT NOW AND EXPLAIN

Kuroo [11:12 PM] NO DO NOT BOKUTO YOU BETTER NOT SAY “SORRY I DIDN’T KISS YOU I WAS TOO BUSY BEING SCARED” TELL ME YOU DIDN’T

Bokuto [11:14 PM] ..... TOO LATE

[mamiobesssionfics]

Where the Heart Rests

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: You can’t sleep, your mind racing with worries. Rhea notices even in the dark, and pulls you gently onto her chest.

It was nearly half past two when you gave up pretending.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Only the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional shifting of sheets beside you.

The moonlight filtered in through the half-open curtains. It was dark. Rhea slept soundly beside you, or so you thought.

You turned to your side, hoping the motion wouldn't wake her, but before your head could settle on the pillow again, her voice drifted into the dark.

"Still awake?"

You blinked. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

She shook her head slightly, her hair a halo against the pillow.

"You weren’t exactly still. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?"

You hesitated, then sighed. "I don’t know. Just… everything."

Rhea shifted, reaching out to pull you closer, guiding your head to her chest.

"Then let everything rest here for a while," she murmured, her voice still husky from sleep.

You curled into her, your cheek against her skin, hearing the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

"I used to do this with my sister," she said after a while, stroking slow, absent circles across your back. "When we were kids. She had nightmares. Used to crawl into my bed and press her ear to my chest like that. Said the sound of my heart made her feel safe."

Your fingers tightened in the hem of her shirt. "It does. Make me feel safe, I mean."

She smiled, a soft breath against your hair. "Good."

Silence stretched for a few moments, comfortable now, like the warm press of her arms around you.

Then she whispered, “Do you want me to talk until you fall asleep?”

You nodded. "Please."

She took a breath. "Alright. But don’t laugh. Some of this is... sentimental."

"I love your sentimental."

Rhea chuckled. “Fine. Let’s see… I was a weird kid. Tall too young. Strong before I knew how to control it. Broke a window playing footy once. Spent a week convinced I’d grow up to be an outlaw.”

You smiled into her chest. "You kind of did."

"Oi," she said, but her voice was amused. “I just… never felt like I fit properly anywhere. Not with the girls who liked pink and giggling, not with the boys who wanted me on their rugby team but not in their group chat. Always caught in between.”

"Must’ve been hard."

"It was. I think that’s why I fight so hard now. For everything. Respect. Place. You."

She paused, her fingers brushing through your hair. You felt her chest rise and fall beneath your cheek.

"I don’t say this often," she continued, voice lower now, more careful. "But sometimes I still feel like I’m faking it. Like one wrong step and everything I built will fall away."

"You’re not faking anything," you whispered. "You’re the strongest person I know."

"Only because I have you," she said. "You keep me grounded. You see all the ugly bits and you never run."

You lifted your head slightly to look at her. Her eyes found yours in the dark, glinting soft and honest.

"How could I ever run from someone who loves like you do?" you said gently.

Rhea blinked, just once. Then she smiled.

“I think I loved you before I even knew your name,” she murmured. “Saw you laugh once across a room and it made everything else go quiet.” She traced the curve of your shoulder with her fingertips. “It scared me. How fast it happened. How easy it was.”

You swallowed thickly. "It scared me too. But not anymore."

She nodded, then moved to kiss your forehead. “Good.”

You lay like that for a while longer, her voice trailing off into memories, stories of messy school photos, scraped knees, her first pair of boots, the match that changed everything.

You listened, not because the stories were always happy, but because her voice made them feel at home.

Eventually, your breathing slowed, your body melting into hers. You could feel yourself slipping into sleep, her heartbeat still under your cheek like the softest drum.

Just before your thoughts drifted completely, you heard her say.

"I’ll always be your home. Wherever we are."

And you believed her.

You fell asleep not with peace, but with her. And that was better.

Masterlist

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[thatonegrimm]

The Manager’s Guide to Demon Boybands: A Witch’s Oath

No Coincidence, Only Intent

Chapter4/Chapter 5/Chapter6

Music Show Backstage — Late Afternoon

The backstage of a music show was a war zone in polite lighting. Techs shouted over headset static. Interns darted like mice. Someone’s manager was already crying near the costume rack. You had seen it all before.

The Saja Boys were in full glam and semi-cooperative. Jinu was reading the schedule like it was a sacred text, flipping through the pages with reverence. Abby was stretching in the corner in a shirt two sizes too small, his muscles flexing as he prepared for the stage. Mystery hovered by the exit sign, eyes scanning the space with his usual predatory detachment. Romance flirted with a makeup artist, his charm effortless and borderline inappropriate. Baby had discovered the joys of unguarded soda and was now vibrating with citrus energy, a mixture of sugar and adrenaline lighting up his face.

She wasn’t watching them, though. She was watching the lighting rig.

Specifically, the set of metal scaffolding where Romance was supposed to lean during the closing pose. The prop had arrived late. No one had checked it. But she had.

The sigil was carved under the paint. Small. Ugly. Rushed. Someone had tried to curse him.

It wouldn’t kill him, not directly. But it would weaken his glamour just enough for something else to catch hold. Something watching. Something waiting.

Her pulse quickened, but her expression remained steady. She closed her clipboard, adjusted her earpiece, and walked toward the set.

"Manager-nim! We need you in standby area 2!" a stagehand called. "In a moment," she said smoothly. "There’s an issue with the lighting grid." "What issue?" She pointed. "Unsecured bolts. Could swing under pressure. Liability nightmare." He paled and nodded, hustling off to fetch someone else to deal with it.

She took the opportunity to step up to the platform, her eyes narrowing on the rig. She crouched, her fingers brushing the cold metal. She felt the faintest spark of dark energy, a pull from the curse still lingering beneath the surface. Amateur work, but its intention was clear—malicious. Blood-forged.

Probably from a fan-turned-hired-witch. Pathetic.

Her fingers hovered over the sigil. The curse resisted her touch, but only for a moment. She didn’t chant. She didn’t need to. Her wards burned under her skin like old embers relit, hot and familiar.

The metal sparked.

She pulled her hand back just as the bolt snapped loudly out of its housing. The entire frame tilted. And crashed. The sound made everyone flinch.

The chaos that followed was predictable. "What happened?" Jinu asked, already on his feet, his usual composure shaken. "Holy shit," Abby muttered, grabbing Mystery and pulling him away from the falling rig. Romance looked offended, eyes wide. "That was my sexy lean spot." "Looks like it leaned too hard," You said dryly, brushing your hands off as you stood.

The techs swarmed in, panicking over damage and replacement timelines. The usual clamor filled the space, but she wasn’t concerned with that. She was already scanning the backstage area, the weight of her earlier actions settling into the space between her and the boys.

Jinu’s voice broke her thoughts. "You okay?" he asked, concern clear. She nodded once. "Not my first time dodging falling metal." She didn’t elaborate.

Backstage protocol kicked in immediately. They shifted blocking for the final pose, and despite a few grumbles, the boys made it through the performance without issue. The techs worked furiously to fix the rig. Everything would be fine. For now.

Later, After the Performance 

After the show wrapped, Romance found her near the staff lockers, his sparkly jacket half-draped over his shoulders like he owned the place. His usual flirtatious air hadn’t dulled even a little.

"You saved my ass," he said, catching her by surprise.

"I saved your elbow. Your ass was two feet to the left." "Still," he said, watching her a little too closely. "You always this lucky?"

She met his gaze, not blinking. "Luck has nothing to do with it." He tilted his head, studying her, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Is that so?"

She smiled, a brief, almost imperceptible curl of her lips. Then she turned and walked away, leaving him watching her back, still trying to figure out the puzzle she had become.

Later That Night — Your Apartment

The scrap of metal sat on her desk, scorched at the edges where the sigil had been. She’d picked it up before the techs could cart it off.

Burned it clean. Purged it twice. Drew a ward over it for good measure.

But she still didn’t like the feel of it.

Not because of the power behind it—that had been weak. But because it had gotten so close.

She opened her journal, the familiar scent of ink and paper settling over her. Her hand moved automatically, almost as if the words already knew where to go.

Someone is probing the glamours. Not well, not yet. But if they had aimed for Baby or Mystery…

She paused, her fingers hovering over the page, tracing a line that wasn’t there.

Romance draws eyes. I need to teach him how to deflect, not invite.

Another line, added with a quiet, deliberate hand:

Next performance: reinforce protection charms in the makeup powder. They’ll never notice.

She closed the book with a soft sigh and turned off the lights, the low hum of the ward in her hand sending a small pulse through her fingers. She lay back, but even as her eyes closed, the sense that something was watching, something waiting, didn’t leave her.

Not tonight.

AN: This chapter bridges tension between the performance stage and the supernatural world watching from the sidelines. We’re seeing the first real signs of magical sabotage—and Manager-nim is not letting that slide. 👀✨ Also: Romance’s “sexy lean spot” may never emotionally recover.

Taglist: @poem-bee @gremlinartstudio @wantstoliveinfantasy @lovely-maryj @buggaboobich @idkokfu @osball

[untilwefind]

what would the reaction be if leno walked in on willmack fucking

Thank You, Ryan Leonard (But Not Really)

I’m having way too much fun with this🫢

They’ve been so careful.

Will locked the door this time. He swears he did. Mack even asked him twice, all narrowed eyes and cautious paranoia. Will had kissed the suspicion off his mouth with a laugh and a “Baby, I got it, relax.”

Which is how they end up like this.

Mack on his back, hands gripping the headboard, knees spread as Will grinds into him with the kind of heat that makes Mack whimper, slick and flushed and stretched full and perfect. It’s mid-day. Everyone’s supposed to be out. Will’s teeth are at Mack’s throat. His voice is all low praise and soft curses. He’s calling Mack baby and saying things like fuck, I missed this, and Mack’s dizzy with it, wrung out and throbbing and embarrassingly close.

And then—

“Yo SMITTY!”

The door slams open like a puck to the teeth.

Will freezes. Mack lets out an honest-to-God scream.

“Leonard?!” Mack yells, trying to throw a blanket over his knees and push Will off all at once. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Leno, completely unphased, grins from the doorway like he just walked in on a frat keg stand. “Dude. No way. You’re still going at it?! Let’s fucking go!”

Will’s entire face contorts with frustrated disbelief. “Leno, I swear to Christ, if you don’t get out right now—”

“I told Voter you were laying pipe in here,” Leno says proudly, slapping the doorframe. “Dude. Legendary.”

“I am literally about to nut,” Will snarls. “Get the fuck out before I smash your face in with my skate, I am not fucking around—”

Mack groans and hides his face in his arm. “This is a nightmare. Why does this keep happening to me—”

But Will isn’t pulling out this time. He’s too close. He’s red-faced and sweating, braced over Mack with one hand on the headboard and the other still gripping Mack’s thigh like he might actually snap.

“Dude, I’m rooting for you,” Leno calls, already backing out with both thumbs up. “Finish strong, Smitty!”

“Leno!”

“Gone, gone, I’m gone,” Leno says, laughing as he slams the door shut behind him.

And just like that, silence.

Will takes one deep breath, still poised above Mack. “Okay. Where were we.”

Mack glares up at him. “You just threatened to curb stomp your best friend.”

Will hums. “And you liked it.”

Mack makes a wounded sound that’s not quite a denial.

Then Will surges forward and starts moving again and whatever edge had been dulled by Leno’s entrance comes back twice as hard. Will’s frustrated now, hips snapping sharper, and it makes Mack gasp, arching up into him, clinging to his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Will grits, pace unrelenting. “That motherfucker’s lucky I didn’t actually hit him. I was so fucking close.”

“Same,” Mack gasps.

Will growls and flips him onto his side, hauling one leg over his hip, grinding in deep until Mack whimpers like a broken thing.

“Let’s finish then,” Will mutters, “before someone else tries to join the fucking party.”

⸻

Ten minutes later, Mack’s a sweaty, boneless heap on Will’s pillow, blinking up at the ceiling like it might hold answers to the universe.

Will’s sprawled beside him, hair damp, chest still rising and falling.

After a long beat of silence, Mack murmurs, “Can’t believe I owe Ryan Leonard a thank you for that.”

Will turns his head, scowling. “Shut the fuck up. That was me. Don’t thank him.”

Mack grins, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m gonna send him a fruit basket.”

Will reaches over to face wash Mack as he howls with laughter.

[trust-is-a-dangerous-thing]

Concept: 141 in an AU where everyone in the world has some kind of magic or power, and the world is built around that fact of life. Some powers are really common---like the ability to control plants or the ability to talk to animals---and some are rarer---like telekinesis or the ability to control the weather. Depending on the ability, how much you use it, what you use it for, and your natural aptitude for magic, you can either be very strong or very weak or somewhere in between.

And because people are still people, even when they have magic, there are certain...stereotypes that follow those with particular abilities. Telekinetics are seen as bossy and invasive, never respecting peoples' boundaries; people that can control fire are seen as temperamental and as people who never settle down, constantly using people and then leaving them; etc.

You have one of the rarest abilities in the known world...you, quite literally, feed off of nightmares. Lights flicker when you walk into a room, you can pull shadows from nowhere and leave people drowning in darkness, you can mimic voices and sounds, you can conjure up hallucinations so vivid that they leave physical marks, you can look into someone's mind and see exactly what they're most afraid of...and all of it feeds you. The fear, the terror, the screams.

Not much is known about your particular power and the rumors, well...they're less than stellar, as you can imagine.

But a power like yours can come in very handy, so you're drafted into the military the second you were old enough to qualify---and now, after several years, you're being transferred to Task Force 141.

...what could possibly go wrong?

[dissolved-g1rl]

⋆⭒˚ tell him that his lonesome nights are over ☾⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Dream is just simply unable to get a break. Which is…not unheard of for a monarch, especially one who has to play a century worth of catch up. But this…he really does not have the time for.

The dream king falling for women he should not fall for is a scenario that happens all too often. But at least they had some sort of stature, a muse, the queen of the first people, impressive given he’s well…him.And you! You are so terribly normal that all his shenanigans are beginning to heavily weigh on his conscious. Still, he can’t help himself from observing you, finding refuge in your dreams. He finds a certain…enjoyment from them, maybe because it provides such an intimate glance into your subconscious. The embarrassing ones about bleeding through your pants during important work events, the silly ones where bubbles seem to appear from nowhere and the concrete becomes a squishy jumping pad, the sentimental ones where you meet with old friends and family that are only accessible to you in your head, relationships that no longer exist in the waking world. Perhaps you’re just as lonesome as he is.

Dream doubts you’re catching on, in his experience mortals seem to dismiss the things they cannot explain. That time you thought you heard a noise while working but brushed it off ? Yeah sorry, Matthew knocked something over. Or the other time you woke up, seeing the shadowy figure you assumed was your desk chair piled with laundry, no that was Dream watching you sleep. Did you know you snore? It’s cute. He wonders if you notice the pattern, you haven’t had a nightmare in months, and oddly enough all the men in..certain dreams… all seem to have ivory, almost marble-like skin and inky black hair, with a face you can never seem to remember when you wake up.

You pick up the skirt of your heavy ball gown, the night is cool, and the stars seem to shine unnaturally bright as you trudge inside. Long halls are bathed with warm light, your heels clacking against polished tile. You follow the noise of chatter, finding women in elegant ball gowns and men in decadent suits. Confusion settles over you, a party…what for? It looks as though everyone has a partner, waltzing around to the fast paced music, standing around tables holding champagne flutes, no one is alone, besides you. A voice clears itself behind you, you turn around, seeing a tall man, broody, face void of a mask. His suit is dark, embroidered with little gold stars and moons. He says you name smoothly, placing his hand over his cummerbund, bowing at the waist. “I’m..sorry, I don’t know your name.” You say when he straightens up, there’s something familiar about him, you just can’t seem to place your finger on it. “Dream.” He introduces, taking your hand, pressing the back of your hand to his lips, they’re cool against your skin. You introduce yourself nervously, forgetting he just said your name, “I know.” Dream doesn’t falter, you’ve gotten him to crack a small smile, nervous thing you are. “Oh.” You murmur sheepishly, awkwardly placing your hands in front of you.

The music behind you turns into something slower, Dream hums, what a lovely subconscious you have. “May I have this dance?” He asks, extending his hand forward, you nod, laying your hand in his, he tugs you into the room. Dream wraps one hand around your waist, tugging you forward till your chests meet, lifting your intertwined hands, your free hand flits up the velvety material of his suit to his shoulder. “A natural.” Dream compliments, leading your movements, you feel as though you’re floating as you twirl around with other couples. “Thank you.” You smile at this handsome stranger and he almost smiles back. “Have we met before Dream?” You ask, he spins you, then pulls you back to him “Once or twice.” His voice is warm, filled with familiarity. “I don’t remember.” You say, unable to believe yourself for not remembering such a good looking man. “That’s okay.” Dream reassures you, not remembering is for the best, he’d ruin you otherwise. He feels the curve of your waist, the fabric of your pretty dress. His inhibitions lowered the longer he spends his time breathing you in. The pretty smile you’re sporting is making him realize how awful he is, how selfish the king of dreams has become. You’re ruining him, and you don’t even remember it.

The tempo becomes warped, a little off beat and Dream hums, the stability of the dream crumbling. He knows you have to be up soon, “Thank you for this dance.” Dream kisses the back of your hand once more, “Wait! I…When can I see you again?” You ask nervously, and Dream caresses the side of your face, relishing in the smoothness of your skin. “Sooner than you think.” Dream can’t resist you, dipping down, slotting his mouth against yours, a parting gift, or an act of selfishness. The taste of your lips is something he’ll be dreaming of. “Goodbye.” He murmurs before you can protest, you wake up with the jolt of your alarm, hand coming up to your lips, you swear you still feel the coolness. Bits and pieces linger in your head… The feel of velvet still lingers beneath your fingertips. Odd…

dividers by @cursed-carmine

a/n: inspired by the ballroom scene in Labyrinth

[fru1t4fr0gs]

You and Me - Chapter 10

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You disappeared weeks ago, vanishing off the grid and from his life like a ghost. While giving you space has been torture, Bucky has somehow been able to survive it. When you’re finally reunited, however, the tension might be enough to break you both.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: PTSD, Mention of nightmares, Swearing, Trauma, Implied Sex, Mention of pregnancy (just a brief misunderstanding), Alcohol consumption, Bucky is down bad, Pining, So much pining, Angst, Reader is Tony Stark's kid but a fully grown adult (we are in charge of the timelines), Tension, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author’s Note: We've finally reached FATWS territory! I figured, to celebrate, I would try out a little dual POV so we can get inside of Bucky’s head. And hoo boy, call this man a tree because Bucky Barnes sure can pine. As always, thank you guys so much for all of your love for this fic! Feedback is always super appreciated!

-

Bucky Barnes sits across from his therapist, and he lies about having nightmares. Again.

He thinks he might be able to handle them better if he hadn’t become so used to you. You, always right there when he jolted awake, soft and warm and comforting, reminding him who he is. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. He’s Bucky. He’s loved. And not just by anyone, but by you.

The first time you woke him from a nightmare was years ago, in Romania, but he still remembers it like it was just last night. When he would otherwise have shot upward and sat in the dark for hours, trying to pull himself back to reality, he was instead met with a warm hand on his arm. Gentle. Kind.

And then he’d looked up, shocked and feeling like some kind of wounded animal. At that point, he basically had been.

Your eyes, in that moment, were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. They reflected the moonlight spilling in through the window, shining with concern and understanding in a way that made him ache.

“Hey, Bucky.” You’d said. And you’d used his name. Not Soldat. Not Winter Soldier. He was Bucky, and you were looking at him with such steadiness and kindness that he wondered how he could have ever doubted who he was. His name sounded so good coming from your lips that he nearly asked you to say it again.

“You wanna talk about it?” You’d asked. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering.

He shook his head, unable to fathom the idea of ruining this perfect moment with such darkness.

You nodded, understanding, and he never wanted you to stop looking at him. There was no disgust. No fear. Hell, there wasn’t even pity. For the first time in decades, he didn’t feel like a machine. He felt like a person. Like a man.

You didn’t know it, but from that moment on, if you had climbed up to the roof of the building and asked him to jump, he would have done it with a smile on his face.

Now, with you gone, he sleeps on the floor again, unable to stand lying on a bed without you in it.

And when he wakes, the nightmare continues in a different form, because he wakes to emptiness. Absence.

Dr. Raynor is saying something, and his ears finally lock onto her words when he realizes that she’s talking about you.

“You’ve been doing worse. The nightmares have clearly been worse. You haven’t brought her up in our last five sessions. So, James, I’m going to ask again. And answer me honestly.”

He nearly groans with irritation, already knowing where this is going.

“Where is your wife?”

Bucky hesitates before he answers, the words struggling to find their way past his lips.

“…I don’t know.”

-

“I mean, I just don’t know what I’m doing, Alan.” You pace the room, so restless you might just start wringing your hands. “It’s not that I don’t love him. God, I do. I still do. So, so much, you know? But then he died, kind of, right in front of me. He disintegrated. And then my dad died, and Nat died, and then Steve died. And I was supposed to be part of Stark Industries and help Pepper run it but I can’t do that. I just can’t. I don’t know what I’m doing. I barely knew what I was doing before. I don’t have the- hey! Are you even listening to me? Isn’t the point of this whole thing to try to get me to talk?!”

The officer on the other end of the interrogation table looks like you just tased him awake. You glare. He stutters, nervous, and he looks young and scrawny enough that you’re pretty sure he must be brand-spanking-new to this job.

“You, uh, have the right to remain silent-“ he starts, and you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“You already did that part. Come on, man.” You sigh, run a hand through your hair, and drop your shoulders in defeat. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. You were arrested countless times when you were younger, mostly for stealing parts or making and selling some kind of illegal tech. You’ve never rambled about your problems to an officer in an interrogation room. You’ve always had a little more swagger than that.

Then again, you haven’t had a lot of human interaction in the past few weeks.

“Look, dude. I get it. You’re new. Just tell me when Sam is gonna get here so I can get out of this room. Not that you’re not great company, but I’ve got a lecture waiting for me that I’d like to just get over with.”

“S-Sam?” The kid asks, looking down at the paperwork in front of him.

“Yeah, Sam Wilson. Government employee and all that. Hero Avenger. Kind of a prick, but in a lovable way. I told you guys to call him when you took me in.”

The kid goes pale, re-reading the name on the paper. “I, um… we called next of kin. It’s usually protocol to-“

“I don’t have a next of kin.” You snap, automatic. You swear you used to be more patient. A little nicer. But you don’t exactly love the reminder that you’re an orphan now with no family. Yeah, there’s Pepper and Morgan, but Pepper isn’t your biological family and Morgan is five years old. You can’t imagine either of their names would be on that sheet.

“Well, not in the…biological sense, but when it comes to that we call the…”

“Oh Alan,” you say, already knowing where this is going. “you didn’t.”

“The…spouse.” He says it like a wince. You stare at him in what might just be a good impression of the spouse in question.

He just keeps going, but he doesn’t have to. You can already feel the featherlight touch of a familiar gaze on your back. “Your, uh…husband? Mr. Barnes?”

“Alan,” you say again, “I thought we were friends, man.”

“I don’t…uh. I don’t know you.” He says helplessly, but you’re already ignoring him and turning around.

And there he is, leaning against the doorframe and looking right at you.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Your heart does a somersault at the mere sight of him. Leather jacket and gloves, burning blue eyes. Fuck, you missed him. You missed him every minute of every day.

You clear your throat, bravado leaving you like a balloon deflating under his gaze.

“Hey, honey.” You say, trying for casual but just sounding painfully awkward.

He’s doing the staring thing. You can feel poor Alan shrink down in his seat like the two of you just opened fire on each other right there in the interrogation room.

“Would you look less angry if I told you this isn’t the worst thing I’ve been arrested for?”

“No.” He says, simply, low voice sounding very loud in the small room. You missed his voice. You feel an embarrassingly overwhelming urge to run into his arms like this is some sort of cheesy movie. You know he would hold you if you did. His arms would wrap around you immediately, pull you close, and you would hear him murmur that he loves you into your hair, in that deep and wonderful voice you haven’t heard in too long.

You don’t move. You can’t.

You just leave with him, fixing Alan with a glare on the way out of the room that has him cringing back in his seat even more.

-

You look terrible. 

He’s seen you try to function on no sleep before, when the bags under your eyes darken and you get grumpy in the way he’s always found so oddly charming. He can usually fix it, whether it’s gently asking you to come home or physically carrying you out of your lab in what you’ve dubbed his ‘King King impression’. He even stopped one of your furious, hyperactive rants once with a simple smile and a kiss to your nose. Your arms had fallen back to your sides, no longer gesturing frantically, and you had stopped pacing to just thunk your head onto his shoulder.

Now, his fingers twitch at his side to do the same thing. He wants to fix it now. Like he used to. Like you used to let him.

But you left. You disappeared. You pulled back, and you’re finally right beside him but he’s terrified that if he tries to reach out to you, you might vanish again.

The bags under your eyes are deeper than he’s ever seen them. You’ve lost weight, like you haven’t been thinking to eat.

The urge to protect you, to fix it, runs through him like a chill down his spine.

Despite it all, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s still surprised by that sometimes, how he can look at you after all this time and be absolutely floored by the fact that you, of all people, can love him. You found him in Romania, that broken war machine holed up and hiding from the world, and you brought back everything he was before. You brought back Bucky, without even trying. Not even that, but you made him a better version of himself. You still do, every day. Even when you’re not there, he can feel your presence like a phantom limb. The past few weeks, he’s caught himself talking to you like you might be behind him, only to turn around to find an empty kitchen. Empty bedroom. Emptiness.

Now that you’re here, even just walking silently beside him, he feels like a part of himself has been reattached. Like he’s finally whole again.

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

“You’ve been using my tech.”

Of course you would know. He never expected anything less. Even so, he feels a thrum of happiness and relief shoot through him at the revelation that you’ve been keeping tabs on him, even while you were hidden away God knows where.

“I have.” He says, glancing over to you. Casually, like he has a thousand times before, his hand moves to your waist, and he guides you so that you’re walking on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. That’s another thing that still surprises him - that, whenever he touches you, he feels something like a little bolt of electricity shoot through him. As you grumble something about him being old fashioned, he has to stop himself from reaching out just to touch you again. “I’ve been crossing names off of my list.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

Memories of knocking a man out cold, of using your device to whip a car around a parking garage, run through his mind faster than a blink. You’re trying for a casual conversation. Avoiding the elephant in the room. If it keeps you here, he can try too.

“You know. Nothing illegal, no one gets hurt.”

“Liar.” You say it affectionately, and his heart skips a beat. What would you do, if he pulled you into that alley over there and kissed you until you were breathless, like he’s been thinking about doing since he saw you in that interrogation room? Would you melt against him, pull him closer? Would you come home with him, and let him show you just how much he’s missed you?

He has to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from doing it. He thinks you might sense his thoughts, too. Whether it’s from the heightened instincts the serum gave you or just the fact that you just know him well enough to read his mind, he doesn’t know. Your cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and you look away. And then he’s really fighting not to do it.

“Bold words from someone I just picked up from jail.” He says, grateful that his voice doesn’t sound as strained as he feels.

Your eyes narrow, and you fix him with a glare that just might intimidate anyone else. He has to bite back his smile.

“I thought that company might be part of a smuggling ring, okay? I just needed to confirm if I was right.”

“Were you?”

“…No. But they did have a much better security system than I expected them to.”

“You need to sleep, doll.”

“I sleep fine.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m sleeping like a damn baby.”

He can’t do it anymore. He can’t do the casual quips. The light jokes. Not when you’re so clearly hurting and refusing to let him help you. His metal arm wraps around your waist, and in one swift movement that lifts you easily off of your feet, he does pull you into the alley.

-

Your body has been humming with energy since the second his eyes fell on you at the precinct. This is not helping.

He’s so close. His blue eyes burn as they look down into yours. You feel that energy crackling between you like an electric current beneath your skin.

“Stop. Stop this.” His voice is low. Firm. Raw with emotion and concern. His face is so close that you can feel his breath against your lips when he speaks. Pine and leather and gunpowder overwhelm your senses and you think you might get weak in the knees like some sort of old-timey damsel. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not taking care of yourself. You left.” You feel his arm twitch around your middle, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you even closer. His voice is more quiet when he speaks again, vulnerability creeping into his tone. “Why did you leave?”

You don’t know what to say. How to say it. He’s too close to think clearly.

“I-“

You sense it first. Your head whips to the side, and you blink the fog away as a familiar voice calls out to you.

“You two. Barneses! Make this man stop throwing his trash into my cans!”

Bucky lets you go, and you have to hold back an embarrassing whimper at the loss of contact.

“We’re not done here.” He says, before turning to diffuse the situation.

-

As Bucky speaks to the man with the trash, Yori focuses his attention on you.

“Haven’t seen you for lunch in a long time.” His tone is accusatory.

“I’ve been…working.”

“You don’t look good. You look tired.”

“Thanks, Yori.”

“You need food.”

You bite back a groan. “I’m fine. I don’t need food.”

“He needs food, then.” Yori says, firmly, gesturing to Bucky. “I need food. I’m hungry. Take the old men to dinner.”

You look at Bucky, who seems to have finished his interaction with Trash Guy. You’re about to lie, make up an excuse and scurry back to your lab to try to lose yourself in another project and forget all about today. But…

Fuck. Bucky. His eyes. They’re open, hopeful, looking at you like he would burn the city to the ground if it meant you would just get a meal with him and your sweet old neighbor like you used to.

“Okay, fine. Dinner. Then I have to get back.” You say with a sigh, already beginning to make your way towards the restaurant near your apartment building.

You sense Bucky’s smile behind you.

-

-

“No one lived past ninety.” Yori says, pushing a newspaper into yours and Bucky’s faces to show you the obituaries.

As much as you’re still trying to bolt out the door, this feels…normal. Nice. Familiar. It’s easy to fall back into old habits, leaning into Bucky in the crowded little restaurant, ordering the same thing at the counter that you always do, cracking jokes with the two of them about their shared ‘grumpy old man’ personality.

“So young. Such a shame.” Bucky says around a mouthful of food, and you snort with laughter that you can’t manage to hold back.

“I think you look great for your old age, Sarge. Not a day over eighty.” You tell him, and he looks at you with amusement sparkling in his gaze.

You look away, unable to meet that look. There’s so much love there. Not just from him, but bubbling up in your own heart like it might overflow and drown you.

“Lots of tension between you two, tonight.” Yori says, blunt as ever. “And I haven’t seen you in a while.” He looks at you with prying eyes. “Are you pregnant?”

You choke on your water.

Hard enough, in fact, that Bucky shoots to his feet and puts his hand on your back, like he’s preparing to give you the fucking Heimlich.

You try to wave him off, eyes watering, but he doesn’t move. Protective as ever.

“You are, aren’t you?” Yori says, enthusiastically patting your shoulder. “Congratulations. It’s about time. You two are crazy. A little one might calm you down.” He looks at you, and you’re too busy trying to catch your breath to cut him off. “Makes sense why you look like you haven’t slept in so long, too. Babies take a lot out of you. I remember when my wife-“

“Three orders of sake, please.” You half shout over the counter, voice sounding a little too high pitched to be anything less than embarrassing. You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, that gentle touch of his gaze feeling like a full-on tug in his direction, and you finally turn to face him.

“Nope. Not pregnant.” You say, unable to look him in the eye as you turn back to grab the drinks.

When you hand Yori his shot, he looks disappointed.

When you turn to hand Bucky his, you could swear that he does too.

And that look makes you take your shot a whole lot faster. Makes you order more.

And then more.

Yori eventually goes home, patting both of you on the back and making a comment about marital relations that you choose to ignore, and then it’s just you and Bucky.

He sits beside you, silently, patiently. You feel the alcohol begin to cloud your mind. You order another round.

-

You’re drunk.

He feels like a complete jackass for letting you get drunk. For watching it happen. For matching you, shot for shot, and being so distracted by the fact that you’re here sitting in front of him again that he completely forgot that, unlike him, you can get drunk.

But every time you ordered another sake, eyes challenging as you handed one to him, he took it with you. Because you were talking to him again. Not about anything serious, not explaining exactly where you’ve been or why you left like you did, but just talking. Like you used to. You tell him about your plans for a new robot, about a weird looking pigeon you saw on the sidewalk the other day, about a smoothie place that sells what you swear is the absolute worst smoothie in New York.

He feels bad for not listening more intently, but he’s too enraptured by you. By the way you gesture with your hands as you speak, by the animation in your eyes. Shit, he even missed the cadence of your voice. He wants to bottle this moment and hold it close to his chest. To look at you for hours.

No, what he wants is to take you home, back to your shared apartment, and trace every inch of your body with his hands and his lips and his teeth until you promise to never disappear again-

“And that’s why I think I should just keep doing crystal meth, you know? It wasn’t so bad when I tried it, and it helps me get a lot of work done.”

He blinks, your words whipping him out of his thoughts, and stares at you now with wide eyes.

“I knew it.” You say proudly, grinning. “You’re not listening. You’re doing the thinking-staring thing, not the listening-staring thing.”

You’re clearly expecting him to smile. He doesn’t. He just looks at you, and the longing he feels must be reflected in his expression because the proud grin falls from your lips and you turn away, clearing your throat and taking another shot. You reach over and take his too, and the moment slips through his fingers.

-

When you step outside, you stumble. You didn’t realize how much you drank until you actually stood up, and you suddenly find yourself trying to blink the dizziness from your vision as the cool air hits your face.

“Shit.” You grumble, frustrated by your sudden lack of clarity, before you feel an arm wrap around your waist.

“C’mon, doll.” You hear, and you instinctively relax. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. Home sounds nice. You don’t really have the words to explain to him that home is the man standing beside you, helping to guide you down the street back to the apartment.

“M’tired.” You finally admit as he opens the door to the building. Despite what you’ve been saying, you really haven’t been sleeping.

“I know.” His voice is so gentle. So warm.

You almost trip on the first step, and in less than a second you’re being lifted into the air. Bucky lifts you with one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, and you don’t have the wherewithal to argue. Your own arm slides around his neck, holding yourself close to him as he ascends the few floors to the apartment you haven’t entered in weeks.

He sets you down once you reach your room, and you let him help you into a pair of his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts before you collapse into bed.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you register that the bed doesn’t feel like it’s been slept in.

But then you feel a familiar weight slide onto the mattress beside you, and a vibranium arm reaches out to tuck you under the covers.

You roll over, twisting your head on the pillow to look at him. And he’s looking right back at you with those lovely blue eyes.

Home.

-

Bucky would do anything, break anything, kill anything in the world to kiss you right now.

But he can see the haziness in your eyes. The exhaustion. And you’re finally back. You’re home, and you’re looking at him in that way you have that makes him feel so unbelievably warm. It took so long for him to believe he might, just maybe, deserve that look.

“You’re doing the staring thing.” You murmur, sleepy and just a little bit slurred.

He can’t help it. His hand reaches up to cradle your cheek. He’s gentle. Careful. That distant part of him is still terrified that he might break you. He spent so long fighting, killing, causing pain. And you are just too precious to hurt.

You turn your face into his hand. Kiss his palm. But it’s what you whisper next that makes his heart ache.

“I love the way you look at me.”

He has to grit his teeth to keep tears from pricking at his eyes. He gives in, then, just a little, moving his hand from your face and wrapping it around you to pull you closer. He tucks you into his chest, and the feeling of your sigh - like you’re relieved by it - makes him hold you tighter.

“You and me.” He whispers into your hair, the words a quiet plea as he listens to your breathing, cherishing every moment he gets to hold you close to him again.

“You and me.” You whisper back.

He falls asleep to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

He doesn’t dream.

And, when he wakes, you’re gone again.

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