#full of a kind of love that's hard to reach

[pbaz7]

FINDING PEACE IN YOU PART 10

paige x azzi

word count: 10.8k

A/N: This is what everyone’s been asking for so hopefully I deliver it correctly 😭. Had to turn on my creative juices to come up with this plan lol. Let me know what you think! This may be a little poorly edited I’m not sure tbh

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The room was heavy with warmth, the quiet whirr of the AC barely cutting through the heated radiating off of each of their bodies. Paige was laying on her back, her chest rising and falling, skin slick with sweat, her hair slightly damp against her forehead. Beside her, Azzi was stretched out on her stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, her breathing still uneven as she slowly came down from the high Paige had just pulled from her a few times.

For a long moment, all Paige could do was stare at her, heart pounding in her ears, feeling like she was tethered to Azzi by something deeper than just touch—something bone-deep that seeped into every part of her.

"Azzi, baby," Paige whispered, her voice a little raspy, cracking a little at the end.

Azzi hummed sleepily, not even bothering to open her eyes. “Hm?”

Paige shifted, the sheets tangling at her waist as she rolled a little closer, letting the back of her knuckles drag softly down the dip of Azzi’s spine making the curly haired girl smile. "Can I ask you something beautiful?"

Azzi mumbled, "Yes, love," into the pillow, her words full of affection even in her exhaustion.

Paige hesitated, heart thudding a little harder now. Her fingers traced slow patterns over Azzi’s skin—like if she stopped touching her, she might float away from the moment.

"Um when we were just…you know. You said..." Paige swallowed, her voice barely able to be heard. "You said you wanted to have my kids. You for real baby?"

Azzi gave a small laugh, the kind that vibrated through her whole body. Without even lifting her head, she whispered back, "Baby, you gotta ask me when I can think straight and we can talk about it...I can't even feel my legs right now and my entire body feels like static."

Paige laughed, her chest loosening at Azzi’s words. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to the curve of Azzi’s shoulder, then another higher up near her neck.

"Alright," Paige whispered against her skin, closing her eyes as she laid her head on Azzi’s back. "Later."

Azzi blindly reached back, searching for her, and Paige caught her hand, lacing their fingers together. Azzi squeezed once—a tired, wordless I love you—Paige squeezed right back.

They stayed like that until they fell asleep: tangled up in the sheets, in each other, with the reality of what they were building between them sinking deeper into the room, into their bodies.

…

The next day the afternoon sun was high in the backyard, the sound of laughter carrying through the air as Paige chased Lukas around, both of them breathless and high with energy. Lukas let out a squeal as Paige caught him, tossing him over her shoulder before flipping him and putting him back on his feet, both of them laughing so hard they could barely stand.

Leaning against the open patio door, Azzi watched them for a while, a soft smile on her face. Her heart was full—the sight of Paige filling her with something she couldn’t even name—something she didn’t know existed.

"Paige!"

Paige turned, her grin only growing when she saw Azzi before she jogged over. Swept up in her usual impulsive affection, she wrapped her arms around Azzi's waist and picked her up effortlessly, spinning them both a few times. Azzi laughed, head tipping back, her fingers gripping onto Paige's shoulders for balance.

When Paige finally set her down, she didn’t let go, her hands stayed on Azzi’s waist, her forehead nearly resting against Azzi’s. “Wassup, beautiful,” Paige said, voice a little playful, her blue eyes bright with leftover energy from playing with Lukas.

Azzi smiled and twirled a few pieces of hair at the nape of Paige’s neck between her fingers. “Can we talk baby?” she asked the question gently but serious enough that Paige knew it was something important.

Paige hummed, her thumb brushing Azzi’s waist, before calling over her shoulder, “Lukas! Go play in your room for a lil bit, okay?”

True to form on how he was raised Lukas didn’t question it. He sprinted past them into the house, without saying anything. A few seconds later, the sound of him rubbing up the stairs echoed faintly through the house, followed by the distant sound of him dumping some toys on the ground.

Azzi and Paige made their way to the living room, the energy between them easy. They sank into the large couch, Azzi curling into Paige’s side like it was second nature. Paige smiled, kissing the top of her head before gently starting to massage Azzi’s shoulders, her thumbs working into the muscles like she knew exactly where Azzi needed it most.

“Wassup, mama?” Paige whispered, feeling the slight tension in Azzi’s body.

Azzi played with the hem of Paige’s shirt she had on for a second, gathering her thoughts. “I just wanted to talk about last night…” she started, her voice quieter than usual.

Paige nodded, her hands continuing to ease the tension in Azzi’s shoulders gently. “I’m listening, baby.”

Azzi took a small breath, resting her head back against Paige’s shoulder for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the massage before turning around just enough to meet her eyes. “I meant it," she said simply. "About wanting to have kids…Kids with you,” she clarifies. “It’s something I want. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Paige’s heart gave a soft thump against her ribs, but she stayed silent, letting Azzi finish.

Azzi hesitated, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on Paige’s thigh. “I guess…I just—I wanted to ask if you’ve thought about it. How many kids you want? Or if you even want more.”

There was a slight wobble to her voice at the end, and Paige felt the small crack of vulnerability that was hidden in her voice. She shifted, turning a little more toward her, her hand slipping to Azzi’s lower back to pull her closer.

“I definitely want more Az,” Paige said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever sat down and picked a number or anything. But I know for sure I want more. Especially with you baby.”

Azzi’s shoulders sagged in relief, and a tiny smile crept onto her lips.

Paige laughed softly, pressing a kiss to Azzi’s temple. “You thought I was gonna say no or sum?”

Azzi shrugged, trying to play it off, but her smile gave her away. “I don’t know. I guess I was a little worried about it. You already have Lukas. You didn’t have to want more.”

Paige shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind Azzi’s ear before cupping her jaw. “Well, I do. Especially if you do.”

Azzi leaned into the touch, her thumb brushing the inside of Paige’s wrist. “I do,” she whispered.

They sat like that for a moment, wrapped up in the easy stillness of each other, before Azzi’s more practical side peeked through and she started speaking again.

“I mean…I am already twenty-eight,” Azzi said, a little sheepishly. “If we want to have more than one we should start thinking about it. Can’t exactly wait forever.”

Paige grinned, blue eyes sparkling a little bit from the sun. “You say the word, I’ll put a baby in you tonight mama.”

Azzi laughed, her head dropping against Paige’s shoulder as she playfully slapped her stomach. “You’re so stupid.”

Paige laughed too, wrapping her arms tighter around her. “I’m serious. I’ll find a way, don't tempt me.”

Azzi smiled at Paige’s words, the kind of smile that reached her eyes—but it didn’t hide the slight crease of worry that tugged at her brow.

Paige caught it, brushing her fingers lightly along Azzi’s cheek. “Hey,” she said softly, “what’s that face about?”

Azzi hesitated, her thumb absently rubbing the fabric of Paige’s shirt before she spoke. “I just…having kids has always been something I wanted. It’s not new. I’ve thought about it for some time. But now that it’s real—with you—it’s different.” She drew in a slow breath. “I don’t want us to rush into it and strain what we’re building. We’re still figuring out us, you know? I don’t want to mess that up by moving too fast just because I want a kid if you aren’t ready.”

Paige pulled her closer, pressing a kiss into her hair. “We’re not gonna mess anything up beautiful,” she murmured. “I promise I want the same things you want, Az. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been together if it’s a pace that feels right for both of us.”

Azzi nodded slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing under Paige’s touch and her words.

“We’re already a family,” Paige whispered against her temple. “Everything else—marriage, kids—that’s just growing what we already got. No rush, no pressure. Just us, moving how we want to.”

Azzi let out a shaky laugh, tipping her chin up to kiss Paige’s jaw. “You always know what I need to hear to make me feel better.”

Paige grinned. “That’s my job, ain’t it?”

Azzi rolled her eyes fondly, pushing herself closer. “Guess I’m keeping you, then.”

Paige chuckled, feeling nothing but certainty. “Forever, mama I promise...just lemme work on it."

Before Paige could say more, Azzi shifted, crawling into her lap and straddling her. Paige’s grin only grew wider as her hands found Azzi’s waist, sliding down to cup the back of her thighs, then settling on her butt.

"Mm, you tryna speed up the timeline, huh?" Paige teased, as Azzi leaned down to capture her lips.

Their kiss started slow, sweet but eventually it deepened, both of them getting lost in the feel of each other like always. Paige mumbled something against Azzi’s mouth—something that sounded suspiciously like "told you we could start today"—and Azzi just laughed into the kiss, her hands threading through Paige’s hair.

Just as Azzi’s lips began trailing down Paige’s jaw, both of them teetering toward losing themselves in the moment—

A small body suddenly launched into them with a playful yell.

“MA!” Lukas giggled as he barreled into them, his arms wrapping around Paige’s and Azzi’s sides.

Both of them caught Lukas with a surprised oof, their hands shooting out to steady him so he didn’t fall off of the couch. The two women burst out laughing, Azzi dropping her forehead to Paige’s shoulder as Paige scooped Lukas in between them.

“What’s up, big head?” Paige asked, still laughing as Lukas wriggled proudly between them.

“You said you were gonna help me find my mini basketball!”

Paige laughed, messing up his hair on purpose knowing it would annoy him. “I did say that.”

Azzi shifted a little, adjusting so all three of them could sit more comfortably. Paige, in turn, adjusted Lukas so he was laying across both of them, half-lounging on Azzi’s chest and half on Paige’s lap. Azzi brushed some of his messy blonde hair back from his forehead, smiling down at him.

Paige rubbed his back gently. “Before we go find the ball...I gotta ask you something.”

Lukas, sensing the seriousness, nodded eagerly, his blue eyes wide and curious.

Paige glanced at Azzi, who smiled, silently telling her to go ahead, before she turned her focus back to Lukas. “What would you think about having a little brother or sister?”

Lukas’s face lit up, his eyes practically sparkling as he gasped dramatically. “Wait Really?!”

Paige laughed, squeezing him. “Yes, really.”

“Today?!” he asked, a little hopeful.

Both women burst into laughter.

“Not today,” Paige chuckled. “Takes a little longer than that.”

“But I wanna be a big brother!” Lukas declared, now practically buzzing in place.

Paige smiled at him, her heart swelling. “You’d be a great one.”

Lukas laid there imagining beating his little brother in a race before he tilted his head curiously. “Wait. but…who’s gonna be the ma?”

Paige and Azzi glanced at each other again, this time with a quiet amusement.

“We both will,” Paige said, resting a hand gently on his chest.

Lukas furrowed his brows, clearly thinking hard about the situation. “But…you’re only my ma?”

“What do you mean, buddy?”

Lukas sat up a little straighter, his hands braced against their arms. “I wanna have two moms too,” he said seriously, looking at Azzi with wide, hopeful eyes. “Like the baby. If they have two I should have two. That’s fair.”

Azzi’s heart squeezed at the look he gave her. “You kinda already do,” she said, her voice gentle as she looked down at him. “I’ve been around so much, you probably see me more than most kids see their aunties,” she joked.

“But you’re not an auntie,” Lukas argued, frowning. “You love my ma. And she loves you. That means we all love each other, right?”

Paige looked like she might melt, her hand running along Lukas’s back as she smiled. “Yeah, that’s exactly what that means.”

“So…can I call you Mom too?” Lukas asked, looking back at Azzi again, a little tentative this time. “If you wanna be my mom too.”

Azzi blinked, her throat tightening slightly. She reached out and cupped his cheek. “If you want to, baby…yeah. I’d love that.”

Lukas beamed, letting out a loud, “Perfect!” before laying back dramatically across both of them as he hugged them.

Paige kissed the top of his head, Azzi still looking at him like he’d just cracked her heart open in the best way.

The three of them stayed like that a while longer—Lukas nestled between them yapping about all the things he could do with a brother or sister, Azzi curled against Paige, and Paige’s arm wrapped around both of them. It was messy, warm, and tangled in the best way.

And it felt like home.

…

After that talk with Azzi, something shifted in Paige’s mindset—something quiet but solid. The kind of certainty that didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations. Just love. Real love. She had already known she wanted to marry Azzi. The idea had already popped in her head a few times but the conversation only made her recognize how ready she was.

The idea had been floating around in her head, but now it burned with purpose and she knew that there was one person she needed to talk to first—Azzi’s dad.

Paige was pacing in slow, tight lines across her bedroom floor, one hand absently playing with her lip, the other holding her phone in a white-knuckled grip. Her bottom lip was red from all the chewing. She kept thinking I should do this in person—but the next time she’d be in the DMV was months away, and she couldn’t wait that long.

So finally, after another loop around the room and a quiet, frustrated, “Fuck it,” she stopped pacing and dialed his number.

Her heart thudded in her chest as the phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

She rubbed her palm on her thigh, forcing herself to take a breath right as the line picked up.

“Hello?”

Paige stood up a little straighter. “Uh, hi—Mr. Fudd? It’s Paige.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, then a warm chuckle. “Paige. Good to hear from you. Everything alright?”

Paige swallowed. “Yeah, everything’s good. Real good, actually. I, uh…I was hoping I could talk to you about something. It’s kinda important.”

“Of course,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Paige sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting in her lap. “I know I should probably be saying this in person—and I wish I could—but based on some of the conversations your daughter and I have had, I didn’t want to wait.”

She took a breath, pausing. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I love Azzi, Tim. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anybody. And I want to spend the rest of my life with her. So…I wanted to talk to you first. About having your permission.”

There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for her pulse to spike.

“You want to marry my daughter?”

“I do.” Paige stood up again, unable to stay still.

“I want to ask her to marry me. But I didn’t feel right doing that without talking to you first.”

Tim let out a low breath, thoughtful. “It’s a little early on, no?”

“I get why you’d say that,” Paige said quickly. “We’ve only been together for nine months. But in those nine months, I don’t think a single day’s passed where I haven’t pictured a future with her. Where I haven’t gone to bed thinking about how I can make her smile as soon as I open my eyes.”

She paced, finding steadiness in her words. “We’ve talked about that future—what we want, where we see ourselves, how we’d grow through it all. And it’s not some impulsive thing. I’ve never been more sure about anything. Whether it’s tomorrow or twenty years from now, Azzi’s it for me. I want to build a life with her.”

There was another pause. Then Tim’s voice came back softer than before. “She loves you, you know.”

Paige stilled.

“She always talks about how grounded she feels when she’s with you. That you calm her down when her thoughts spiral. That you remind her of who she is, even on the hardest days.”

He chuckled lightly. “Said you’re her safe place. And believe me, I’ve seen it. She’s been happier this past year than I’ve seen her in her entire life.”

Paige blinked, eyes stinging just a little as she listened.

“So if you’re ready to take that step with her…then yeah. You have my blessing.” There was a smile in his voice now. “Truth is, Paige, you’ve had it for some time kid.”

Paige let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders finally relaxing.

“Thank you,” she said softly, emotion catching in her throat. “Honestly means everything to me.”

Tim laughed again, lighter this time. “You got a ring yet?”

Paige let out a small laugh, the tension easing from her chest. “Not yet. I’ve been looking…but I didn’t want to jump the gun before talking to you.” She smiled to herself. “Didn’t feel right picking one out without knowing I had your blessing.”

“Smart,” Tim said. “Though knowing Azzi, it won’t be about the ring. She’s always been more about intention than flash.”

“Yeah,” Paige agreed, eyes softening thinking about her. “That’s one of the things I love most about her.”

They talked for a few more minutes—Tim asking about next season, Paige telling him a little about her schedule for Unrivaled, both dancing around the nerves of what this next step meant—before Paige finally said, “I’ll let you go, but…really. Thank you again. I won’t forget this.”

“You’re family now, Paige,” he said. “Just don’t forget to let me know when it happens. Katie will want the details.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

Then she hung up, staring at her phone for a second before breaking into a disbelieving smile.

After that call, Paige threw herself into planning the proposal—every detail, big and small. She spent hours researching a location, writing and rewriting what she wanted to do that day, and working with a jeweler to design a custom ring and box that felt exactly like Azzi.

It became her secret obsession.

And somewhere in the middle of all that excitement, she slipped—just once, but enough to nearly lose Azzi’s patience for the first time.

They were curled up on the couch one night, Azzi sitting sideways with her legs thrown across Paige’s lap, her laptop open as she worked on something for her clinic. She was talking softly, bouncing thoughts off Paige like she always did, her voice animated in that way Paige loved.

Paige, though, was only half there.

Her eyes stayed glued to her phone, thumb scrolling through messages, trying to finalize a reservation for the big night.

“Mm.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds good babygirl.”

Her replies were short. Empty.

Then she stopped responding altogether.

Azzi paused mid-sentence, blinking as the silence stretched. She gave it a second. Then another. But Paige still didn’t look up.

“Are you listening to me?” Azzi asked, her tone calm but clearly a little frustrated.

Paige’s head snapped up, eyes slightly wide. “Of course, baby,” she said quickly.

Azzi gave her a look. “Okay. What was I saying Madison?”

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it. She had nothing and she knew Azzi was a little pissed because of the use of her middle name.

Azzi’s jaw tensed as she let out a slow, irritated breath. Without saying anything, she swung her legs off Paige’s lap and stood up.

“Wait—mama, I’m sorry. C’mere,” Paige said, reaching for her wrist.

But Azzi gently pulled away.

“I’ll be in the room,” she said, not looking back. “You can finish whatever’s more important.”

Paige stood up quickly, tossing her phone on the couch before following Azzi upstairs. She caught up to her just as she reached the bedroom door, her hand reaching out again—this time more intentionally, more carefully. She caught Azzi’s wrist and tugged her back, wrapping both arms around her waist and pulling her close.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Paige whispered against the side of her neck. “I was distracted. I should’ve just said that.”

Azzi didn’t immediately soften. “Yeah, you should’ve.”

When Paige kissed her neck gently she turned slightly to face her, her voice low. “What was so important that you couldn’t listen when I was asking for your help?”

Paige closed her eyes for a beat, chest tight. “My publicist,” she said, thinking of something on the fly. “She was blowing up my phone, asking about a media thing. Press schedule stuff. Stupid details.”

Azzi studied her for a moment before her eyebrow furrowed. “You let that distract you when I was talking to you about something that actually mattered to me? That was more important?”

“There’s nothing more important than you,” Paige said quickly, gripping her waist a little tighter. “I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t present and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

Azzi let the silence sit for a moment between them before her shoulders relaxed, just slightly.

“I don’t need your full attention all the time,” she said. “I just… you know I’ve been working on adding a new aspect to my clinic for months and I thought if anyone would see how important it was for me to get it right, it’d be you.”

“I do. I do, Azzi.” Paige brushed her fingers along Azzi’s cheek, eyes full of guilt. “And when you're ready to build it, I’ll be right there next to you. Every step. I swear.”

Azzi searched her face, and after a long moment, she nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her gently—soft, apologetic, her lips barely lingering as she pulled back to search Azzi’s face.

“You’re gonna make it up to me,” Azzi whispered, a small smile forming on her face.

“Of course,” Paige said instantly. “Whatever you want.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, eyes darkening just enough as she tugged Paige in by the front of her hoodie. “Whatever I want?” she whispered, her breath brushing against Paige’s lips.

Paige swallowed, already knowing that tone. “Whatever you want, baby.” Her eyes flicking to Azzi’s lips as they hovered just an inch apart.

Then, without thinking, Paige leaned in further, her hand sliding along Azzi’s waist as she gently guided her back into the wall, mouths inches from meeting—

“Ma, I’m hungry!”

Paige groaned and Azzi’s eyes closed as she sighed.

Lukas’s voice rang out from the hallway, completely unaware of the moment he’d just shattered.

Azzi whispered, “You gotta be kidding me.”

Paige pulled back, stifling a laugh, running a hand over her face. “When you raise a tiny human I swear they have an instinct to interrupt when you try to have a moment, I swear…”

Azzi shook her head, calling back, “There’s leftovers in your little fridge, baby!”

“They make my tummy hurt. Can I have chicken nuggets?” Lukas said as he padded into view, rubbing one eye with the sleeve of his shirt, his favorite blanket dragging behind him. His curls were messy from his nap, and he blinked at the two of them, still standing entirely too close in the hallway.

He tilted his head, squinting. “Why you standing like that?”

Paige pressed her lips together, letting out a sharp cough to hide her laugh.

Azzi shot her a look.

“Chicken nuggets it is,” Paige said quickly, kissing Azzi on the cheek and whispering, “Rain check, Mama.”

Azzi raised a single eyebrow in that usual way of hers, but didn’t push it.

Instead, she sighed, shaking her head before trailing behind Lukas and Paige as they all headed downstairs.

…

After that day, Paige was more careful. No more distracted moments. No more planning when Azzi was around. Every message to the jeweler, every appointment, every secret detail was handled in quiet corners of the day—when Azzi was out, or asleep, or fully immersed in work.

Everything was going smoothly.

Until a few days before the proposal.

Paige was stretched out on the bed, arms propped behind her head, watching Azzi move around the room with that same dazed look she always got when Azzi was fresh out the shower—bare shoulders, wet curls dripping down her back.

Azzi was talking about something—probably something important—but Paige was too busy smirking at her to catch the details. “You know you’re killing me, right?” Paige said, her eyes flicking over her.

Azzi didn’t even look up. “Focus, lover girl. I’m trying to find that old shirt—”

She tugged open a drawer she never touched.

Paige’s heart dropped. She sat up fast, eyes wide. “Wait—no, no, no!” she yelled.

Azzi’s hand froze mid-dig, confused. She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Just—don’t open that one!” Paige scrambled off the bed like it was on fire, practically tripping over herself as she crossed the room.

Azzi blinked, towel slipping just a little as she stepped back, her eyebrows furrowed. “What’s in there?”

Paige threw herself in front of the drawer, arms out like she was shielding Azzi from a bomb.

“I swore I saw the biggest spider in there the other day. Scared the hell outta me.”

Azzi’s whole body tensed. She physically recoiled with a dramatic gasp. “Why would you not get the spider out of the drawer, you know I’m terrified of them?!” she asked, frowning, already stepping away.

Paige tried not to laugh, quickly adding,

“I meant to clean the whole thing out, honestly. But you know me, I got a little distracted.”

Azzi pouted slightly, arms crossing over her chest as she narrowed her eyes at the drawer.

“Well, I wanted your old UConn shirt,” she mumbled, almost accusingly.

“I got it,” Paige said quickly, twisting to open the drawer just a crack—careful to shield the box tucked to the side. She grabbed the shirt and slammed the drawer shut in one motion. “Spider-free and ready for you, mama.”

Azzi eyed her suspiciously as she took the shirt. “You’re acting weird.”

Paige kissed her on the cheek. “Weirdly in love with you, maybe.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight her smile.

“Mmmhm, whatever.”

As she walked away to change, Paige leaned against the drawer, letting out a slow breath.

…

Azzi stirred slowly, face buried in the pillows, confused by the unusual stillness of the bed. Normally, when she and Paige spent the night wrapped up in each other—and last night had definitely been one of those nights—they’d sleep in, tangled together long past sunrise.

She smiled to herself, biting her lip at the memory before gently pulling herself back to reality.

Something was off.

No faint sounds of cartoons playing downstairs, no scent of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. Most importantly, no Paige. Azzi frowned and rolled onto her back, her brows drawn together as she looked around the room.

Her eyes landed on the dresser—and the note resting there.

Still groggy, she reached for it, the blanket slipping lower down her bare back as her fingers closed around the familiar handwriting.

Good morning, love. I had a few last-minute things to do this morning. I brought Lukas with me so you can rest. There’s breakfast downstairs waiting for you. I’ll love you forever and always, Azzi Fudd. -P

Azzi blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching upward despite herself. Her chest warmed instantly at the way Paige had signed it.

She read the last line again—I’ll love you forever and always, Azzi Fudd—and shook her head with a soft laugh,

She got up slowly, stretching her limbs with a soft groan. Her legs ached—a lingering reminder of the night before as she padded to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and splashed cold water on her face before tying her robe around her waist and tossing her hair into a messy bun.

Still half-asleep, she made her way downstairs.

But when she stepped into the kitchen, she froze. Her jaw dropped.

The entire space was filled with flowers. Bouquets in soft pastels and deep reds were arranged along the counters, windowsills, and even the table. They caught the morning sunlight pouring in through the oversized windows, casting a golden glow over everything.

The breakfast spread waiting on the island was almost secondary—her eyes were too busy taking in the garden that had bloomed overnight inside what was now her home.

She stepped forward slowly, awe written all over her face, before picking up a perfectly ripe strawberry to take it all in.

Another note rested next to the plate of food.

She unfolded it, already smiling before she read it.

These are for every single day we've been together that I haven’t given you flowers. And probably a few extras for the days ahead, just to be safe. I hope you like forever, Azzi Fudd—because I’m planning on it with you. -Madison

Azzi’s heart flipped.

She smiled so wide it almost hurt, pressing the note to her chest before sitting down at the island, cheeks flushed and eyes soft, her appetite suddenly secondary to whatever Paige was planning next.

She took her time eating, all of the food somehow still fresh and warm making it unclear to her how long Paige put all of this together.

As she finished up the last few bites of her breakfast, there was a soft knock on the front door followed by the doorbell.

She blinked, a little confused, checking to make sure her robe was tied securely before walking over. Peeking through the window, she saw a delivery driver—young, smiling politely, holding something in her hand.

She cracked the door open, and the young woman handed her a familiar-looking coffee and a small envelope.

"Have a beautiful day," the delivery woman said, then turned and walked off.

Azzi looked down at the cup in her hands and grinned immediately. Their spot. The coffee shop where everything began. The same exact order Paige would bring to her clinic after she was done with practice—like clockwork.

Her thumb brushed over the the cup before she slipped a finger under the seal of the envelope and opened the note inside.

Never been so thankful for a random caffeine craving. That tiny corner coffee shop gave me everything I didn’t know I needed. You didn’t have to help Lukas find me that day, but you did—gorgeous smile, soft voice, offering your help like it was nothing. It was everything. You didn’t have to give me a chance, either. God knows all I wanted back then was to make you mine for one night...and somehow, you gave me forever.

You have a massage at 1 and a nail appointment at 3—today is for you. Let yourself be spoiled, love. The best part’s still coming.

Always Paige

Azzi stood there for a moment, her heart swelling, coffee in hand and note fluttering in her fingers. She bit her lip again, overwhelmed in the best way.

Then she whispered, “What the hell are you doing, Paige,” with a giddy smile before heading back upstairs to get ready.

…

After what might’ve been one of the best days of pampering she could remember, Azzi stepped out of the back of the car with a peaceful sigh, offering Ben a soft thank you and a warm smile.

Their large house was still silent when she approached—quiet, but not empty.

She froze in the doorway as soon as she unlocked the front door.

A soft trail of rose petals curved around her feet, stretching across the floor and leading her through the large entryway toward the stairs. Her eyebrows lifted as she followed them, heart beginning to race as her eyes caught something new with each step—pictures, framed and carefully placed along the way.

Her and Paige at one of the Wings games. A blurry one of Lukas beaming with both of them. Their Halloween costumes. A selfie where Paige was mid-sneeze and Azzi was laughing. Notes in margins, ticket stubs, random captured glances.

By the time she made it upstairs, her chest was aching in the most beautiful way.

The flower path ended at the bed—on top of which sat four neatly stacked white boxes, each wrapped in a red satin ribbon. And beside them, of course, another note.

Azzi picked it up with a smile that refused to leave her face, her fingers trembling just slightly as she unfolded the page.

If I did everything right, you’re feeling relaxed and hopefully only a tiny bit suspicious.

I thought about writing a whole paragraph here about how much I love you, but honestly…I think you already know. It’s in the pictures. It’s in every step of today. It’s in the way I think about you when you’re not even in the room.

So I’ll keep it simple:

You’re everything to me baby.

Get dressed, beautiful. Ben will be outside waiting to take you where you need to be when you’re ready. Take your time…but not too much time. I’m sweating a little.

P.S. The fourth box might make you cry. Just saying. So maybe open it before you get ready.

Forever sounds pretty perfect with you.

- BDB.

Azzi exhaled shakily, blinking fast as she looked down at the boxes again, still smiling like her heart was trying to escape through her ribs.

She reached for the largest one first, slowly pulling the red ribbon loose before lifting the lid.

Inside was an elegant black Christopher Esber dress, the fabric silky between her fingers. It was tasteful, but definitely made to turn heads—with a low neckline that promised just the right amount of chest and cleavage.

Azzi let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Of course,” she murmured, her cheeks warming at the thought of Paige choosing it just so she could see her in it.

The next box was smaller and lighter. She peeled the ribbon back and opened it—this time, her eyes widened.

A pair of Louis Vuitton red bottoms sat nestled in white tissue paper, the bold color matching the black dress perfectly. She bit her lip, lifting one heel delicately and admiring the craftsmanship, already imagining Paige’s reaction when she saw her in them.

The third box shimmered before she even opened it fully.

She unfolded the top to find a stunning diamond necklace, simple yet completely mesmerizing, with a matching bracelet nestled beside it. She lifted the necklace slowly, watching it catch the light, her breath growing a little shallower. Her chest was tightening—but not from the jewelry. It was the care. The intention of Paige putting together an entire outfit for her. The quiet, undeniable love behind it all.

And then there was the last box.

It was much smaller than the rest. Lighter. Azzi tilted her head, a curious frown pulling at her lips as she undid the ribbon.

Inside sat a single silver keychain.

It was plain, save for the engraving on it—the handwriting wobbly and earnest: “I love you, Mom.”

It looked just like Lukas’ handwriting.

She swallowed hard as her vision blurred, thumb brushing over the engraving.

A quiet, teary laugh escaped her as she held the keychain blinking back tears.

“Okay,” she whispered to no one, voice horse. “You got me.”

She wiped the last traces of her tears, took a steady breath, and picked up her phone to send a text: you’re lucky you’re cute because I almost ugly cried…you trying to kill me or propose?

She added a pink heart, then locked the screen and stood up to get ready.

She sat at her vanity, smoothing on light makeup—just enough to glow under soft lighting—and pulled her curls into an updo, leaving a few loose curls to frame her face. The way Paige always loved.

When she slipped on the black dress, it hugged her figure perfectly. Azzi caught her reflection and let out a soft laugh, tugging gently as she adjusted the neckline. “She did this on purpose,” she mumbled to herself, still a little in disbelief at how beautiful it looked.

The necklace and bracelet sparkled anytime she moved as she fastened them, letting her know they were, “Too much,” she said aloud, shaking her head fondly. “Way too much.”

But she wore them anyway.

She spritzed on her perfume—the perfume she knew always had Paige all over her—just enough to linger, before stepping into the hallway, heels in hand.

The soft petals brushed against her feet again as she descended the stairs, passing all the pictures—snapshots of their life together, of smiles and dates, goofy selfies, Lukas in the middle of most of them. Every step made her chest swell all over again.

She slipped on the heels once she got by the door, adjusting her dress one more time before she stepped outside.

Ben was waiting by the car in a black suit, calm and professional, though his eyes warmed a little when he saw her.

“Miss Fudd,” he greeted, opening the backseat.

Azzi grinned as she walked to the car, her heels echoing with each step. “You gonna tell me where we’re going Ben?”

Ben shook his head, lips twitching. “Not sure, ma’am. Just driving.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Liar.”

He only held the door open wider in response.

Azzi climbed in, heart thudding a little faster now.

The car ride took some time, the city slowly giving way to quieter roads, and eventually Azzi’s phone wasn’t able to distract her and she started to get curious. When Ben turned onto a private road to enter the airport, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Ben," she said, leaning forward slightly, "What is Paige up to?"

Ben just smiled, pulling to a stop near a small private jet. “Not sure, ma’am.”

Azzi stared in disbelief, eyes landing on the trail of rose petals leading from the car to the jet’s stairs. Before she could ask another question, Ben had already stepped out and opened her door.

She stepped out, heels clicking softly as she walked over the petals, one hand grazing the railing as she ascended the stairs. Her dress shimmered in the sunlight, the wind catching a few loose curls that had slipped from her updo. Her heart beat faster with every step—half nerves, half anticipation.

When she stepped inside her breath got stuck.

The interior of the jet was stunning—soft leather seats, gold accents, the subtle scent of fresh roses in the air—but none of it came close to what was sitting right in front of her.

Paige sat casually in one of the leather seats, legs crossed at the ankle. Black dress pants hugged her long legs, and a white button-up clung to her chest, the top few buttons undone in that effortless way that drove Azzi wild. The sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing the expensive watch she only wore on important occasions. Her hair was down and wavy, but slightly mussed, like she’d run her hands through it one too many times.

But it was the way Paige was looking at her—calm, smitten, like her entire world had just walked onto that plane—that made Azzi stop in her tracks.

Paige stood up slowly, slipping her hands into her pockets as a grin tugged at the corner of her lips. “Hi, mama.”

Azzi let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head softly. “What the hell have you been up to, Paige?”

Paige tilted her head, eyes never leaving hers. “You look beautiful.”

Azzi walks toward her slowly, the soft sway of her hips exaggerated by the curve of the dress. Paige’s eyes follow every step—hungry, admiring, already undone. She didn’t even try to hide it as her gaze drags from Azzi’s heels up her legs, pausing at the way the fabric hugged her waist, how it dipped to show just enough cleavage to make Paige blink slower.

Azzi stops in front of her, not touching—just standing there, letting Paige drink her in.

“You like?” she asks, her voice teasing her girlfriend a little, but her eyes searching Paige’s face for something real.

Paige steps forward, her hand moving gently to Azzi’s waist. “I love,” she whispers, the words barely landing before she leans in and kisses her—deeply, mumbling, “you smell so good baby.” Azzi laughs into the kiss mumbling back, “thank you love.”

As they break apart, someone steps in quietly, placing two champagne glasses on the table beside them and resting the open bottle in a silver bucket of ice. Paige reaches for the glasses without looking, her eyes still locked on Azzi as she hands her one.

Azzi chuckles a little when she realizes Paige hadn’t taken her eyes off of her.

They sit down beside each other, knees brushing, the hum of the plane gearing up surrounding them. Paige swirls the champagne in her glass once, then clinks it softly against Azzi’s. “To today,” she says quietly. “And everything after.”

As they settle into the leather seats, champagne glasses in hand, Azzi gently nudges Paige with her elbow and lifts her hand into the space between them.

“Do you like my nails?” she asks, a small smirk playing on her lips.

Paige sets her glass down and takes Azzi’s hand carefully, like it’s something precious. She runs her thumb lightly across her fingers before noticing the delicate design. Her eyes catch on the ring finger, where a small white p is painted against the lavender nails.

“A white P on the ring finger?” Paige murmurs with a raised eyebrow, her lips twitching. “You tryna tell me something, or you just like advertising the goods?”

Azzi smiles, unbothered by the joke. “Maybe both,” she says with a shrug. “You’re the one who gave me the day to be spoiled—seemed fair.”

The plane begins to hum beneath them, movement signaling the impending takeoff. Paige leans over, her hand brushing along Azzi’s thigh as she reaches for the seatbelt and clicks it into place.

Azzi eyes her, arms crossing as she sinks a little deeper into her seat. “Where are we going? You know I didn’t pack a single thing, right?”

Paige grins, sitting back. “Handled it.”

Azzi pouts, leaning toward her with a mock whine. “Just give me a hint please baby.”

Paige taps her glass, then finally gives in. “We’re going to a cabin in Arizona.”

Azzi’s brows lift in surprise, her smile blooming. “You did all this… just for that?”

Paige reaches for her hand again, squeezing it as the plane continues to taxi. Her voice is soft. “I did all of this because I’m in love with you,” she says. “And you never let me spoil you.”

Azzi laughs, tilting the drink in her glass. “You spoil me plenty.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “How?”

They both sip their champagne at the same time, the question hanging between them. Azzi’s eyes flick to Paige’s lips before she leans in slightly, her voice lower now.

“That thing you do with your tongue…makes me see stars every time,” she says smoothly, locking eyes with her.

Paige stills for a beat, one brow lifting just slightly, a crooked smile forming as she leans in,.

“That’s not me spoiling you,” she says, eyes darkening just enough. “That’s just me fucking you right.”

Their lips brush, breath shared, and Azzi’s voice drops to a whisper. “You always do, daddy.”

Paige’s jaw tightens as she takes a slow, deep breath, trying to ground herself. “You lucky I’m not about to fuck up your hair and makeup before we get off this plane,” she mumbles, her voice hinting at her restraint.

Azzi leans in just a little closer, her smirk growing. “That’s never stopped you before.”

Paige’s finger twitches against the leather armrest, her body tensing with every ounce of control she has. But she doesn’t move. She knows future Azzi—the one she plans to propose to in just a few hours—would kill her if she ruined the look she worked so hard to perfect.

So she says nothing. Just lifts her glass and takes a long sip, forcing her eyes away from Azzi’s.

…

They were tucked in the backseat of a sleek black SUV, trees blurring past the tinted windows as they wound further up the Arizona mountains. The sun was starting to dip low, casting a golden haze over the landscape. Paige looked over at Azzi, her gaze soft as she admired her.

Azzi caught it, smiling. “What?”

“You trust me, right?” Paige asked.

Azzi blinked, her smile never fading. “Of course I do.”

Paige reached into the side of the door and pulled out a soft black blindfold, letting it dangle from her fingers. “Let me put this on you?”

Azzi gave her a look. “Paige.”

“I promise I didn’t spoil you and fly you to another state just to kill you,” Paige teased, laughing.

Azzi snorted. “That would be kinda crazy, not gonna lie.” She leaned back against the seat, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Wait. Maybe that’s your thing. You charm women for a year—slow burn, super sweet, all romantic—then boom. Big finale. Kill 'em.”

Paige blinked at her, then sighed. “We seriously have to stop watching Criminal Minds at night.”

Azzi grinned, shaking her head as she turned to let Paige slide the blindfold over her eyes. “I’m just saying…if I wind up in a true crime podcast, at least make sure they use a good picture of me. Maybe the one from the gala.”

Paige leaned in close, brushing a kiss to Azzi’s cheek as she whispered, “Trust me, no one’s dying tonight baby.”

Azzi nodded, biting her lip as she tilted her head slightly forward. Paige was careful, her touch light as she slipped the blindfold completely over Azzi’s eyes, tying it at the back with just enough pressure to keep it in place. She gently moved strands of Azzi’s hair out of the knot, her fingers lingering like they didn’t want to leave.

A few moments later the car slowed to a stop on the gravel, and Paige was out first. She opened Azzi’s door, taking her hand and placing her other palm against her waist to steady her. “Watch your step mama,” she murmured, guiding her up a narrow, quiet path. The air smelled like pine and earth and maybe like a lake.

Azzi walked slowly, trust in every step, her fingers tightening slightly around Paige’s when she felt something unsteady under her foot. When they stopped, Paige’s hands slid to Azzi’s waist, keeping her still.

“Don’t move,” Paige whispered, her breath brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear. She stepped in close behind her, chest warm against Azzi’s back as she carefully untied the blindfold.

It slipped off, and Azzi blinked, eyes adjusting—and then widening.

Spread out in front of her was the horizon, the sun kissing the edge of the mountains in a blaze of orange, gold, and soft pink and purple. A still lake shimmered beneath it all, catching every color like glass. The sky stretched endlessly, painted in strokes of color that seemed too perfect to be real.

Azzi let out a quiet breath. “Paige…”

She moved, trying to turn around, but Paige’s hands stayed firm on her waist.

“Let’s just stay like this, a little longer baby,” Paige said softly, stepping even closer and wrapping her arms around Azzi’s waist from behind, holding her against her. Her chin gently rested on Azzi’s shoulder, both of them silent for a moment, breathing in the view—and each other.

Paige held Azzi tighter, her arms snug around her waist. The sky was melting into lavender and amber, but Paige barely noticed it anymore—her world was pressed against her. She inhaled slowly, her voice low, barely above a whisper.

“I think about this all the time, you know…” she said, her lips brushing against Azzi’s cheekbone. “Us. The life I want with you. The life I’ll have with you.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. She just listened to the soothing voice of the woman she would do anything for.

Paige took a soft breath, steadying herself. “It’s not even just the big stuff—it’s the little things, the dumb things. Like…how you always try to act annoyed when I eat the last fry, but you never try to stop me. Or the way you hum when you fold laundry even though you hate doing it and it’s off key.” She laughed under her breath. “Or how you’ll always pick Lukas up like he’s tiny even though he’s getting too long for your arms.”

Azzi smiled, a little breath caught in her throat.

“I love all of it. I love all of you,” Paige said. “I love how your voice changes when you talk to Lukas. I love how you get weirdly competitive over Uno. I love that little crease between your eyebrows when you're trying not to cry after a hard day.”

She paused. Her voice softened further.

“I think about the future and it’s only you. It’s us. It’s Lukas with a little brother to run around with. In a perfect world, right? One more boy to mess up the house together. And a little girl too—God, she’s gonna have my whole heart. Just like her mom. Probably looks just like you, attitude when she’s hungry and all.”

Azzi laughed quietly, her fingers brushing Paige’s forearm where it wrapped around her.

“We’re showing up to your clinic on Fridays like chaos,” Paige continued, grinning against her. “The kids will be loud and Lukas will pretend he doesn’t want to come because he’s too old but he’ll always be there. And then Sunday mornings…you, me, all of them piled into the kitchen. You in your robe, yelling at me for giving the kids too much sugar before breakfast. But you’ll eat the pancakes anyway.”

Azzi closed her eyes as she listened. Allowing herself to fall into the future Paige was describing.

“You’ll sit front row at my games. Lukas yelling at the refs. You rolling your eyes when I wink at you from the court.” Her voice turned even softer, a breath of awe in it. “I want everything with you. I want the quiet mornings and the loud nights. I want the fights and the makeup kisses. I want the wrinkles and the gray hairs. I want forever. And even then, my love for you—Azzi, it’s just gonna keep growing. It doesn’t have an end. It’s never gonna stop.”

Azzi’s hands were now wrapped around Paige’s arms, holding them in place.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The wind stirred lightly around them. The sun was slowly lowering, slipping perfectly beneath the edge of the mountain. Paige pressed her lips gently to Azzi’s cheek, as she held Azzi closer, like the feel of her grounded everything. Her voice was lower now, a little shakier, her breath catching in ways it hadn’t before as she started speaking again.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” she whispered. “At that coffee shop. You looked so fucking perfect holding my son. I swear, I saw you and the whole room just—blurred. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

Azzi let out a soft sound, part laugh, part breath, part something else she couldn’t name.

“And the. you made me work for it,” Paige continued, smiling faintly. “God, did you make me work for it. You ain’t give me an inch for a while. A one-word reply. And every time you ignored me or shot me down when I tried to get you to come over, I swore I was done trying… but I couldn’t stop. You didn’t just make me want you. You made me better, even before I had you.”

She paused, her voice starting to break in the quietest, most human way. “And then when I finally proved I was decent enough for you…you gave in. You let yourself fall for me. You let me in.” She swallowed. “And Azzi… nothing in this world has ever felt more like home than the moment you looked at me and meant it. When you finally looked at me like I was yours to keep.”

Azzi’s lashes fluttered. She reached up with one hand, brushing quickly beneath her eyes.

Paige nuzzled gently into the crook of her neck. “I still can’t believe I get to love you. That you let me. That I get to wake up beside you. Watch you laugh with Lukas. Watch you exist in this world like you were made for it.”

“You are the strongest person I’ve ever met. The softest. The scariest. The most beautiful. You fight for everyone else, but you still somehow have more love left for me. I don’t know how, Azzi, I don’t. I’m just…I’m in awe of you. Every day.”

Azzi sniffled, shoulders trembling just slightly as Paige tightened her hold.

“You gave me a reason to believe in forever. And even when we’re gray and complaining about back pain and yelling at our grandkids to stop running through the house, I’m still gonna look at you like you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. Because you are.”

She pressed a kiss into Azzi’s shoulder. “You always will be.”

Azzi turned slightly, just enough to kiss her cheek as she threads her fingers through Paige’s, their hands pressed together over her stomach as she leaned back into her.

Paige stayed quiet for a second longer, letting the silence settle between them. Her chin still rested on Azzi’s shoulder, her arms still wrapped tightly around her waist.

Then, softly, she whispered, “I used to think love like this only existed in movies. Or fairytales. Something people talked about but never really found. But then you showed up. And you made everything real.”

Azzi let out a slow breath, her hand gently running along Paige’s arm where it held her.

“I want it all with you,” Paige continued. “The messy, the beautiful, the quiet mornings and the loud nights. I want Lukas to grow up seeing what real love looks like. I want him to see that it’s patient and honest and kind. I want to build a life where he knows love can be soft and still strong. Because that’s what you are, baby.”

And then Paige’s voice dropped, trembling a little. “I want more. I want more laughs. More kids. One who’ll be Lukas’ shadow and another who’s so much like you that I won’t stand a chance. I want more everything.”

Azzi laughed tearfully, her lips parted, her eyes burning as she leaned back more into her.

“I want them to run into our room and jump on our bed while we pretend to be mad but really…we’re just happy. Because we built that. You and me. We built everything.”

Paige slowly unraveled her arms from around Azzi’s waist. Azzi blinked in confusion at the loss of warmth, her body instinctively trying to turn—but Paige’s hands gently encouraged her to stay still just a moment longer as she stepped back.

Then finally, Azzi turned and her breath hitched.

Paige was down on one knee, holding a ring box that was unlike any Azzi had ever seen. It was handcrafted—dark cherry wood with smooth, carved edges. A soft glow lit up from the inside as the box opened, a tiny built-in light casting a halo over the ring nestled in deep velvet.

But it wasn’t just the ring that made Azzi freeze. Built into the inside lid, carefully pressed behind a clear panel, was the receipt from their first coffee date. The ink had faded slightly with time, but the outline of their orders, the timestamp, and the scribbled heart Paige had drawn on the back to prove she was romantic were all still visible.

The ring itself was breathtaking. A radiant-cut diamond sat on a delicate platinum band, flanked by two smaller diamonds shaped like teardrops. Around the inner band, just barely visible, was a tiny engraving: It was always you.

Azzi’s hand flew to her mouth, her chest shaking as emotion took over. She looked down at Paige, who was looking up at her with the kind of reverence that made it impossible not to cry. There was no nervousness in her eyes—only admiration, complete devotion, love.

“Azzi Jazlyn Fudd,” Paige said, her voice thick but steady, “will you marry me, baby?”

Azzi’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her chest rose and fell as her breath caught again. Her gaze dropped to the ring, then back to Paige, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness, the intention, the love built into every detail of the day.

She nodded. Then nodded again, harder this time, as her voice cracked with emotion. “Yes. Yes—Paige—yes. Always yes baby.”

She shakily held out her left hand, and Paige let out a quiet laugh, tears glinting in her own eyes as she slid the ring onto Azzi’s finger. It fit like it had been made for her—and it had.

Azzi looked at it, overwhelmed. “You kept the receipt?” she whispered, laughing through the tears threatening to fall.

Paige nodded with a soft smile. “I swear I knew as soon as you said you weren’t sleeping with me after one coffee date,” she murmured, her voice warm with the memory. “Made that stupid-ass joke about being worth more than $6.32 worth of coffee when I made a joke about taking you to my car.”

Azzi let out a wet laugh, her shoulders shaking slightly. “God, I did say that,” she whispered, eyes shining.

She reached down and pulled Paige up with both hands, rising into her and crashing their mouths together in a kiss that was more emotion than finesse—laughter tangled with tears, a little messy, a little desperate, and absolutely perfect in the moment. Paige’s arms wrapped around her, steadying the kiss even as Azzi clung to her like she was the only thing holding her upright.

The sky behind them continued to burn in pinks and purples as the sun began to disappear, but neither of them looked away from each other for a second.

Azzi pulled away just enough to rest her forehead against Paige’s, their breaths mingling as the glow of the fading sun wrapped around them. For a second, they just stood there in silence—hearts racing, eyes closed—before Azzi finally blinked down at her hand.

The ring sparkled, the delicate band catching every last bit of light. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she said, “I’m engaged…”

Paige chuckled, still a little breathless herself. “You are baby.”

They stayed tangled in each other’s space for another moment—two hearts completely still in the middle of the mountains—until Paige suddenly bent slightly and swept Azzi off her feet with ease.

Azzi let out a playful squeal, her arms flying around Paige’s neck. “Paige!”

Paige grinned, eyes never leaving hers. “I gotta carry my fiancée over the threshold, right? That’s a rule or sum.”

Azzi was about to point out that it’s for when you’re actually married but then Paige started walking and qeAzzi finally noticed the beautiful cabin tucked just beyond the trees—secluded, modern, warm. Her eyes widened as she took it in properly for the first time, her lips parting in stunned silence.

“You’re insane,” she murmured.

Paige just smiled. “For you? Always.”

The next few hours passed in a haze neither of them would ever forget.

Inside the cozy, beautifully lit cabin, a private chef had been waiting with a candlelit dinner spread across the dining table. They ate slowly, savoring every bite, but mostly savoring each other—Paige barely able to take her eyes off Azzi’s hand every time it caught the light.

Over more champagne, Paige told Azzi everything. The planning process. The times she almost got caught. The call to Azzi’s dad—how nervous she was and how easily he gave his blessing. “He actually laughed afterwards,” Paige said with a sheepish smile.

Then they moved to the oversized couch after dinner, plates forgotten as they curled up together under a blanket still in clothes worth over a thousand dollars. Azzi rested against Paige’s chest, eyes still sparkling in disbelief. She FaceTimed her mom first, who burst into tears the second she saw the ring. Then came Tim, who earned a hard smack to the back of the head when Katie realized he’d known the whole time. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” she warned, laughing as he made an exaggerated apology.

Then they called Paige’s mom and Lukas. His face lit up instantly, and when he saw the ring sparkling on Azzi’s hand, his eyes went huge. “It’s like a superhero ring!” he said excitedly, making them both laugh until they had tears in their eyes.

Eventually, the calls slowed down, the buzz quieted, and their world became still again.

Just the two of them wrapped up on the couch, legs tangled, the fire casting a soft amber glow over the room. Their voices were quiet now—just whispers and giggles. Paige cracked a dumb joke about being lucky Azzi said yes and Azzi replied, “You would’ve cried if I said no,” making Paige grin and nudge her playfully.

Then, in a lull between the teasing, Paige leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to the side of Azzi’s neck. It was supposed to be innocent, just a soft expression of affection—but Azzi swallowed a little harshly and a gentle, involuntary sigh escaped her lips as her hand moved up, fingers slipping into Paige’s wavy hair, curling around the strands.

Paige paused for a moment, then tilted her head, pressing another kiss to Azzi’s skin, this time a little lower. A little longer. Her tongue flicked gently against the warm spot beneath Azzi’s jaw.

Azzi’s fingers tightened against slightly, wordlessly encouraging her.

Paige's lips kept moving—down the curve of Azzi’s neck, across her collarbone where the diamond necklace rested. Every kiss lingered longer than the last, each one filled with the kind of restrained desire that had Azzi shifting beneath her.

The hand in Paige’s hair guided her, gently but with purpose, Azzi’s fingers threading through the soft strands like she’d done it a hundred times—and still couldn’t get enough.

“This was your plan all along, huh?” Azzi whispered.

Paige smiled against her skin, lips grazing her shoulder. “Plan’s already going better than I imagined.”

She pressed a few more kisses to Azzi’s collarbone before whispering, “I just can’t stop thinking about touching you.”

Azzi leaned up, catching Paige’s mouth in a kiss that deepened almost immediately. Her hand moved from Paige’s hair to her jaw, tilting her face as her lips parted wider.

Paige’s hands found Azzi’s waist at the same time and Azzi opened her legs slightly beneath her, guiding Paige to slot herself between them. Their bodies meeting effortlessly, like they always had—like they were made for this kind of closeness.

They stayed tangled in each other, moving between kisses as Paige began to trail her mouth down Azzi’s neck, then lower to the exposed line of her chest, her lips and tongue leaving heat in their path.

It wasn’t until Azzi slipped a hand under Paige’s shirt, dragging her nails across the taut muscles of her stomach, that Paige smiled into the kiss, her breath catching slightly. Azzi laughed at the reaction, pulling back just enough to catch Paige’s eyes.

“What?” she asked, her tone teasing her a little.

Paige’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I can feel your ring, that's all.”

Azzi’s smile softened. “You should probably get used to it.”

Their mouths met again, a little hungrier now—Azzi’s need blooming as Paige pushed herself further into her. Breathless and aching, Azzi whispered against her lips, “Take me upstairs. Let me show you what it’s like now that I have your ring on my finger.”

Paige didn’t say a word. She just stood up quickly, tugging Azzi up with her, urgency reflected in every movement. Azzi let out a breathy laugh at her fiancée’s eagerness, grabbing the chilled champagne from the ice bucket before the two of them disappeared upstairs—hearts pounding, hands roaming, and nothing ahead of them but forever.

[velvetinks]

She’ll Come When She’s Ready

Joel Miller x pregnant! Reader

Warnings: Labor/birth (mildly detailed but not graphic), mentions of past emotional conflict between Joel and Ellie (from the lie about the Fireflies), fluff, comfort, soft!Joel, protective!Joel, Ellie being there for reader, found family feelings, Joel crying (just a little)

It was snowing in Jackson when your contractions started.

You woke up to a tightness in your lower back and Joel pacing like he knew before you even said a word.

“You alright?” he asked, hovering as you sat up slow. His hand already found yours. “Was it a kick or…?”

“Not a kick,” you murmured, breathing through it. “I think she’s coming.”

Joel’s face went pale. Then full of panic. Then full of love. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. We’ve got this.”

He’d never let go of your hand since.

Maria cleared the clinic for you. It wasn’t fancy—just two rooms, some clean linens, and Jackson’s one-and-only midwife, Nora, who Joel may or may not have threatened into staying up all night just in case.

Ellie showed up an hour later.

You were half-delirious from contractions when you saw her in the doorway—arms crossed, brows drawn, trying hard to look like she didn’t care but not moving from the threshold.

Joel tensed at the sight of her.

Ellie didn’t speak to him. Just looked straight at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “She’s taking her sweet time.”

Ellie gave a tight smile and stepped closer. “You want me to stay?”

Joel opened his mouth, probably to protest, but you reached for her hand first.

“Please.”

And so she stayed.

Not for Joel. But for you.

It was hours of labor. Sweat and tears and Joel whispering in your ear that you were the strongest person he’d ever known. Ellie fetched water, held your other hand, cracked a joke or two when your face twisted in pain.

“You sure it’s just one kid?” she said, lips twitching. “Because you’re making sounds like there’s three.”

You managed to laugh between contractions. “Ellie.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

Joel’s jaw twitched—clearly holding back a comment—but he stayed silent. For you.

When the pushing started, Ellie turned ghost-pale but didn’t leave. She held onto you tighter.

“You’re doing great,” she muttered. “You got this.”

You screamed. You cried. Joel kissed your forehead. Ellie wiped your brow. And finally—

There it was.

A baby’s cry.

Your daughter.

Joel’s hands were shaking as Nora handed her to you, swaddled in a soft blue blanket.

You barely heard anything but the sound of her little voice, the feel of Joel’s arms around your shoulders, the sob you weren’t sure came from him or you.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered.

Joel kissed your temple, voice cracking. “Just like her mama.”

Ellie stood back, eyes wide, mouth trembling like she didn’t know whether to run or cry.

You looked at her. “Wanna meet her?”

She hesitated. Then slowly nodded.

Joel didn’t move. Just sat still, baby in his arms, as Ellie came closer.

“She’s tiny,” she whispered.

“She’s fierce,” you said. “I can tell already.”

Ellie met Joel’s eyes for the first time in months.

Something unspoken passed between them. Regret. Pain. Something old that hadn’t quite healed.

But when Joel shifted the blanket so Ellie could see the baby’s little fist clench around his finger, he said quietly:

“Her name’s Hope.”

You watched Ellie’s throat bob.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t look angry.

She just looked soft.

“She’s lucky,” she said. “To have you both.”

Joel didn’t say anything. But he held your daughter like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Maybe she was.

That night, when the clinic was quiet, Joel held you close in the narrow bed, baby Hope nestled on your chest.

“She’s everything,” he whispered.

“She’s ours.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Think Ellie’ll ever forgive me?”

“She’s here. That’s a start.”

You felt Joel’s chest rise, fall. The kind of breath that holds hope in it.

“I just want her to know I’m trying,” he said. “For you. For the baby. For her.”

“She knows,” you said, eyes fluttering shut. “She’ll come around.”

Joel kissed the crown of your head and wrapped his arms around you both like he’d never let go again.

“She’ll come when she’s ready,” he murmured.

Just like your daughter did.

[thedeadstoryteller1]

𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑆𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝐼 𝐶𝘩𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑌𝑜𝑢 | 𝑍𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: A lifetime of longing. A priest bound by vows he can no longer keep. You and Zayne were childhood sweethearts who never dared to confess. When he chose the priesthood, you thought it meant he didn't love you. Years later, that forbidden love still burns between you. Haunted by dreams of a different life. Zayne finally breaks. One night, over the flicker of a candle and a shared dinner, he surrenders to the love he can no longer deny.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Priest, Virginity Loss, Love Confession, Religious Innuendoes, Angst With Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love. Mention of self harm/ self- flagellation. Please just skip if you’re not comfy with this. No need for hate and arguments.

𝐴𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑡: PoppyDropplet on X. This is MY personal commission from Poppy. I have my version of this masterpiece without the watermark or censor ( I personally put that there) PLEASE! Go follow Poppy she is amazing and sweet and deserves more recognition for her amazing work.

𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑠: @cordidy

𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 4538

"Good afternoon, Father," you say as you spot him sitting on the church bench, peeling an apple with careful, almost reverent precision.

He looks up at the sound of your voice, his hazel-green eyes softening instantly. A small, warm smile touches his lips—the kind that always made your heart ache even back then. The simple black of his cassock makes his shoulders look broader, his hands somehow rougher and more earthly than ever before.

"Good afternoon, little dove," Zayne replies, the nickname slipping past his lips like a prayer he couldn't suppress.

You shift awkwardly, feeling the way his gaze lingers on you just a beat too long before he returns it to the apple in his hand. You sit down beside him without thinking, breathing in the faint scent of the old wood, candle wax... and him. Always him.

"Still the best at peeling them," you murmur, teasing, trying to keep it light, but your voice betrays you—it’s too soft, too full of unspoken things.

He chuckles under his breath, a low, rich sound that vibrates through your chest. "Old habits die hard." He finishes the apple and offers you a piece, holding it out between two fingers. His skin brushes yours as you take it.

The touch burns. So does the memory of every dream you've had of him—hands gripping your hips, breathless prayers whispered into the hollow of your throat, his body caging yours against cool church walls.

You quickly look away, cheeks heating. "How have you been?" you ask, voice almost trembling.

Zayne studies you for a moment. Too long. Too deeply. "Restless," he finally admits, so quietly you almost miss it.

You swallow hard. He’s not just talking about sleep. You can see it—feel it—in the way his fingers tighten around the apple, the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his body shifts slightly toward yours, as if fighting some invisible force to keep from reaching out.

A silence blooms between you, charged and heavy, making the air thick enough to drown in. Your heart is pounding. So is his—you can see it in the pulse beating at his neck.

"Come to dinner tonight," he says suddenly, voice rougher than it should be. "Stay. It's been too long since we've... really talked."

He doesn't mean just talk. You both know it. The fire that's been smoldering for years is ready to burn the whole world down if either of you dares to spark it.

You nod, unable to trust your voice, and he smiles again—this time, something different flickering behind his eyes.

"That sounds like a great idea," you say, clutching your books to your chest, feeling like a girl again—nervous, hopelessly in love.

Zayne smiles—gently, warmly—and your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. That smile was never meant for the masses he served, no. Somehow, it always felt like it was yours.

"Is seven o'clock good for you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks burning.

"That is perfect," he replies, and though his tone is even, his hand twitches where it rests atop the bench, as if he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and touching you.

You nod, offering a small smile before you hurry down the church aisle, books clutched tighter, feeling his gaze heavy on your back.

Later…

The bells have long stopped chiming by the time Zayne finally moves from that bench. The apple, half-eaten, sits forgotten at his side. His fingers dig into the wood, knuckles white.

"God forgive me..." he thinks, forehead dropping into his hand.

Every night, it gets worse. Every night, when the world grows quiet and the candles gutter low in the church, dreams come and torment him.

Dreams where he's not bound by vows. Dreams where he's not Father Zayne Li, but just Zayne—a man, your man. Dreams where he wakes beside you, tangled in sheets, the taste of your skin on his lips. Where he is your doctor, slipping a ring onto your finger, whispering your name as he presses you down into a mattress and takes you so slowly it borders on worship.

He dreams of a life where he never chose the cloth.

And when he wakes up—aching, sweating, painfully hard—he curls his fists into the thin blanket of his bed and whispers apologies to a God he isn't sure he can face anymore.

He never told you what you meant to him. He never confessed that the day he took his vows, it was your face that nearly made him falter. That he didn't turn to the priesthood because he lacked love—but because he loved too much. Because he was terrified that the depth of what he felt for you would devour him whole. Would make him selfish, make him human.

But now—seeing you again after all these years, the way you smiled at him today, the way your voice quivered when you asked to meet him for dinner—

It is breaking him. Undoing every wall he built with holy hands. And somewhere deep in the marrow of his bones, a voice is whispering: "It was never supposed to be this way. She was always meant to be yours."

Tonight, Zayne knows, something will change. Whether he has the strength to stop it—or the courage to finally give in—he does not know.

All he knows is that when he sees you again, there will be no priestly robes thick enough to hide his hunger.

The clock ticks past seven when you arrive.

The rectory where Father Zayne lives is simple, humble, but filled with a quiet warmth—a single candle burning low on the table, casting golden light across the worn wood and the two places set carefully for dinner.

He’s waiting by the door, dressed plainly now. No cassock tonight—just dark slacks and a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And it's then that you notice: his forearms, strong and lean... and marked.

Thin, faded scars cross the skin—some so light they are almost invisible unless the candlelight catches them just right, others still angry and pink beneath the surface. You feel your breath catch in your throat at the sight, heart twisting in your chest.

You want to ask. You ache to ask. But the look he gives you, that soft, trembling smile, halts the words on your tongue. There is something private about those scars. Something sacred. And somehow, you already know—they were not given to him by accident. They are deliberate. Chosen.

(You don’t know yet that each one is a punishment he gave himself for every sinful dream, every whispered prayer that ended with your name on his lips instead of God's.)

"You look beautiful," he says, his voice a low murmur, roughened at the edges, like it hurts to even speak the truth.

You flush under his gaze, stepping inside as he quietly shuts the door behind you, the soft click sounding impossibly loud in the heavy silence.

He pulls out a chair for you, the brush of his fingers against your back lingering longer than necessary—hot and grounding.

Dinner is simple—roasted chicken, fresh bread, a little wine—but you hardly taste it. Not with Zayne sitting across from you, stealing glances at you over the rim of his glass, looking like he’s fighting some great war within himself.

Every time your hands brush passing a plate, sparks dance along your skin. And those scars—they keep catching your eye. Each one telling a story you ache to know. Each one a reminder of the depth of his private suffering.

You talk. About small things—weather, memories, the way the town has changed—but every word feels fragile, layered with something much bigger neither of you can say aloud.

Then it happens.

You reach for the wine at the same time he does, your hands colliding—and in your fumbling, the glass tips, spilling a rich red pool onto the tablecloth.

"Oh—I’m so sorry—" you stammer, reaching for the napkin.

But he’s already there. Your hands meet again—and this time, he doesn't pull away.

His fingers wrap around yours, firm, grounding. His thumb brushes your knuckles, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the feeling. His head bows slightly, and when his eyes lift to yours—green, burning, broken—your breath catches.

He stands, hand still holding yours, stepping around the table to face you.

Close. Too close.

You can see the tiny pulse jumping in his throat. You can smell the faint trace of soap and candle smoke on his skin. You can feel his struggle pouring off of him like a storm barely held back.

The candle flickers violently as if sensing the crackling air.

"I’m sorry," he breathes, voice rough and low. But the way his hand tightens around yours says he is not sorry at all. Not for this.

You glance at the scars again, unable to help yourself. Your fingers twitch against his. Your heart feels like it might shatter.

"Zayne," you whisper, and his name—his real name, not Father—falls from your lips like a prayer.

And in that fragile, trembling instant, he knows: He cannot fight this anymore. He cannot survive another night of loneliness and bloody repentance when you are right here, alive, breathing, needing him just as much.

He leans in. So slow it nearly kills you. And just before his lips touch yours, he whispers, broken:

"Forgive me," he breathes, the words shattering in the air between you.

And then his lips find yours.

At first, it’s feather-light—almost not a kiss at all, more like a prayer whispered against your mouth. Zayne trembles as if the very act is agony, as if every vow he's ever taken is screaming inside him. But then you whimper—a soft, broken sound—and he shudders violently, losing the fragile grip on his self-control.

The kiss deepens.

He cups your face in his calloused, scarred hands, tilting your head gently but possessively, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as if memorizing the shape of you. His mouth moves over yours, hesitant at first, reverent—then hungrier, hotter, more desperate as the dam inside him finally, finally breaks.

You taste the years he spent denying himself. You taste the endless nights of loneliness, of silent prayers for strength that never came.

One of his hands drops to your waist, pulling you flush against his body—and you feel him: all hard muscle and restrained need, no longer hidden behind robes or titles. He holds you like a drowning man clutching salvation.

When you gasp softly against his mouth, his body jerks as if the sound wounds him—and suddenly his mouth is everywhere: trailing across your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin just below your ear, worshiping the curve of your neck with open-mouthed, panting kisses.

"You don't know..." he rasps between kisses, voice wrecked. "You don't know how long I've wanted... how many nights I've..."

He trails off, groaning deep in his chest, like the words themselves are too dangerous to finish.

You grip his shirt, fisting the soft cotton over his heart, feeling it hammering wildly against your palm. "Then show me," you whisper, your voice trembling with need and certainty. "Don't hold back."

Zayne stiffens—one last flicker of guilt, one last desperate attempt to cling to some shred of his former restraint. But then your hands slip beneath the fabric of his shirt, brushing against his scarred skin—your touch so gentle, so accepting—and he breaks completely.

With a low, tortured sound, he lifts you into his arms, carrying you as if you weigh nothing, as if you are something holy, something he must protect at all costs. He lays you down carefully—reverently—on the small couch by the hearth, the candlelight trembling wildly against the walls.

Hovering over you, he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his eyes searching yours one final time.

"Tell me to stop," he begs, voice wrecked, a man on the edge of ruin. "Tell me... and I will."

But you only reach up and cup his cheek, moving your thumb down to stroke the scar that cuts across the top of his arm—the mark of a thousand nights of punishment for loving you in secret.

"Don't you dare," you whisper fiercely. "Please, Zayne... I've waited for you my whole life."

A strangled sound escapes him—half-sob, half-gasp—and then he’s kissing you again, this time with no hesitation, no fear, no restraint.

Pure, desperate worship.

And you know—you know—there will be no going back.

Tonight, Zayne Li will finally become yours. Body. Heart. Soul.

Every scar. Every sin. Every prayer.

Zayne kisses you like a man starved—like a man who's been drowning in guilt and loneliness, and you've become his first breath of air.

His hands tremble where they frame your face, the calloused pads of his fingers so achingly careful, as if he's terrified he might break you. You can feel the tension thrumming through him—every muscle wound tight, every breath ragged.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to look into your eyes. His own are dark with desire, but beneath that, there’s something even deeper. Something raw and scared and hopeful.

"I've..." he starts, voice hoarse, shame darkening his features, "I've never... with anyone.You're..." He swallows hard, jaw tightening. "You're the only one I've ever wanted."

The admission hangs between you like something fragile and sacred.

You reach up, fingertips brushing along the faint lines of old scars on his arms, your touch so gentle it nearly undoes him.

"Me too," you whisper, voice shaking. "I've been waiting... only for you, Zayne."

A shudder runs through him. You see the way his eyes glisten, how tightly he clenches his jaw to hold back whatever emotion threatens to break loose.

Slowly, as if afraid you'll vanish, he leans down again—pressing his forehead to yours. His breath is hot and uneven against your lips.

"We don't have to rush," he murmurs, voice so tender it shatters your heart. "I would wait a thousand more years for you if you asked me to."

Tears sting your eyes at the purity of it—this man who has fought desire like a war, who bears the scars of his own denial, offering you patience even now.

But you shake your head softly, pulling him closer, pressing your palm against his hammering heart. "I don't want to wait anymore."Your voice is small but sure. "Please... just be mine."

A low, broken sound tears from his throat.

Then, with trembling hands, he begins to undress you.

Not hastily. Not greedily. But with the reverence of a man unwrapping a holy relic.

His fingers are clumsy at first, betraying how nervous he is, how inexperienced. Every button undone, every inch of skin revealed, is met with a hushed kiss, a whispered apology against your burning flesh, as if he fears he's taking too much.

When you're finally bare beneath him, you see the awe in his eyes—like you are something he’s dreamed of but never thought he was worthy to touch.

He shrugs out of his own shirt, and your breath catches again at the sight of him—beautiful, strong, and so human under the candlelight. Scars marring his arms and chest, proof of every night he punished himself for loving you.

You sit up slightly, your hands tracing the old wounds with trembling tenderness. "You don't have to suffer anymore,"you whisper, kissing the worst of the scars. "You're mine now."

Zayne's entire body shudders. His hands cradle your face again as he kisses you—deeper this time, pouring every unspoken word into the way his lips move against yours.

When he finally positions himself over you, he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, his entire body trembling with restraint.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he begs, voice wrecked, barely coherent. "I don't... I don't know what I'm doing. I just... I love you. I love you so much."

Tears slip down your temples into your hair.

"I love you too," you whisper.

Slowly, with agonizing tenderness, he begins to guide himself inside you.

Zayne is trembling as he positions himself between your thighs, his body towering over yours, hands braced on either side of your head like he’s terrified he might crush you.

Your legs fall open naturally for him, your whole body aching with a need you barely understand but know—feel—was always meant for him.

You feel the heat of him pressing against your entrance—larger, thicker than you expected—and your heart stutters wildly, nerves and desire colliding in a dizzying rush.

"Are you sure?" he rasps, his voice wrecked, almost begging.

"Yes," you breathe, eyes locked to his, wide and glassy. "Zayne... please. I need you."

He lets out a broken sound—almost a sob—and presses forward, the blunt head of him breaching you.

The stretch is sharp at first—your body fighting to take him, unused to anything so big, so intimate.You gasp, a whimper slipping free, your hands instinctively gripping his biceps—feeling them strain under your fingertips as he trembles, fighting every instinct to pull back.

He freezes immediately, forehead dropping to your shoulder, panting harshly.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm hurting you—"

"No," you gasp, tightening your legs around his hips. "Please... don't stop. I want it—I want you."

Zayne groans—a raw, animal sound—and moves a fraction deeper, slow, torturous inches sinking inside you.

The stretch burns, but underneath the sting is a growing fullness, a strange, almost aching sweetness that makes your toes curl. You feel every inch of him as he pushes forward—thick, hot, pulsing inside you. His whole body shakes with the effort it takes to move slowly, to not just take.

Your back arches, head pressing into the cushion, a soft, desperate moan leaving your lips.

"God..." he hisses through gritted teeth. "You’re so... so tight... I can barely—"

He cuts himself off with a strangled sound as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The sensation of being joined so deeply, so utterly, leaves you both gasping, clinging to each other. You feel the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest, the shuddering of his thighs, the way his entire body strains to hold still, to give you time.

The first few small movements are awkward—halting, unsure—but the friction is unbearable: the delicious drag of him inside you, the way your walls clutch around him instinctively.

You sob his name, the sound raw and broken, and Zayne’s control shatters.

He pulls out almost completely, then pushes back in—deeper this time, harder—making you cry out, your nails raking down his back without thinking.

"Oh—fuck—" he gasps, his voice wrecked, hips snapping forward again, deeper, filling you so completely you feel branded by him.

He moves with desperate, clumsy thrusts, each one a raw confession of how badly he needs you. How long he's waited. How close he is to losing himself.

Your bodies are slick with sweat, tangled together in the dim candlelight, moving in a rhythm as old as time, desperate and messy and real.

You cling to him, legs locking tighter around his hips, meeting every thrust with a helpless, needy roll of your hips. The pressure builds inside you unbearably fast—hot, bright, sharp.

Zayne buries his face in your neck, biting back a groan as he feels your walls tighten around him.

"You're perfect," he pants, thrusting harder now, faster, "so fucking perfect—meant for me—only me—"

The sound of his voice, wrecked and possessive, sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm rips through you violently, your entire body locking up, mouth open in a silent scream, vision white-hot behind your eyelids. You sob his name over and over, shaking under him, clutching him like you're afraid you'll be ripped apart.

Feeling you clench and shatter around him is too much.

Zayne thrusts once, twice more—and then he’s crying out, a raw, desperate sound torn from deep inside him, as he spills inside you, hot and thick, pulsing in waves. His hips stutter against yours, his whole body convulsing as pleasure tears him apart.

He collapses against you, trembling, burying his face in your neck, pressing soft, broken kisses to your skin as he tries to catch his breath.

Your hands roam over him gently, soothing, comforting, whispering his name like a prayer against his temple.

You stay tangled like that for a long time, hearts racing, bodies still joined, the candle flickering low beside you.

And in the quiet that follows, you realize:

This wasn’t just the first time. This was a vow. A claim.

He is yours. You are his.

And nothing—not God, not guilt, not the church—will ever take that away again.

The candle flickers low, the only sound in the room your mingled breathing—still ragged, still trying to find a rhythm after what you just shared.

Zayne doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, his arms wrapped tightly around your trembling body, his face buried against your neck. As if letting go would somehow undo what just happened.

You can feel the rapid beat of his heart against your ribs, the way his whole body still shudders in the aftermath. Slowly, his hands begin to move—stroking your back, your hips, your hair—with a tenderness so overwhelming it brings fresh tears to your eyes.

You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

"Zayne," you whisper, voice still raw from moaning his name.

He makes a broken sound in the back of his throat and lifts his head, looking at you.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy, a tear slipping free before he can stop it.

You wipe it away with the pad of your thumb, smiling gently.

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, breathing in the sacredness of it. This moment where you have become each other’s home.

Finally, you reach out—your hand trembling a little—and trace your fingers along one of the faint, silvery scars on his forearm. You feel him flinch, almost imperceptibly.

Your heart twists.

"Zayne," you whisper again, softer now, your thumb sweeping across the marred skin. "These scars... why?"

He freezes, muscles tightening under your touch.

You can see the struggle in his eyes—whether to lie, to protect you from the ugliness, or to be honest.

You cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"Please... tell me."

He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment before pulling back, shame written in every line of his face.

"They’re... my penance," he says hoarsely. "For every time I thought of you when I shouldn't have. For every dream... every moment I wanted to break my vows and run to you."

You feel your chest tighten painfully.

He laughs bitterly under his breath, a sound full of self-loathing.

"I thought... if I could suffer enough, if I could punish the weakness out of me... maybe I could stop loving you."His hands clenched into fists at your sides, his voice breaking. "But it never worked. It only made me love you more."

Tears spill freely down your cheeks now.

You reach up, cradling his face between your palms.

"Zayne," you whisper fiercely, "You were never weak for loving me. Never. You don't have to suffer anymore."

He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe you, can’t believe he’s allowed to be this selfish.

"You’re the only thing that’s ever felt right," he chokes out. "And I was so afraid... afraid that if I let myself have you, I'd lose everything. But when I look at you... I realize..."

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours again, voice trembling with raw, open need.

"You are my salvation. Not my sin."

A sob escapes your lips and you pull him down into a kiss—slow, aching, full of all the promises you have no words for yet.

He kisses you back with equal desperation, arms tightening around you, pulling you closer until you are tangled so tightly it’s impossible to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.

Eventually, Zayne pulls away just enough to clean you up with shaking, tender hands, murmuring soft apologies and kisses against your skin.

He wraps you both in a blanket, lying back on the worn couch, pulling you onto his chest.

You listen to the steady thud of his heart beneath your ear, your fingers tracing idle shapes over his scarred skin, whispering sweet, broken nothings into the hush of the room.

He holds you as if he’ll never let go again. And you know, deep down, he won't.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you both, warm and safe and loved, is his voice whispering against your hair:

"I am yours. Always."

The candle finally gutters out, leaving only the soft silver of the moon spilling through the window.

You’re asleep atop him, face tucked into the curve of his neck, your bare body draped over his. Zayne can feel every inch of you, every breath, every tiny shift—and it wrecks him.

He wraps his arms around you even tighter, as if shielding you from the world.

His fingers stroke lazily up and down your spine, comforting himself as much as you. He presses a kiss to your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of you, feeling it brand itself into his very soul.

For a long while, he just holds you.

And then—because you are safe in sleep, because he no longer has the strength to bury it—he begins to whisper.

"I've dreamed about you," he murmurs into your hair, voice rough and trembling. "For so long."

You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft sound escaping your lips, and he smiles—broken, reverent.

"In another life," he breathes, brushing his lips against your temple, "I'm your doctor."His eyes close, the ache in his chest almost unbearable.

"You come to me after work... tired, smiling... you call me ‘Zayne’ without hesitation. You wear my ring."His voice cracks, and he tightens his hold around you.

"In another dream... we're in a little house. Somewhere quiet. You grow herbs in the windowsill. You laugh when I try to cook."A shaky, almost-silent laugh escapes him, the sound wet with emotion.

"I hold you every night. I wake up to you every morning. No vows. No walls between us. Just you and me."

He swallows hard, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in like he needs you to live.

"I used to wake up crying," he admits in a raw whisper. "Because I'd reach out for you... and you weren't there."

A tear slips free, trailing down his cheek and falling into your hair.

"But tonight..." he exhales shakily. "Tonight, you're real. You're mine."

He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his heart finally quieting, his soul finally—finally—at peace.

"I don't deserve you," he whispers into the dark. "But I'll spend the rest of my life trying to."

You stir again, nuzzling closer into him instinctively, and he smiles—broken, awed, in love beyond salvation.

He holds you tighter, his last whispered confession sinking into your dreams:

"In every life... I would find you. I would love you. Always."And with that vow wrapped around his soul, Zayne finally lets himself drift into sleep—safe, whole, home.

My wonderful Ferrymen !

Thank you again for reading and supporting me. As of right now I’m sitting at 200+ followers. I NEVER thought my writing was good enough to be shared… but so many of yall enjoy it and I couldn’t be happier 🥹😭

Yes. I AM that girl … I AM a part of the fandom that enjoys the idea of Priest Zayne. I like to think that Zayne, no matter what timeline/ universe he is in he will always have scars. I think that is just what makes his character HIM. I love him so much guys. Like so VERY much. He did come home for the Spring Banner, right after Xavier .. working on Caleb so I can have all three of my fav boys 😭 I accept donations! Haha

Anyways ! Have a wonderful day and PLEASE go show support to Poppy ! She truly is remarkable!

Forever Yours,

~ The DeadStory Teller-

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Part Six ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Eh, a brief fight scene, nothing crazy

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, Meemaw with a gun

Word Count: 2,115

Synopsis: Mark swears he’s living in an old southern romance and what’s better – you and he are the stars. The only problem: he’s still hiding his hero identity. Things come to a head however when a gaggle of alien villains decide to take their fight to YOUR street.

a/n: I. LOVE. THEM. like, feral about it!!! grrrr

read part five ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

Mark wasn’t sure when exactly his life turned into a dream sequence, but he wasn’t asking questions.

Maybe it was the way you always looped your arm through his when you walked together—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’d been holding onto him your whole life and just picked up where you left off. Maybe it was the way you leaned into his side when you laughed, or how you still packed him little Tupperwares of cornbread like he might forget to eat if you didn’t.

Whatever it was, Mark was blissfully, absurdly, unapologetically in love.

He knew it the first time he saw you crouched in the chicken coop behind your Meemaw’s house, apron tied around your waist and boots sunk ankle-deep in straw, cooing at a hen like it was a baby while expertly plucking eggs into a basket. He definitely knew it when he watched you haul a bale of hay over your shoulder without breaking a sweat, your hair tied up in a red bandana and your smile radiant under the morning sun like some kind of farm goddess.

And he absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, knew it when you offered him a peach scone one Saturday morning and said, “Mornin’, sugar,” like you didn’t just casually own his entire heart.

Mark found himself spending more and more time out at your house. Sometimes you studied together on the porch swing, your notes color-coded and neat as a pin. Sometimes you roped him into helping with chores—well, “helping” was a generous term, given that you moved like you’d been born doing this and he nearly broke a toe tripping over a goat.

He loved every second of it.

What he didn’t love was lying to you.

It wasn’t even really lying—just… strategic omission. You didn’t know the full truth. That the bruise on his jaw wasn’t from gym class or a bad fall. That the occasional limp, the mysterious cuts, the fact that he sometimes disappeared for a few hours with no explanation—all of that was part of a much bigger picture.

A picture with a mask. And a secret name. And a whole lot of responsibility he couldn’t exactly hand off.

He hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t trust you—God, he trusted you more than anyone—but because the idea of looking you in the eye and saying, “Hey, by the way, I sometimes sneak out and fight crime in a spandex suit” sounded like the fastest way to lose the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Which is why, when you reached up one lazy Sunday afternoon and brushed your thumb gently over the bruise just below his collarbone, he panicked.

“Oh, sugar…” Your brows furrowed. “What happened here?”

Mark froze.

Shit.

“Oh, uh—nothing,” he said, way too fast. “Just… gym. Took a bad hit in dodgeball. You know how it is.”

You tilted your head, not buying it. “Since when do y’all play full-contact dodgeball?”

He laughed—awkward. “It’s a new thing. Experimental. Real cutting edge.”

“Uh huh.”

You didn’t press, but your touch lingered just a second longer than usual. Soft. Concerned. And it made something twist hard in Mark’s chest.

Because you were smart. You were always watching. And eventually, he knew… he’d have to tell you everything.

But not yet.

Not today.

Today, he leaned down and kissed your forehead instead, whispering something about being more careful next time, and you smiled like that was good enough.

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up.

But he’d sure as hell try—for as long as you’d let him.

—

The sun was low in the sky, casting golden streaks across the dirt road as you wandered with your parasol tilted just so, the lace edges catching the light like halos. The crickets were chirpin’, and the breeze carried the smell of cut grass and peach blossoms.

You were mid-hum—some old Patsy Cline tune, real soft—when a BOOM cracked through the air like thunder straight from the pits of hell.

You barely had time to scream before something—a man? a thing?—came crashing down the street, tearing a rut through the dirt and flipping a pickup truck like it was a toy. You froze. Heart jackhammering. The only danger you were used to back home was an ornery possum or the occasional fistfight at Uncle Bobby’s bar on Saturday night.

This? This was not that.

You ducked instinctively behind a mailbox post as more figures landed in the road, all snarling and glowing eyes and God-fearing chaos. You were halfway to panic when a blur of blue and yellow zipped in front of you like a comet, knocking one of the villains clean into a tree.

“Stay down!” the hero barked—voice strained, deep, familiar.

The blue and yellow clad savior hit the first villain like a freight train, knocking him sky-high and flipping the second one with a bone-rattling crunch. You peeked out from behind the small post, jaw slack, parasol hanging limp at your side.

Another hit. Another flash. And just like that, they were all down.

The wind settled. Dust floated in the golden light.

He turned, breathing hard, blood at the corner of his mouth.

“You okay, miss?”

His voice.

That voice you’d heard whispering to you in the kitchen just this morning. The voice that called you darlin’ when he thought no one could hear.

Your breath caught. Your spine straightened. And you started walking.

The hero froze.

Just—froze.

You stepped right up to him, boots crunching softly in the dirt, and stopped a foot away. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move.

You reached up—real gentle—and tugged the mask up past his eyes and into his hairline.

And there he was.

Messy hair. Busted lip. Brown eyes wide and terrified like you’d just caught him sneaking in past curfew.

“...I knew it,” you whispered. “You dummy.”

Mark opened his mouth.

You stared at him. Blinked again. And then just let out a stunned little laugh.

“I thought you were in, like… some underground fight club or somethin’.”

“…What?”

You hit his arm—not hard. “I dunno! You kept showin’ up with bruises, and I figured maybe you were just real bad at MMA and too proud to tap out.” You shook your head, eyes flicking down to his suit then back to his bloodied face. “You’re some kinda crime fightin’ Superman?! And you didn’t tell me?”

Mark blinked once. Twice.

And then—despite the split lip, despite the scuff on his cheek, despite the sheer chaos around him—he smirked.

A slow, crooked little thing that made your stomach flip and your glare deepen.

“You think I’m Superman?” he said, all faux-innocent, voice dropping an octave like he hadn’t just body-slammed someone into a tree stump. “That’s… kinda hot.”

Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

He gave a weak shrug, clearly pleased with himself. “I mean, I’m not that good…”

You stepped closer, brows raised, voice deadpan. “Markus.”

“Yeah?”

“I just watched you destroy a stop sign with a man’s body.”

“Okay, in my defense—he was being very rude.”

You let out a long breath through your nose. “I swear to God, I should’ve known. Nobody that pretty gets bruises that often without bein’ into somethin’ stupid.”

Mark grinned—teeth bloody, smile blinding. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

You just stared at him, then muttered, “You’re lucky you’re cute,” and turned on your heel, parasol bouncing at your side as you marched back home.

Mark stumbled after you, still grinning. “So that’s a yes on Superman?”

“You keep talkin’ and I’m tellin’ Meemaw.”

“...Right. Shutting up.”

You crossed your arms, parasol still dangling from your wrist like the world wasn’t upside down. “You do realize you knocked over Mr. Fenley’s pecan tree, right?”

Mark groaned. “Aw, man. He loves that tree…”

—

You were halfway up the porch steps, dragging Mark behind you like a misbehaving child at Sunday school, when the screen door slammed open with a bang that nearly knocked your parasol out of your hand.

And there she was.

Meemaw.

Hair up in curlers, apron dusted in flour, house slippers on like battle armor—and a .22 rifle resting casually in the crook of her arm like it was just another casserole dish.

Her eyes swept over the wrecked road, the unconscious villains scattered across the front lawn like poorly placed yard decorations, then landed squarely on Mark.

She squinted.

Then, in a voice loud enough to rattle your molars: “What in the HELL happened out here?”

Mark froze behind you, spine stiffening like he was back in math class and forgot his homework.

You cleared your throat, dusting gravel off your skirt like this was just any ol’ day. “Well, Meemaw… turns out Mark’s been gettin’ those bruises not from football or gym class like he claimed—” you shot him a look, “—but from throwin’ hands with actual monsters.”

Mark shifted behind you, muttering, “Technically it was aliens this time…”

You held up a hand without looking at him. “Hush. I’m talkin’.”

Then back to Meemaw, deadpan: “Apparently my boyfriend’s some kinda superhero. Like the real kind. Tights, punches, midair backflips—the whole shebang.”

Meemaw paused for just a beat before she spoke. “Of course he is. And here I thought y’all were sneakin’ off to kiss behind the barn.”

Mark lifted one hand. “Hi, ma’am.”

She didn’t blink. “Boy, you just threw a grown man into my begonias.”

“…Sorry.”

Meemaw exhaled slowly through her nose. “You’d best be explainin’ everything before my pecan pie cools. And you—” she pointed at you without looking, “—bring the peroxide.”

He whispered, “Is she gonna shoot me?”

You sighed, linking your arm with his as you tugged him inside.

“Only if you lie again, sugar.”

Later that night…

“You sure this is safe?” Mark asked, eyeing the mason jar in your hand like it might sprout legs and bite him.

You knelt in front of him on a little woven mat, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, utterly unfazed.

“It’s somethin’ my great-auntie used to swear by,” you said, unscrewing the lid. “Vinegar, turpentine, cayenne pepper, honey, and a dash of prayer.”

Mark’s eyes went wide. “...That sounds like it belongs on barbecue.”

“Don’t sass the remedy, sugar.” You dipped a rag in the mix, wrung it out, and without warning, pressed it gently to the cut on his ribs.

“HOLY—” he hissed, nearly levitating off the tub.

“Don’t move,” you warned, steady as a surgeon. “It’s supposed to burn. That means it’s workin’.”

“It means I’m dying,” he wheezed. “Why does it smell like a fire hazard?”

You just smiled sweet as pie. “Old southern secret. Been usin’ it since before electricity.”

He groaned, head falling back. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“If I was tryin’ to kill you, baby, you’d already be dead.” You paused, then leaned forward and kissed the spot you just treated—soft and slow. “There. Better?”

He blinked. Breath caught. “...Yeah. Much better.”

You rested your hand against his jaw, thumb brushing over the bruise near his cheekbone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just the low buzz of cicadas outside and the faint clink of glass as you set the jar aside.

“I was scared,” he said finally, voice low and raw. “To tell you. I thought... if you knew what… I do… you'd leave.”

Your gaze softened, but you didn’t pull away. “Mark.”

He looked down.

You took his face in both hands, lifting it gently until he met your eyes. “If you think I’m lettin’ go of a man who can lift a tractor and still gets shy when I kiss his cheek, well then honey, I’ve got an ocean front property in Kentucky to sell you.”

Mark let out a breath, lips parting like he might laugh—might cry—but before he could say anything, you gave him a look. One brow lifted, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips.

Then you tapped a finger gently against your mouth. Once. An expression on your face that said, I’m waiting.

He didn’t hesitate. Leaning in to kiss you—slow, reverent—like you were the only real thing left in the world.

When you pulled back, he was breathless.

“...I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled, soft and sure, and cupped his cheek in your hand.

“Oh, honey,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss him again—gentle, sweet, and just a little smug. “You just figurin’ that out?”

read part seven ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

[dismalflo]

Hi Flo, hope this ask finds you well! Saw your post on requests so here is an idea, hopefully you like it.

Everybody decided to head out to a pub for the night. Reader’s tell for being tipsy is the fact that her lips and tip of her nose start to feel numb. After three drinks (and giggling uncontrollably at whatever story Sirius is telling her) bf!Remus asks if shes feeling alright (cause Sirius is never that funny when she’s sober). Instead of answering she asks Remus to give her a kiss (which he obv gives her) and she follows it by a worried smile and a „yeah, i’m definitely tipsy”. To which Remus is just smitten. Idk if it makes sense but hopefully it does!

Hi darling! love your brain for this idea, thank you for requesting! <3

Remus Lupin x reader who is a very giggly drunk ✩ 900 words

cw: drunk reader, smitten remus, fluff

The sofa feels like a cloud beneath you, and the edges of the world are softening, blurring at the corners. But it's nice. It's fun. You’ve thrown yourself down next to Sirius, after an intense bout of karaoke with Lily, and folded yourself over. Back flat against the seat cushions, chin tucked into your chest, you already know tomorrow’s stiff neck will be worth it.

It takes a second to clue in on exactly what Sirius is doing, his arms wide and theatrical as he gestures, and smiling as he speaks. He must be telling a story, probably to James. But when James rolls his eyes and walks off, curiosity tugs at you 

“Sirius, Sirius, Sirius–” whether it's the incessant chanting of his name or the poking in his side that gets his attention, you’ll never know. He's got a lazy smile on his face as he turns and a pink flush to his cheeks that comes along with intoxication.

“Oh! Hi, babe,” he slurs, blinking slowly. “Whatcha doin’?”

“What were you talking about? With, uh, James?” you ask, your own voice syrupy with drink. 

“Telling ‘im my madeira cake joke.” 

It’s a joke that Sirius has told a million times before, a terrible one, something about the prices of cakes. The mention of it is all it takes for giggles to start falling out of you in droves. Sober you would likely have the same reaction as James but the drink flowing through you has made everything a hundred times funnier.

When your laughter prompts Sirius’, the sound of his laughter makes yours all the more intense. You try to sit up for air, but the shift in weight sends you slipping off the edge of the sofa, landing hard on the floor with a graceless thud. Sirius nearly falls off after you, doubled over, wheezing. 

It all comes to a head when your laugh turns into an aching cough. You think, somewhat dramatically, this might be how I die. 

Then a warm hand presses between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow, careful circles. The coughs ease. You blink up, tears in your eyes, and find Remus crouched beside you, a small crease of worry pinched between his brows. 

“Hi,” he says softly, when you just stare.

Without thinking, you reach up and gently poke the furrow between his brows, like smoothing out a wrinkle in a shirt. It’s clumsy and heavy handed but meant to be sweet.

“Hi,” you croak at last. “Y’look handsome.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes warm. “Thanks, sweetheart. You okay?”

You ignore the question. “Can I have a kiss?”

Remus doesn’t hesitate. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, one hand steady on your back, the other warm against your cheek. It’s a familiar sort of kiss, full of care and comfort, like the kind he gives you when you're half-asleep. 

When he pulls away, instead of a dopey smile, he sees your face tinged with the slightest worry. Remus opens his mouth ready to speak and possibly placate a drunken breakdown when you interrupt.

“Again, please. M’trying to figure something out.” 

He huffs a soft laugh. “So polite,” he teases, before leaning in to give you another kiss; this one a brief, affectionate peck. You hum against his mouth, and he guesses it's satisfaction.

“Oh,” you breathe as you pull back, a small giggle slipping out. “I’m so drunk.”

“Noo,” Remus responds, drawing out the vowel sarcastically, though not unkindly. “How’d you figure?”

You wrinkle your nose, then tap the tip of it with a finger. “My nose is numb,” you inform him gravely, “And my lips. It’s– It happens.” You say it with wide, solemn eyes, then burst into another fit of laughter. 

Remus stares at you for a moment, and something tender flickers across his face. He doesn’t laugh but his mouth lifts into a soft, amused smile.

“Do you want some water? Or bread?” he offers, brushing a bit of hair out of your face.

You tilt your head back and forth, as if really thinking through the options in your head before you focus back on Remus.

“Can we– Can we go home?” 

Remus nods instantly, like he’s been waiting for the question.

“Yeah, dovey. Let’s get you home.”

He stands and offers you both hands, gently tugging you upright like you’re made of glass. Your limbs wobble underneath you and he steadies you with an arm around your waist. Sirius, now half-sprawled across the sofa with his legs over the armrest, whistles at the two of you and raises a lazy hand in farewell.

“Tell him the cake joke on the way home,” he calls after you, voice muffled into a throw pillow.

“Bye, Sirius,” Remus calls back, guiding you toward the door.

“I love that joke.”

Remus looks down at you, exasperated and affectionate. “You don’t even remember how it goes.”

You press your face into his shoulder as you walk, your feet half-dragging. “I remember it has… Madeira. That’s all you need, really.”

Outside, the air is crisp and cool. It brushes against your flushed skin, sobering you slightly, enough to make you shiver and burrow closer into Remus’ side. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it around your shoulders without a word.

“You’re so good,” you mumble, half into his collar.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re so drunk.”

“Yeah but you love me so…” 

“I do.”

masterlist <3

[mixolya]

can i request a fluff with rin where reader wants to put makeup on rin 🥲 it'd be so adorable

ᓚᘏᗢ — rin itoshi: pretty boy !

synopsis: in which you convince your boyfriend to let you do his makeup.

rin itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / softie!rin (my fav) + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: AHHHH THANK YOUUU ANON i love this request omg

"stay still."

rin exhaled through his nose. "i am still."

"no, you're not. you're blinking like i'm threatening you with a knife."

"that's because you are," he muttered. "a very glittery knife."

you snorted, your free hand curling lightly around his shoulder for balance as you leaned in closer.

"you're such a baby," you whispered, tapping a dot of highlighter on the tip of his nose.

he sighed, long-suffering, dramatic but entirely fake. his hands stayed steady around your waist, fingers draped over your hips like they belonged there, which, to be fair, kind of did.

you were straddling his lap, knees tucked on either side of his thighs, your makeup bag beside you on the couch. rin sat still beneath you, back pressed against the cushions, while you carefully painted stars across his cheekbones with soft brushed and too much love.

you'd asked him as a joke, half a joke. okay, maybe not really a joke at all. just soft and teasing and full of affection. it was a lazy sunday afternoon. his head had been in your lap, your fingers in his hair and something about the way the light caught his face made your chest feel all floaty. so you blurted:

"can i do your makeup?"

you expected a no or a weird look. maybe a kiss on the cheek and a "sounds ridiculous, so no."

instead, rin blinked up at you, yawned once and said, "...okay."

which is how you ended up here, settled on his lap with a brush in one hand and his stupidly perfect face in the other.

"you have really nice eyes, you know," you said quietly, blending shimmer onto his eyelids.

he didn't respond, not out loud at least.

but one of his hands moved, slid up the small of your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades. just resting there.

you pretended not to notice. you definitely noticed.

"why are you even letting me do this?" you asked, laughing softly as you swept a warm blush across his cheeks. "i thought you'd say no and grumble about it for like an hour."

"i don't mind," he said.

"really?"

"you like it."

you froze for a second. just long enough for it to hit your heart directly.

"...you're such a sap," you mumbled.

"don't care." his voice was quieter now, more serious. "i like it when you touch me."

your breath caught. you paused halfway through reaching for lip gloss.

"oh, okay, wow. rude to just say that out loud."

he raised an eyebrow. "you asked."

you stared at him, flustered and probably getting warmer than he already was. he looked annoyingly calm about the whole thing, even with sparkles on his cheeks and the tiniest bit of mascara on his lashes.

"you're lucky you're pretty," you muttered.

"everyone keeps saying that," he deadpanned.

you laughed so hard you almost fell off his lap. your balance tipped, knees slipping and rin's hands flew to your waist, steadying you in that way he always did.

"careful, hm?" he muttered, but there was a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. like watching you be ridiculous warmed something in him he didn't know could be warm.

"thank you... okay, final touch," you whispered, lifting the dior lip gloss he gifted you on valentines day. "pucker up, itoshi."

he rolled his eyes. "never say that again."

"say please," you teased.

he just looked at you, eyes dark but impossibly soft. then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed you. gentle and slow.

"are you done?" he murmured.

you smiled against his mouth.

"yeah," you breathed.

"okay."

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[ruusawa]

✶⋆.˚ ᵈᵃᵐⁱᵃⁿ ʷᵃʸⁿᵉ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

✶⋆.˚ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ᶠⁱᶜ, ˢᵖᵉᵃᵏ ⁿᵒʷ ⁽ᵗᵃʸˡᵒʳ'ˢ ᵛᵉʳˢⁱᵒⁿ⁾, ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, ᵈᵃᵐⁱᵃⁿ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᶜʳᵃˢʰᵉˢ ʸᵒᵘʳ ʷᵉᵈᵈⁱⁿᵍ, ᵗʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ˡⁱᵗᵉʳᵃˡˡʸ ⁱᵗ

✶⋆.˚ ⁴⁴⁹ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You look beautiful. You always look beautiful to Damian, even more so today. It’s your wedding day. Damian watches as you fuss over the fake pearls in your hair.

Damian tsks, reaching up to gently pull your hands away, “You’ll ruin it,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumble, eying your appearance in the full-length mirror. Your gown is gorgeous, it suits your physique in a way that makes it hard not to stare.

“You’re beautiful,” Damian says, studying you with an appreciative eye.

He goes to say more, but your future Mother-in-law barges in and starts shooing Damian away. He scowls, but obliges. As he leaves, Damian chances one last look back at you, you don’t look happy. Maybe that’s his fault, he fumbled, the only time Damian had fumbled in his life. Maybe that’s why you’re so dead set on pursuing what will ultimately be an unhappy marriage.

The hall is decorated in what Damian could only describe as tacky fake flowers. Not even your favourite ones. He takes his seat, near the back, hiding away from Jon, whom he knows is here somewhere. Jon would only look at him with those stupid, sympathetic eyes and try to comfort Damian. Not that Damian needs comforting. You’re getting married. To someone else. And that’s… not fine. Well shit.

The wedding march sounds like a death march in your ears. You try and keep a smile on your face as you walk down the aisle towards your soon to be husband. You can barely hear the officiant as they begin the ceremony.

“Should anyone present know of any reason this couple should not be joined in matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

There’s the silence, there’s his last chance. Damian stands up. There are ripples of gasps and murmurs.

There are horrified looks from everyone in the room, but you’re only looking at Damian.

“You are not the kind of person who should be marrying the wrong man.” Damian stalks out into the aisle, like he belongs there, objecting to your wedding. “Don’t say yes, run with me now, just hear me out. Don’t say a single vow.”

You step down from the altar. The collective gasp would be laughable if your legs weren’t shaking.

“I love you,” Damian declares.

And that’s it, isn’t it? You’re running before you know it, taking Damian’s hand as you both sprint down the aisle, slamming the doors open, escaping into the cool air of the parking lot.

“Holy shit, I’m a runaway bride,” you can’t help the laugh that tumbles from your lips as Damian rushes you to his car. “I’m so glad you were there.”

“Yeah, me too.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

i don't know how i feel about this one, i feel like i haven't written damian correctly

i'll probably revisit this and redo it at some point, make it longer

and yes, this is inspired by speak now (taylor's version) and april's wedding in greys

[cranberrymoons]

anyway. at some point in the future on a happier day, buck will fold himself down into the space on the floor under his ugly midcentury modern wayfair millennial dining table and eddie will be wearing boxers and a hoodie and he'll have a scruffy chin because they're on hour 78 of a 96 off. and everything will be warm and full of sunshine coming in from that big bay window and there will be a song playing crackling from the record player like maybe girl from the north country by bob dylan (specifically the version with johnny cash because eddie found an old copy of Nashville Skyline at the rose bowl flea market last month). and anyway. the song will be playing and the air will smell like good strong coffee, and buck will get down on the floor under that table and eddie's hand will reach down to scratch through the soft unstyled curly hair that has dried kind of wild and crazy on top of his head from last night's shower. and he'll lean back in his chair and smile down at him like :) and he'll say 'hey bud, what do you think you're doing?' and buck will give him this face 😊 and he'll say 'oh nothing just thought i'd say hi. and thanks for breakfast. and i love you.' while his hands push up the outsides of eddie's big meaty thighs. and eddie will say 'oh well if this is what i get for making scrambled eggs, I'm going to start doing it more often. who cares if eggs cost $11 right now' and buck will just laugh and say 'well that's my job actually. the egg making. I only let you do it this one time because I like you so much. but you'd better watch it mister.' as he's reaching into eddie's boxers to pull him out. he's only half hard because it's morning and nothing's happened yet, but buck goes in anyway, likes how he can feel eddie coming alive against his tongue and filling up all his senses at once. and the hand on the back of his head, and his grip going a little tight, and eddie still drinking his coffee where he's sitting in his chair. and when he comes buck will try to get up to climb in his lap but he will forget how big he is and bonk his head on the underside of the table and they'll spend the next ten minutes running around with the first aid kit to bandage up the frankly not that big cut on his forehead. and then buck (sitting on the edge of the bathtub by now with eddie perched on the closed lid of the toilet so he can finish dressing the wound) will say hey :) I love you. and Eddie will say I love you too! please keep your head in one piece though. and buck will say okay. next time I'll make you push your chair back a little more. also 🫶 your dick is still out. and then they'll have stupid sweet giggly laughing sex on the bathroom floor. which is kind of gross, but they don't really care.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

First of all, Loveeeeee your work SO MUCH!! Your works are so comforting to me. Your writing is phenomenal every time. I’m not even really a Stan girlie (Ford girlie for life) but I still read your stuff with Stan because it’s too dang good to skip.

✨ANYWAY: I loved your Stan and Ford reacting to reader getting hurt post. I was curious if you had any thoughts on how they would react to you getting hurt specifically during an *intimate* situation if you will. ✨

Once again, LOVE your work! Don’t feel obligated to answer this if you’re feeling too stressed or overwhelmed at the moment 😌 take care of yourself above all else

𐔌 . how Stan & Ford react when you use your safeword or get hurt during intimacy .ᐟ ₊ ꒱

a/n: idk if it’s the universe or what, but literally right after finishing my last hcs i had this little thought like “hmm what would Stan & Ford do if you used your safeword??” and THEN. i kid you not. i got TWO asks about it!!! i have some mental connection with you people or what?? you are literally reading my mind!! AND THANK YOU SO MUCH SWEETHEART, FOR UR KIND WORDS. im so so happy u like my stuff<333 uve lifted my spirits so much rn <33

another ask said: How would stan and Ford react to their so getting hurt during sex? Nothing serious maybe they bump their head in the headboard of the bed or smth lol

STANLEY

♡ oh damn. Stan knows he’s big, and he knows he gets carried away, especially when you ask for it. when you say “harder” he takes it personally. that man pounds you non stop if u let him

♡ you flinch just a little, and he sees it. and it hits him like a brick wall. he was doing so good, he was so into it, he thought he was making you feel good and now you’re wincing and it’s like the floor drops out

♡ the instant the safe word leaves your mouth, no matter how turned on and panting and deep he is inside you, he freezes, “whoa, whoa. sweetheart, sweetheart, hey” his voice would change in a heartbeat. hoarse and full of fear. he’s yanking back, sliding out so fast it’s a little messy, grabbing you like you’re made of glass

♡ next thing you feel is how both hands of his are cradling your face, one sliding over your back protectively, his thumb stroking your temple. you’d feel how hard his heart’s slamming in his chest because it scares the shit out of him that he could’ve pushed you too far. “you’re okay. you’re okay. fuck, i’m sorry. talk to me, honey, please, i’m right here, ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Stanley would not care if he was still hard or close. nothing. all of him would go into comforting you, wrapping you up in his big arms, rocking you side to side a little, kissing your forehead over and over

♡ later when you're calmer he’d probably be like ”shit, got carried away, didn’t i? fuckin’ old dog like me shoulda known better.”

♡ but he's also MEGA PROUD OF YOU. making sure you feel safe, adored, and so, so good for knowing WHEN to use your safeword.

♡ “you did perfect, sweet thing,” he’d murmur against your temple, “you tell me anytime it’s too much, okay? that's good, good. that’s my smart, fuckin’ perfect baby.” while stroking ur hair <3333

♡ if you're hurt from him reaching too deep (we all know he will) and you whimper like “too deep, Stan, c-cant. your too big” HIS FIRST REACTION IS FEAR. “oh SHIT, baby. did i hurt you?? fuck fuck, we’re stoppin’. i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to” he physically recoils from you. freezes up with this overwhelming rush of horror and guilt, eyes huge like a kicked puppy. cupping your cheek with his hand still warm from where it was on your hip a second ago

♡ but also. . . if you go “it just went too deep, hurt for a sec, baby, please continue” and give him a half-lidded look through your lashes??? OH THAT OLD MAN WILL BE DOWN BAD!!! he’s like “wait. you’re tellin’ me i got that far in you? i’m that big?” and you’ve created a MONSTER. he goes from worried boyfriend to puffed-up cocky perv in five seconds!!

♡ uhhh will later brag about how he “tapped that cervix by accident” but still, next time he’s gentler. slows down and watches your face more. asks “this okay? this angle better?” every couple minutes. he learns and listens. he’s rough only if you want it <3 Stan is obsessed with making you feel safe

♡ sometimes you end up squashed under his full chest when he gets overexcited. just absolutely buried in chest hair, gold chain, his weight. and when you squirm, groaning, “babe, air, i can’t breathe,” he yanks back, mortified.

“m’sorry! i’m crushin ya, huh?” and then starts kissing your face all over like you’re a lil pancake he flattened <3

♡ but Stan can also go too fast and you get overwhelmed, so suddenly you’re a little dizzy, overstimmed. he probably notices it not by the sounds but by your grip, when your fingers curl too tight on his shoulder, or your thighs twitch too sharp. he knows and stops, breathing ragged, and Stan just presses his forehead to yours. “you need a break? talk to me, baby. don’t try to take more than you wanna.” his voice is gutted, yeah, he feels guilty even though you begged him to go harder in the first place

♡ but then he rubs your clit real slow instead <33 fingers soft and gentle, praising you, kissing your shoulders and neck, “lemme getcha there without makin’ it worse, ‘kay?”

♡ when his back gives out mid-thrust, he just pauses, winces, and goes “okay hang on. hang on. fuck. my back.” honestly he gets so vulnerable and cute that way, you can't help but giggle softly. “don’t laugh at me,” he murmurs, still inside you, trying to twist his hips, searching for the least painful position. “do you need to stop?” you ask. “what? no, absolutely not,” he grunts, rolling his shoulders although his face obviously speaks otherwise. “i just need a second. maybe a pillow. and a painkiller. and a heating pad. and— don't look at me like that, i’m still hot.” you kiss his forehead and tell him he’s the hottest man alive <333

♡ aaaahhhhg im going insane i CANT I NEED TO GET THIS MAN PREGNANT. JUST IMAGINE your getting railed like it’s the last night before the world ends. and it always starts in missionary so his gold chain keeps dangling in your face. it’s hitting your chest, sliding against your neck, catching in the sweat between your collarbones. Stanley doesn't wanna stop but he pauses, noticing this thing causes you trouble. “shit, babe, lemme take this off” and your hands are already on his chest like “no. don’t. it’s hot. keep it on.” that makes Stan grin. “yeah? y’like that?” so it’s a little tangled now. doesn’t matter. you damn love it because he looks even hotter like that. the gold flashes every time he moves, and you’re thinking about it for days. the chain’s choking him more than it is you but he’s too deep in it to care

♡ and when you bump your head on the headboard, Stan absolutely hears the bonk 😭 “what the—? sweetheart, y’alright?” honestly your not, but you're too horny to care. you’re seeing stars but trying to wave it off, and Stan’s like “nope. nuh-uh. i wanna be the one smacking my head, not you. i need your brain intact, ‘kay?” he guides you off gently and lies back instead, smiling at you. “get on top of me, gorgeous. ride me. no concussions this time.” you’re already climbing on, too cock drunk to care when he adds, “yeah, that’s it. take your time. safety first, baby”

STANFORD

♡ Ford is obsessed with feedback and you may not notice it but he keeps eye contact on you, even when your own eyes are closed. so if you're shifting your legs slightly? data. your breathing quickening? important. a stuttered whine? log it. that's cuz hes constantly analysing how you’re taking him because he’s so scared of going too far

♡ so when you gasp too sharply or your body jerks away, he panics. “w-wait, what was that? did i hurt you? please be honest. was it the angle? did i overstretch you?”

♡ imagine accidentally getting his glasses knocked crooked or smashing your forehead into his chin during a particularly frenzied thrust :(( he'll get so flustered and embarrassed. “i-it’s fine. i didn’t need to see that clearly anyway!”

♡ but i also think he's so attuned to you that honestly? he might notice something’s wrong even before you say it. but the second he hears the safeword, he’s pulling out, “darling! i’m stopping, i’m stopping“ his hands immediately go to your face, your shoulders, trying to touch you everywhere at once to calm you

♡ will check on you. like visibly scan your body with his hands and eyes probably saying something as “i’m checking for swelling. you feel tender here? here? what about this side?”

you’re like “Ford it’s okay i’m fine” and he says “NO I MUST BE CERTAIN.”

♡ even during most passionate intense sex, once you whimper your safe word or say “stop” he’d immediately withdraw, whispering “i'm sorry, i'm stopping. you're safe, you're alright, my darling” and he'd tuck you into his arms, checking your face, brushing your hair out of your sweaty forehead, kissing your cheeks

♡ lowkey his cock is deep-reaching so there’s a real chance he’s unintentionally hit your cervix at the wrong angle once or twice. you yelp, making Ford get a full existential shutdown. he wont continue. will sit on the bed with his face in his hands like “what kind of animal am i. . . i promised myself i’d never be reckless with you. . . i lost control. . . im horrible. . .”

♡ “i hurt you. that’s not acceptable. please, guide me differently”

♡ always kisses your hands first. then your forehead. then he wraps you up in the blanket, tucking it all around you to keep you warm even though he’s sweating too, whispering, “it’s alright, sweetheart. you’re safe. i promise you, you're safe with me.”

♡ has definitely tried to apply pressure to your hips or thighs to help reposition you and ended up giving you a bruise :(( ouchh he feels so much guilt!! will leave a handwritten note to you later that says “i saw the mark. i’m so sorry. i’ll be gentler. i love you.” because he gets too shy or awkward to tell you it in real life

♡ and if we're talking about clumsy sex. . . hmmm. Ford has zero business being that hot and that stupid when it comes to lab safety during sex

♡ so when you’re half-stripped on his cluttered workbench, legs around his waist, moaning into his shoulder and there’s a glowing crystal under your ass or some quantum device two inches from your foot, you both don't give a fuck because well, you just want to fuck each other. or make love as how Ford calls it. but that's the problem because when you lean back and suddenly SCALDING HEAT— your palm lands on a freshly soldered piece of alien tech, you yelp.

♡ he freezes and stops moving, asking “what happened. what did you touch. where. tell me exactly which object it was. does it have residue? how hot? do you feel faint?” already running to the emergency first aid kit

♡ then Ford is already holding your hand under the faucet. “you got minor surface heat exposure. i’m sorry. i should’ve cleared the workspace”

♡ but he learns quick! for example, you scrape your leg on a weird lab corner or get a bruise on your hip from a bad angle?? next time he gently positions your limbs, holding you, while pressing inside, kissing your cheek, “does this feel aligned? what about now? no strain? optimal angle?” so yep <33 you get chart-level care. but also intense eye contact the whole time, Ford gets even more tender when you’ve been bruised. your pain makes him want to worship you twice as hard

♡ believe me, he takes this seriously. might even start reorganising the lab after you leave. his smart ass probably thinks of making a “safe sex zone” in the corner with blankets and lead-free surfaces. pervert

♡ sex in the forest while anomaly hunting? Ford finds it so damn hot. but you both forget its literally dangerous too. and not because of the anomalies or some dangerous animals. what's worse is when he presses you up against a tree and forgets it’s covered in sap :') now your back is sticky, your hair’s tangled in pine needles

♡ hes so into the outdoors you’re getting laid where deer nap. or maybe it's some suspiciously lumpy patch of earth? but the result is: you’re getting laid on the ground. everything is good and sexy until your bare knee finds a rock, making you wince, “ow. that’s- there’s a literal rock, Ford. hurts :(” AND FORD IMMEDIATELY GOES “my darling you’re about to be on my coat” he shrugs it off, spreads it beneath you with, gets leaves in his hair though. but stays so focused, whispering in your ear, “i’ll carry you back if you can’t walk” because he knows you can't walk straight for some time after he's done with u. but he says this while literally having twig scratches on his shoulderblades :')

♡ and about back pain. . . he will NOT admit he’s hurting, not a single word. but halfway through he starts going weirdly slow and unsure. knowing your man's age and health, you go “is your back okay?” and Ford tight-smiles, saying “everything’s fine” but it's not because then you move a little and he flinches. turns out he threw out a vertebrae ten minutes ago and was trying to “focus through the discomfort” so yeah. . . eventually collapses and goes “ow ow OW, darling, please get off get off im gonna pass out.”

♡ not gonna lie, but you also love to give him head when he's working in his lab, meanwhile you take him in ur mouth, being under his desk. and yeah, shit happens. you bump your poor head on the bottom of the desk. hard enough to make a dull thud sound and jolt his whole spine. Forc gasps. “are you alright?! my love, did you hit your skull? do you feel disoriented?!” his hands are suddenly in your hair, on your cheeks, checking your pupils. “i should’ve made a better clearance. why is this desk shaped like this, it’s unsafe!” he looks at you and thinks, ur poor thing. he should’ve thought this through. you’re too precious to be bonking your head down there. no more injuries under Ford's watch!!

♡ so next time, when you’re back between his legs, eyes locked on his face while your mouth drives him insane, his big hand slides down. Ford finds the exact spot you bumped your head last time and he keeps it there, resting on the crown of your head, fingers curving protectively around it, shielding you. “there. right here. good. safe.”

♡ if you bump your head on the wall / shelf / headboard, Ford instantly goes into guilt. “no no no, we’re stopping. ill never forgive myself if u bruise. i love that head. u use it for thinking” you’re dazed, naked and being wrapped in his coat while he mutters something about using a pillow. then kisses your temple. “im so sorry. i can, well, i can pleasure you with my mouth. that doesn’t involve blunt force trauma.”

[soleauclub]

Tiny Wellness Habits That Make a Huge Difference

by Soleau Club

Most of us aren’t lacking discipline—we’re just tired of doing too much. Enter: micro wellness. Tiny, almost unnoticeable habits that sneak into your day, upgrade your life, and make you look like that girl without even trying.

No 5AM alarms. No 12-step morning routines. Just vibes and small shifts with big payoffs.

Hydration... But Make It Pretty

Before coffee, before texts, before scrolling—start your day with a glam glass of water. Bonus points for:

Lemon or lime

A pinch of sea salt

Chlorophyll drops if you’re feeling mysterious Hydration is the original glow-up, and your body will literally thank you with better skin, better digestion, and fewer "why do I feel like death?" mornings.

1-Minute Morning Movement

Not a workout. Just a vibe shift.

Cat-cow stretches

A big full-body yawn

Reaching to the ceiling like you’re grabbing your dream life You’re not breaking a sweat—you’re reminding your body that it’s alive, hot, and ready to slay.

Dry Brushing Before You Shower

Takes two minutes, makes you feel like a Greek goddess. It supports lymphatic drainage, smoothes skin, and wakes you up better than espresso. Get that brush. Go in upward strokes. Look expensive while doing it.

Standing Tall Like You Have a Trust Fund

Good posture literally changes your energy. Shoulders back, chin slightly up, stomach softly pulled in. You're not slouching—you're channeling your highest self.

This tiny switch instantly gives “rich girl who owns crystals and her condo.”

Deep Breaths Instead of Doomscrolls

Before you open Instagram, take three slow breaths. Sounds boring, but this reclaims your nervous system. Start your day in your own energy instead of 82 strangers’.

Upgraded Snacks

Tiny tweak: swap your snack for something with protein, fiber, or healthy fats.

Almonds with sea salt

Hard boiled eggs with hot sauce

Dark chocolate + coconut yogurt Suddenly your snack isn’t sabotaging your glow—it’s supporting it.

Walk and Talk

Next time you’re on a call with your bestie, walk. Boom: social connection, movement, and sunlight. You just wellness-hacked your gossip session. Iconic.

Screens Off, Lights Low by 9PM

You don’t have to sleep at 9, but dimming the lights and stepping away from the scroll makes your brain chill TF out. Your circadian rhythm is begging you to romanticize your wind-down.

Silk Pillowcases, Period.

They’re not just cute—they’re also good for your skin, your hair, and your main character dreams. It’s the kind of tiny swap that makes your night feel like a spa.

Lip Balm, Hand Cream, Gratitude List

Before bed: hydrate your lips, moisturize your hands, write three things you loved today. That’s it. Your nervous system just exhaled.

Final thought: Wellness doesn’t need to be a full-time job or a 50-item checklist. The real glow-up? Doing less, but doing it with intention. Sprinkle these tiny habits into your day and let them work their magic.

Follow @soleauclub for more lazy-girl luxury, wellness that doesn’t feel like homework, and high-vibe habits that actually fit your life.

[writesvani]

coming down | 08

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to- enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): sexual tension, body image issues, self-consciousness, crude language, implied sexual content, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mention of past trauma, substance references, toilet humor, illness, physical discomfort, vomiting, food-related discomfort, anxiety, frustration, teasing, manipulation, objectification, inappropriate comments

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,5k // date: 29th of March 2025

CHAPTER EIGHT — Wicked Games; proceed with caution...

AN: she’s baaaack, yuh yuh yuh. where are my coming down enthusiasts at? y/n, gojo, ren, and the whole chaotic side character crew are back, and i’m pretty sure i’ve missed them more than i’ve missed sleep. this chapter? one of my absolute faves. and oh, just WAIT until next chapter. it’s about to get wild in here, so buckle up.

i'm not doing a note goal for this one, mostly because i have no idea if anyone’s still around, honestly. i’ll just let this chapter set the tone for future note goals. if you liked it, PLEASE comment. i miss the hell out of you guys analyzing coming down. your asks keep me alive. this fic was my debut baby, and when it gets some love, i get all warm and fuzzy inside. help a girl out, please.

Gojo Satoru might be many things—insufferable, unreasonably pretty, allergic to boundaries—but one thing he isn’t is a liar.

And God, how you wish he was.

You wish he’d just been being his usual drama queen self when he dropped the bomb about your parents planning a cozy little family weekend getaway with his. But no. That would’ve been too easy.

Instead, here you are: imprisoned in the backseat of your parents’ car, Ren snoring against your shoulder like it’s his full-time job (drool included, of course), some truly offensive country song groaning through the speakers—not the Taylor Swift kind, the "my truck left me and so did Jesus" kind—and worst of all? No weed. Not even a crumb.

Three full days of pretending to be a model child while your parents pretend they didn’t once threaten to send you to military school.

Ren could’ve driven with his own parents, but with four younger siblings stuffed into their car like a clown show, he chose to suffer in silence beside you instead. His parents are trailing somewhere behind, probably already regretting accepting your parents offer to tag along to this trip.

And behind them? In a white suburban car so pristine it makes you want to commit arson, the Gojo family rides like some kind of godforsaken Hallmark commercial.

And in the backseat of that SUV? You know exactly who's there.

He’s probably reclined like he owns the world, earbuds in, looking like a Pinterest board made of sins and smugness, those glacier blue eyes already locked on the back of your parents’ car like he's psychically manifesting chaos.

You swear you can feel him smirking.

You are not going to think about that.

You have bigger things to worry about—like your dad giving you the side-eye every time you reach for another snack, as if carbs are a federal crime. Like surviving three whole days without a single hit of your precious joint, because your parents finding out about your “ways of life” would absolutely send them into cardiac arrest.

There’s also your mom’s Olympic-level passive aggression when you mention your grades dropped just a little, and of course, maintaining your sanity around Ren’s siblings—because even though you actually like kids, spending an entire weekend mediating tantrums isn’t exactly your idea of peace.

And Gojo Satoru? Yeah. He and his perfectly polite, terrifyingly well-dressed parents—mostly his mom—are just the cherry on top of this absolute disaster cake you're being forced to eat with a plastic spork.

At least you have Ren. Thank God for that.

When the cars finally pull up to the hotel, you're… surprisingly satisfied. It's a solid four-star place—not too fancy, not too run-down. Aesthetic enough to snap a few spicy Instagram pictures when your parents aren’t breathing down your neck. The exterior is minimalist, modern. The kind of place that screams we’re middle class, but we have rich taste.

You mentally give your mom her props—she always had the patience (and obsession) to hunt down places that are both budget-friendly and cute enough to make it seem like life doesn’t suck.

Five minutes later, the Gojo family glides in like they’re the finale of a fashion week runway. His dad steps out first, offering a polite nod and a quick, warm smile to everyone—including you.

You smile back. You've always liked his dad. He’s… real. Grounded. The type who doesn’t look at you like you’re broken glass someone else has to clean up. He never judged you. And that’s rare.

Even your own parents used to judge you. Maybe they still do. Probably.

But whatever. You're here now. You’ll have your room key soon. You have Ren. You can survive this.

Probably.

“I see everyone’s arrived,” Mr. Gojo finally says, voice warm as he leans down to high-five Ren’s little siblings. They giggle and swarm him like he’s Santa in a business-casual jacket. All except Mark, the only teen here, because he's too cool for that. Classic.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mrs. Gojo chimes in next, her voice sugary sweet and her smile dazzlingly fake. You watch her eyes sweep the group like she’s mentally organizing everyone by usefulness. Then her gaze lands on you. It flutters for a moment—just long enough for you to notice—before it returns to its tight, polished place on her face.

“Mrs. Gojo,” you say, plastering on your own customer service grin, “long time no see.”

“Long time indeed, sweetheart,” she replies, the endearment curling around her teeth like poison in honey.

“Hello everyone,” Gojo says politely, too politely, and your eyes almost roll out of your skull. He even bows slightly. Who is this man? Certainly not the one who once lit a blunt with the candle on your birthday cake years ago.

His mom nods, positively glowing, pleased with her son's pristine little act—an act she doesn’t even realize is an act. You wonder how smug she’d look if she knew her beloved boy wasn’t a perfect Catholic child but a campus menace with a body count longer than the Bible she swears by.

You and the others exchange quick greetings before making your way into the hotel.

“Kids, don’t touch that!” Ren’s mom cries out, nearly tripping over a suitcase as she tries to wrangle her four hyperactive children. The chaos doesn’t let up until you're finally at the front desk, and the receptionist starts handing out keys.

You’re satisfied with your roommate for the weekend—Ren. His parents look way too pleased about that, flashing each other hopeful glances like they still think there’s a shot of you two ending up together. It’s sweet, in an oblivious kind of way. Ren’s not comfortable talking about his sexuality with them yet. He once told you he probably never will be. And that’s okay.

Still, you’re beyond relieved you don’t have to spend three days trapped in a room with your parents. So, Ren it is.

His parents and siblings are piling into one of those family-style suites—like the ones that look suspiciously like apartments, what’s the name for that again? Your brain short-circuits at pulling the right term, as usual.

Your parents are tucked away in their own room, of course. And the Gojos? Also in their own little suite. Naturally.

Gojo Satoru, golden boy deluxe, gets a room all to himself. Because apparently, sharing a room with you and Ren is beneath him. Or maybe that’s just his mom’s rule. Not like she’d ever let her precious son share space—let alone four walls—with the girl who once turned his life into something similar to a PR nightmare.

Not after everything.

You’re thankful for that, though. So, so thankful.

“Jesus, why do I feel like Gojo’s mother shot disapproval down our spines the second she spotted us?” Ren sighs, shutting the hotel room door behind him and dropping his suspiciously large suitcase with a loud thud.

You flop onto the bed, one brow raised. “Because she totally did. She hates us—well, mostly me. You’re just collateral damage.”

“True. I’m only hated by association. Otherwise, I’m just too damn perfect.”

“You are, bestie. Did you see Gojo’s little bow? I almost shit myself from how fake it was.”

“YEAH. But also—Gojo’s always been polite to elders. Not even surprised, honestly.”

“Hey. Don’t defend him.”

“I’m not defending him, I’m literally just stating facts.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude.” You wave him off. “Anyway, when’s dinner? I haven’t eaten since this morning. My mom said the food here is, like, divine or whatever."

“Seven. Sharp. My dad spammed me with messages about it—apparently I’m too likely to forget.”

“So, an hour?”

“Mhm.”

“Bro, I’m going to starve.”

“Suck it up, pretty. Food’s coming soon.”

You nod, dramatically collapsing onto the bed with a groan, arms spread wide like you’ve been through war.

Ren, ever the neat freak in disguise, is already unpacking both your suitcase and his, folding your clothes into perfect little rectangles.

“Why are you unpacking us for a two-day trip?” you mumble, watching him from the bed. “We can just dig through the suitcase like normal people.”

“Because,” he says, holding up a pair of your red lacey thongs, “Wait—why did you bring these to a trip with your parents?”

“You never know. Maybe I’ll meet a cutie and finally get laid.”

“You’re right.”

“As always.”

He sighs, still folding. “Anyway, I’m doing this because it calms me down. I’m nervous about the whole thing.”

“This thing?”

“This trip, bestie. I can already feel how awkward it’s going to be.”

“Yeah, honestly, I don’t know why Gojo’s parents even accepted the invite.”

“You mean his mom?”

“Obviously. She is the devil reincarnated.”

Ren chuckles, holding up one of your shirts. “Well, you didn’t hear this from me…”

“Oh? Spilling tea already?”

“You know how my mom gossips like it’s a full-time job, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, apparently your dad and Gojo’s dad started some kind of business thing together. They’ve been hanging out more.”

“I knew about that. Still doesn’t explain this cursed reunion.”

“Patience, drama queen.” He sighs, folding your thong with way too much care. “Word is, Mrs. Gojo was so against it.”

“Could’ve never guessed,” you deadpan.

“She even made a whole ass scene. Said he was mixing the firm with your ‘deranged’ family—just like her precious son got mixed up with you.”

You blink. Then smirk.

“Me. The deranged daughter. Honestly? Poetic.”

“Yeah, and your dad was pissed,” Ren says, tossing a hoodie into the drawer. “He almost backed out because of it. But Mr. Gojo? He needs your dad for this deal. So he ended up apologizing.���

You raise an eyebrow. “Mr. Gojo apologized?”

“Yup. And then your dad went off about how you’ve changed, how you regret what happened, how it physically and mentally hurts him when someone bashes his daughter’s name.”

You blink. “Damn. Didn’t know my dad was dramatic like that.”

Ren smirks. “Yeah, you probably got it from him.”

“Rude.”

“So Mr. Gojo made his wife apologize to your dad.”

“Okay, but Ren—that still doesn’t explain why we’re here.”

“Stop interrupting me, then.” He folds another shirt, clearly enjoying the drama. “Anyway. Turns out this trip was already planned by your parents and mine. Like, a while ago. Some family bonding thing.”

You groan, flopping onto your stomach. “That sounds like something my mom would do.”

“But here’s the kicker,” Ren leans in like he’s about to drop nuclear gossip. “Mrs. Gojo accidentally let the whole fight with your dad slip to my mom during brunch. And you know my mom. She called yours instantly. So your mom spilled the rest of the tea.”

“I literally can’t even keep up anymore.”

“Honey,” Ren says, flopping beside you, “we’re trapped in a high-stakes episode of Real Housewives: Family Feud Edition.”

You snort. “With better outfits.”

“And worse intentions, anyway,” Ren continues, “your mom was still bitter about the whole thing. She told my mom to invite the Gojos and something like, ‘If she’s really sorry, she’ll accept the invite. Let her see for herself how much my daughter has changed.’ So, my mom invited the Gojos—and, well, the rest is history.”

You scoff. “There’s no way that woman is sorry.”

“Obviously not. She’s probably here just to witness your downfall.”

“Right? Like, I still can’t believe she called me and my whole family deranged. Okay, maybe I am—but my parents? Please. They’re all perfect smiles and pristine public image. 10 out of 10.”

“It’s just because they defended you back then. That’s what pissed her off.”

“Yeah, well, what’d she expect them to do? Side with her? Sure, I was fucking Satoru and snorting coke, but I was still their daughter.”

Ren chokes on air, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ—never thought I’d hear ‘daughter,’ ‘fucking,’ and ‘snorting’ in the same sentence.”

You grin. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Ren and you spend the rest of the hour just chilling—him folding clothes like it’s a religion, you sprawled out across the mattress, shoving your phone in his face every two minutes with some cursed TikTok. He complains you’re distracting him, but laughs every time. So, who’s the real clown?

Eventually, you both freshen up for dinner and head downstairs, stomachs rumbling. But the second you step into the hotel restaurant, the situation becomes very clear.

There’s a parents’ table—all polished smiles and subtle judgment—and then there’s your table. Or more accurately, the kids’ table. Gojo, that smug little fucker, is already there, looking completely at home. He’s sitting with Ren’s younger siblings like he belongs there, entertaining them with whatever golden garbage is coming out of his mouth.

Next to them: two empty seats. Perfectly positioned. Reserved for you and Ren, obviously.

You wave toward the grown-ups’ table, and they all wave back. Even Mrs. Gojo gives you one of those creepy royal family waves—wrist twist and all—that makes your skin crawl.

Ren slides into the seat beside Gojo with a resigned sigh. You follow, flopping down next to him.

“Hi, hi, hi!” Ren’s 10-year-old sister Ivy chirps, practically bouncing in her seat.

You immediately grin and squish her cheeks. “Hi, love. What are you eating?”

“Pizza! It’s so good. Wanna try?”

“Absolutely, hand it over.”

“Ivy, sweetheart,” Gojo cuts in, voice dripping with fake concern, “I’m not sure you want her lips on your food.”

You whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. Seriously? In front of children?

Ivy looks confused. “Why? I don’t mind sharing my food. What are you saying, Sato?”

Gojo leans back, fake-smiling like the menace he is. “Just saying you should be mindful about who you share with.”

“Well,” Ivy says with the confidence of a child raised by wolves and angels, “I’d rather share with Y/N than you. She’s way cooler. You act like a boomer.”

You nearly choke laughing. Ren full-on wheezes. Gojo’s smile twitches.

God, you love this kid.

“That’s so true,” Ren’s little brother, Mark, finally looks up from his phone, smirking like he’s about to drop some wisdom on everyone. He’s 13, at that age where he’s convinced he’s the smartest person in the room. “You’re literally one of those guys who refuses to download TikTok and just watches Instagram Reels.”

Gojo scoffs like he’s offended. “TikTok is a disease. You’ll see when you get older,” he says, attempting some kind of lecture.

Mark just flips him off, unbothered. You can practically hear Gojo’s ego deflating.

“Markie, Mom said that finger is bad,” Marie, one of the youngest ones pipes up from her seat, twin brother in tow.

Her brother, sensing an opportunity to team up, nods seriously, clearly siding with his sister. You watch with amusement as their little pact forms.

You lean over to Marie and whisper conspiratorially, “Middle finger’s only okay if you show it to Satoru, okay?”

Marie’s eyes light up like she’s just been handed the keys to the kingdom. Without missing a beat, she raises her hand, dramatically exaggerating the gesture like she’s in some kind of spy movie. Her twin brother quickly shields her from the parents’ table, then, with all the confidence in the world, Marie flips Gojo off.

You catch the corner of Gojo’s eye from your side, and he glares daggers in your direction. Oh, he looks pissed. Cute.

Ivy mutters under her breath, panic creeping into her voice, “Put it down, Mom will see you.”

But Marie, completely unfazed, smirks. “Damn, Marie, what the hell did I do to you?” Gojo’s voice is laced with disbelief.

“Nothing,” she says sweetly, eyes wide in mock innocence. “It’s just fun.”

You almost choke on your water, Ren laughing next to you. Honestly, you’re not sure which is more entertaining—the kids or the way Gojo’s about to combust.

“You’re such a bad influence,” Gojo mutters, aggressively shaking salt onto his fries. You lean back in your chair, casually taking a bite of your burger. Honestly, you love how your mom always orders for you when you're on vacation. It's like a mini vacation from decision-making. But, as always, in the back of your mind, old habits creep up—you can’t help but wonder how many calories are in this thing. It’s like a reflex you wish you could shake.

“Right, and your mom seems to agree,” you say, casually leaning back even more. You can practically hear the gears grinding in Gojo’s head. His expression shifts, his jaw tightening, and his grip on his sparkling water turns borderline aggressive.

“I’m not my mother.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed,” you smirk. “But you’re on track to become her one day.”

Ren, who has been silently shoveling fries into his mouth this whole time, glances back and forth between you two, clearly enjoying the show. Nobody else at the table is really paying attention to you and Gojo. Marie and Chris are too busy discussing the finer points of their 6-year-old drama. Ivy’s lost in a YouTube video, and Mark is texting his girlfriend like he’s in some secret love affair.

“You’re just trying to get under my skin, aren’t you?” Gojo mutters through gritted teeth.

“Am I succeeding?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

“No, you’re just getting more ridiculous with every word.”

“Ah, classic defense mechanism. Takes one to know one.” You flash him a grin, leaning back even further as if you're lounging on a beach.

Gojo looks like he might explode. Ren's just trying to finish his meal in peace, but you can practically hear him snickering under his breath. At least one of you is enjoying this.

Gojo glares at you, but you can see the twitch in his jaw as he tries to keep his cool. You’ve got him just where you want him—irritated but unable to show it too much. It's almost too easy.

You smirk, taking another bite of your burger, but your thoughts stray for a moment to the old, familiar spiral about calories. You shake it off, chewing slowly, focusing on the conversation instead of your own head. The tension in the air could almost be cut with a knife, but it's a weird kind of comforting. You've known Gojo long enough that this playful banter has become the norm. Still, you can feel how different this interaction is compared to years ago, and not in the good way.

Ren, sensing the growing tension, clears his throat. “Maybe we should just let it go, yeah?” he says casually, but the amusement in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed.

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he takes a deep breath, clearly trying to resist whatever retort he wants to shoot your way. "You're just full of shit, aren't you?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Says the guy who can’t stop talking."

“Touché,” Gojo mutters, but there's a half-smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

Ren snorts quietly, clearly trying to keep his composure. “At least it’s entertaining.”

You look over at the kids, who are still blissfully unaware of the subtle war happening between you and Satoru.

You lean back further, making sure Gojo knows you’re not backing down from this. "I’m just speaking the truth. You’ll become your mom whether you like it or not. It’s in your blood."

Gojo’s eyes narrow, but he can’t help the small smirk that creeps onto his face. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

"Means," you pause dramatically, "that you’re a little too much like her already. Pretentious, overly controlling, and maybe—just maybe— a little lonely."

Ren coughs awkwardly, trying to defuse the situation before it escalates. "Alright, alright. Can we just eat in peace, please?"

Gojo turns his glare on Ren, but it’s not as fiery as before. “You’re one to talk,” he says, eyes flicking back to you. “You’re both just as bad as each other.”

You shrug nonchalantly. “You’re welcome for the entertainment.”

At that, Gojo just sighs, letting the conversation fall silent. You, on the other hand, can’t help but feel a little smug. Sometimes you don’t need to win an argument to win, you just need to get under his skin. And it looks like you did just that.

You don’t expect what comes after dinner.

The original plan was simple: after a long day of forced family interaction, you and Ren would crash early. No more chit-chat, no more smiling politely. Just sleep. Blissful, uninterrupted sleep. But then you overheard your parents gushing about the hotel amenities—a jacuzzi, a sauna, a whole pool area “designed for relaxation.” And like the menaces you are, the plan shifted. Operation: Late-Night Spa was born.

Except fate had other plans.

“Ren?” you call out, knocking gently on the bathroom door, where he’s been holed up for the past twenty minutes.

“I’m dying,” his voice comes out muffled and despairing. “I can’t stop shitting. It’s like a crime scene in here.”

You blink. “Okay. First of all—why the hell would you describe it like that?”

“Because you asked how I was doing!” he yells, voice strained. “You don’t get to complain when I answer honestly.”

You sit outside the bathroom like an abandoned child, knees pulled to your chest, dramatically sighing. “This is not how I imagined our spa night.”

“Neither did I!” Ren cries. “Every time I travel and eat hotel food—every goddamn time. My intestines turn against me. They betray me like an ex who suddenly discovers therapy and self-worth.”

“I mean… maybe it’s food poisoning?”

“If it was, you’d be on this toilet, too. This is personal. This is targeted.”

You wince as the sound of a flush echoes through the room, followed by the telltale rustle of clothes. You brace yourself—and you were right to do so. The bathroom door creaks open, and with it, a scent of death wafts into the room.

“Close it!” you yell, scrambling to your feet like your life depends on it.

Ren groans and slams the door shut again. When he finally emerges—for real this time—he looks like a shell of a man. His skin is pale, hair damp with sweat, steps uneven as he stumbles toward the bed like he’s survived a war.

“Babe,” he croaks, collapsing onto the mattress, “why does this happen to me?”

“I don’t know,” you say gently, flopping down beside him. “Maybe it’s psychological. Like... a gut-level rebellion.”

“It’s very much physical too,” he grunts. “I’m literally hollow.”

You snort. “Well, at least you’re emotionally consistent.”

He throws an arm over his eyes. “This vacation sucks.”

“Give it one night. You’ll wake up tomorrow like nothing ever happened, and I’ll be dragging you out of the sauna before you melt into the floor.”

Ren lets out a pitiful whimper. “Tell my future husband I loved him.”

“Sure. Do you want me to deliver that message before or after I pour bleach on that bathroom floor?”

He weakly flips you off, and despite everything, you both laugh.

“Wait,” Ren croaks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why aren’t you getting ready for the spa?”

You glance over at him, sprawled across the bed like a Victorian maiden struck down by consumption. “Because you’re sick. I’m not going if you’re not going.”

Ren jerks up with a sudden burst of energy, eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you insane? You’re skipping a free spa night because I have diarrhea? Do you hear how absurd that sounds?”

You frown, folding your arms. “What am I supposed to do there without you? Soak in lavender-scented loneliness?”

“Exactly! You'll relax. Channel your inner peace. Get into your Zen or whatever it is normal people do when they aren’t shitting their souls out.”

“But I can’t just leave you alone here like this.”

“I’m not sick sick,” he insists, waving his hand dismissively. “Think of it like… a mild allergic reaction to overpriced hotel food.”

“If this is mild, I’d hate to see what severe looks like.”

“You don’t want to know,” he says with a haunted look. “Once, in Spain, I—”

“Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence.”

He chuckles weakly, eyes closing again as his head flops back onto the pillow. “Look. You staying won’t magically cure me. No offense, babe, but your presence isn’t made of Imodium.”

You blink at him. “So you’re just… throwing me out?”

“No,” he groans. “I’m lovingly shoving you toward a steamy, eucalyptus-scented escape while I suffer in peace. There’s a difference.”

“Ugh.”

“Please,” he whines, dramatically. “Don’t make my diarrhea worse by staying here and making me feel guilty.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But if I drown in that jacuzzi from sheer sadness, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” he mutters, already half-asleep. “Just don’t haunt me.”

You hover for a second longer, chewing your lip, guilt gnawing at your insides. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not about the spa at all. Maybe it’s about not wanting to be alone right now. Not after dinner.

But you don’t say that. You just grab your stuff and head for the door.

“Oh, and if you see any hotties,” Ren calls out, “text me. I need to be emotionally prepared for tomorrow.”

You turn, arching a brow. “Ren, babe, you quite literally can’t stop shitting.”

“That just means I’ll be sparkling clean and ready for action if the universe decides to bless me,” he says, eyes glinting mischievously under his blanket cocoon.

“You’re the only person I know who can connect explosive diarrhea to sex.”

“It’s because I’m gifted. A prophet, even.” He fans himself dramatically. “Now go. Shoo. Get your ass in that spa. Stop prolonging your inevitable rebirth in a sauna.”

You hesitate in the doorway, watching him nest deeper into the pillows, color slowly returning to his cheeks. “You sure?”

Ren’s voice softens just a bit. “Yeah. I’m fine. Go live your best life. Just don’t come back with stories unless they involve hot people and bad decisions.”

You smile faintly, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll bring you gossip. Maybe even a name or two.”

“Godspeed, my love!” he yells after you, already pulling the covers over his head. “And don’t let anyone ugly flirt with you—I refuse to live vicariously through bad taste.”

The spa cabins are stunning, admittedly. Too clean. Too perfect. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re already failing at relaxation the moment you step in. The walls are pearly white, soft lilac vines curling at the corners like some fairytale you don’t believe in. The hotel name is etched on the door in cursive, trying a little too hard to be elegant.

You peel off your clothes and slip into your most flattering bikini—the one that says I tried without looking like you did. Family friendly, just in case. You toss your clothes into the locker and twist the key into your backpack. The lock clicks, even though you know no one’s desperate enough to steal anything here. No one’s hungry. Everyone’s too full of money, wine, or disappointment to want anything you have.

The pool is the first stop. It’s massive, quiet, glowing faintly under soft lights. Pale blue tiles, water warm enough to trick you into thinking you’re safe. It’s almost romantic. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

You dive in.

At first, it’s a release. Your limbs stretch out, your body finally feels like it belongs somewhere. You do a few laps, chest rising and falling, muscles burning with that old, aching nostalgia. You remember what it felt like to be strong. To not think twice before diving. To breathe deep and stay under water just for the thrill of it.

But your lungs don’t agree anymore. Years of not training. Years of cigarettes and weed.

Years of saying I’ll quit soon.

Now you can’t even hold your breath long enough to stay under. Your strokes lose strength halfway through. Your body floats, but not from peace. From weakness.

The tension leaves your muscles—but frustration takes its place.

Heavy, bitter frustration.

You don’t want to feel weak here.

Not in this pretty place.

Not tonight.

You wipe the water from your eyes, jaw clenched. No more swimming. No more pretending.

Jacuzzi it is.

You walk toward it, dripping and quiet. Because what else are you supposed to do—keep swimming in the disappointment?

Maybe not tonight.

Maybe never again.

The jacuzzi is hidden from the pool by a wall, the kind that doesn’t quite touch the floor, leaving a gap where you know someone could easily peer through. Not that you would ever do that. The two spaces are separated enough that the pool’s quiet hum doesn’t invade the jacuzzi’s warm embrace. There’s a barrier, but it’s a shallow one. A suggestion of privacy.

You didn’t expect to see him here. Of all the places, of all the times.

Gojo Satoru is reclining in the jacuzzi, arms draped lazily over the sides, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if he’s a god surveying his kingdom. His eyes, a pale blue that matches the water swirling around him, seem to glow against the soft lighting of the room. You’re not sure if it’s the water illuminating his eyes or the other way around. Either way, it’s mesmerizing. Unsettling.

He’s too perfect. Too effortless. Too him.

Your stomach drops, and you freeze in the doorway. For a moment, you think about retreating, slipping back into the pool. It’d be safer, less there, less him. But the thought of him winning that little battle is enough to make your chest tighten.

So you do what you always do when faced with him: you power through.

You step in and sit at the opposite end of the jacuzzi, a little too loudly, plopping down like you didn’t just have a mini existential crisis about sitting in a hot tub. The water is hot, soothing, and the bubbles feel good against your back. You lean your head back, trying to ignore the fact that he’s right there—smug, annoying, and totally at ease.

“Well, well…” He says, voice dripping with that teasing edge that always gets under your skin. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Same goes for you,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the water, pretending to focus on the swirl of bubbles around you.

“Admit it,” he continues, his tone light and amused, “You’re here because you knew I’d be here.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t see. “You’re delusional.”

“Let me guess,” he leans back further, eyes gleaming with mischief, “Maybe you were too bored at the sauna. Nah, you wouldn’t go to the sauna alone. The massage finally over? Nah, you’d look more relaxed if you had a massage. Or, or, or… maaaaaybe you realized you can’t swim as well as you used to.”

You snap, the last thread of your patience wearing thin. “Can you shut the fuck up for once? I literally didn’t ask you anything.”

Gojo’s grin widens, that infuriating smirk curling up at the corners of his lips. “So that’s a yes, baby. Knew it.”

“If you knew it, baby, you didn’t have to speak,” you shoot back, your voice dripping with the kind of sass you only reserve for him.

But he’s not fazed. Of course he isn’t.

“You used to like me all mouthy like that,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, teasing but with a hint of something else. A pull you can’t quite place.

“Key word: used to,” you respond quickly, your heart pounding in your chest.

For a moment, there’s silence. The water hums around you, the air heavy with something unsaid. Gojo’s gaze drifts over to you, but you don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s slipping, and you’re both trying so hard to pretend nothing ever happened between you two.

But Gojo’s never been one to let things stay quiet for long. And you’re both too far gone to ever turn back.

“Nice tits,” he says with a smirk, eyes lingering a little longer than necessary. “That bikini suits you.”

“Excuse me?” You narrow your eyes, surprised by his boldness.

“I’m just saying, it looks great on you. You got your tits done or something?” He raises an eyebrow playfully.

“First of all, no. Second of all, maybe you should keep your compliments to yourself,” you respond, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

He chuckles. “I’m not trying to offend you. Just think you look good.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “You could’ve kept that to yourself.”

He leans back, not missing a beat. “Where’s the fun in that? I think it’s nice to tell people when they or their assets look good.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.”

He grins like he’s won some silent game between you two. “I bet you’re feeling all flushed now. It’s probably the heat of the water.”

You give him a look, trying to dismiss his words. “Not even close.”

He leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “I could think of a few ways to make this moment even more... interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow, resisting the urge to laugh. “Yeah? Well, I’m not sure you could pull that off.”

He smiles, a little too smug. “Wanna bet?”

“Sure,” you say, a challenge in your tone.

He leans back with a devilish grin, clearly enjoying himself. “Game on, then.”

taglist: @zeunys @charmstarr @ovela @kur0mii3 @dabisdolly @17362939 @krispywhisperswhispers @mintcheery @kazupop @heh123321 @hanakotateyama @eneiyri @suniloli @44ina. @s4ikooo1 @blushedcheri @dishs0pe @rhea-sylvea @eolivy @4thansstuff

@crankyarchives @mrswanggae @blobbyblogsdraws @saoirses-things @linaaeatsfamilies @momoewn @hellish4ever @emneedshelp @gojoscumslut

[christinesficrecs]

Running a little behind, so here is April's frf. 🥰

An Apple's Blossom by Dexterous_Sinistrous | 62.5K | Explicit

Derek had an aura about him—one that drew you into his orbit despite the warning of an imminent threat.

It was like a dream, more than Stiles realized at first.

Because it wasn’t real.

Nothing about the man Stiles had started to fall in love with—romanticize—was real. ~*~ Stiles is a recently graduated art student who agrees to marry his family's rival, only to realize that maybe love is a little more complicated than he first thought.

My Name is Derek Hale by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) | 74.9K | Mature

“What day is it?” Derek demanded.

“What?”

“The day! What day is today?!” Derek let Stiles go, but only so he could reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. He tapped at the home screen, and then went so perfectly still that Stiles was pretty sure this guy wasn’t human. No human could stand that still.

When it was clear Derek wasn’t going to move again without some prompting, Stiles said, “It’s Wednesday.”

“That’s impossible,” Derek whispered.

“Not really, it comes around every seven days.”

“This is impossible,” Derek said again, looking around himself, as if he was searching for something.

another name for love by endversed | 36.9K | Explicit

Derek is a single parent to a teenager. He's given up on love since losing his daughter's mother.

Stiles is an FBI agent in town on the hunt for a feral omega. He might have something to say about Derek's stance on love.

Waiting In The Wings by stereksterek | 19.8K | Explicit

Melissa folded her arms and stared at Stiles, “I’m still having a hard time believing that Derek Hale, of all people, is your boyfriend now.”

“Yep! Derek’s my boyfriend! We’re totally rocking the whole relationship thing. I mean, we’re no Scott and Allison when it comes to PDA, but we’re both very affectionate behind closed doors. It’s kind of hilarious actually, because some people think that Derek doesn’t even like me when we’re in public, just because he growls or glares at me from time to time. But we’re just a misunderstood couple, y’know… Kind of like other star-crossed lovers out there. We’re basically this generation’s Romeo and… Miguel.”

Melissa was grinning so wide that her face almost hurt. Stiles had wildly overcompensated, and now she knew he was lying.

“If you and Derek are boyfriends, you won’t have a problem inviting him over for dinner then.”

Stiles malfunctioned for a full second before squawking like a dying bird, “Dinner?!”

I spent every evening praying for the dawn by WeAreTheLuckyOnes | 9.6K | Explicit

Stiles leaves the FBI after a traumatic case and returns to Beacon Hills after being gone for ten years, only to find that Derek has somehow magically acquired a tiny baby with a shock of dark hair that looks too much like Derek to belong to anyone else, but feels like Stiles's too.

Alternatively, the one with a magical Nemeton baby where Stiles and Derek realise they've both been dancing around the fact they each know they love the other and they're just too stupid to admit it.

*** Honourable Mention 🩷

One Dollar Yoda by exclamation | 10.7K | Mature

Stiles is an unbonded spark, so he’s been dealing with courting alphas since he was ten. It’s gotten a lot worse since he turned sixteen. Some are assholes, some are nice, but Stiles hasn’t wanted to spend the rest of his life bound to any of them.

When Derek Hale shows up at his school, Stiles expects him to be just another asshole alpha attempting to buy him with expensive gifts. But Derek Hale puts no effort whatsoever into his courtship gifts. Stiles ought to be offended but instead he finds it refreshing.

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: satoru gojo x you x suguru geto | warnings: oral fixation, praising, worship kink, emotional intimacy

summary; Gojo and Geto enjoy nothing more than sharing you

shared secrets - pt. 2 (part 1)

You were sore. Deliciously sore. The kind that made your thighs tremble and your body ache in all the best ways. You could still feel the ghost of them between your legs, the fullness, the warmth, the ownership. You stretched with a sleepy moan and felt two arms tighten around you.

“Mornin’, angel,” Satoru murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Suguru pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You alive?”

“Barely,” you laughed, turning in their arms. “But… I was thinking I should say thank you.”

Two sets of eyes locked onto you.

“Oh?” Satoru grinned. “That sounds dangerous.”

You slipped out of the bed, wincing as you walked and then peeked over your shoulder with a wicked smile. “Shower’s calling.”

They followed without question. Warm water poured down, steam curling around your skin and they crowded close behind, hands gentle and reverent as they helped you wash. Suguru lathered your back. Satoru kissed your neck. Fingers tangled in hair. Lips brushed along your spine.

“You were perfect last night,” Suguru whispered, his voice deep and warm. “Fucking divine,” Satoru added, nipping at your ear.

And just as they thought you were softening into the afterglow… You dropped to your knees on the slick tile. Both men went still.

“Baby…” Satoru said, voice suddenly very alert.

Suguru’s hand reached for your chin, tilting your face up. “What are you doing?”

You smiled up at them all sweet and sinful and said, “Let me take care of you now.”

And then your mouth was on Suguru first, warm, wet and reverent. He groaned, head falling back, fingers sinking into your hair. Satoru watched, jaw slack, cock twitching as you slowly worshipped Suguru with slow, deliberate licks, like you were thanking him with every stroke of your tongue.

“Fuck,” Suguru hissed. “You’re gonna make me come already-”

You pulled off with a pop, then turned to Satoru to lick the tip of his cock once before taking him deep. He cursed loudly. His hips jerking forward as you sucked him in, hands resting on your head like he was trying not to lose control.

“Our good girl,” he gasped. “God, look at you…. so filthy in the prettiest way.”

You alternated between them with your mouth, hands and tongue, until they were shaking, moaning, holding back only because they didn’t want to finish too soon. But you wanted it. So you took them both in your hands, stroking one, sucking the other, switching back and forth while they panted and groaned and praised you like a goddess.

“Come for me,” you whispered. “I want it. I need it.”

They didn’t stand a chance. Suguru spilled first, low and rough, groaning your name like a prayer. Satoru followed with a strangled gasp, coming on your tongue as you moaned around him. You swallowed them down. Every drop. And when you looked up at them, lips swollen, eyes shining, breathless from it all…

They looked like they were in love.

“Remind me to destroy you all over again tonight,” Satoru muttered, helping you up and kissing you hard.

“No,” Suguru whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Tonight… she gets to be worshipped.”

The whole day, they were softer with you. Not less teasing. Satoru still smacked your ass when you bent over, and Suguru still smirked when he caught you flustered, but their touches lingered. Their gazes lingered. Like they already knew what they were going to do to you.

And when night fell? They made good on it. No rushing. No play-pretend. Just hands. Mouths. Hearts open and breath stolen as they laid you back onto the bed like something sacred.

Suguru was the first to kiss you, deep and warm, his fingers brushing your jaw. Satoru followed, lips at your shoulder, breath tickling your skin. They undressed you together, mouths pressing reverent kisses to each patch of skin they uncovered. Satoru murmured praise into your neck. Suguru kissed down your chest like he was learning the shape of your soul.

And when they finally laid you bare between them?

“You know what you did to us this morning,” Satoru whispered. “You broke us in the best way. Now we’re gonna break you right back with love.”

Suguru kissed between your thighs slowly, almost lovingly, tongue moving in long, slow licks that made your breath catch.

“So sweet,” he muttered. “So soft. I could stay here all night.”

Satoru’s fingers twined with yours above your head. “Let her come, Suguru. Give our baby what she needs.”

You moaned, thighs trembling, and they both watched you fall apart with awe in their eyes. And they still weren’t done. Satoru moved lower while Suguru kissed your lips, your cheeks, your tear-damp lashes like he adored every inch of you. When Satoru slipped inside you, it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rough. It was deep, slow and shattering, his hips rolling as he buried himself in you, every thrust a soft confession.

“You feel like home,” he whispered. “You always do.”

Suguru moved behind you, pressing kisses to your back and shoulders, whispering how beautiful you were, how proud they were, how loved. And when they both held you, wrapped you in arms and pleasure, murmuring your name like a hymn you realized that this wasn’t about taking. It was about giving. They made you come again and again. On their fingers and mouths and words, until you were trembling, breathless, sobbing into Suguru’s chest while Satoru kissed the tears from your cheeks. They came with you the final time, deep inside, hands gripping yours, lips locked with yours, until you were completely filled. And then they didn’t let go. They held you. Whispered how perfect you were. Told you they’d never, ever want anyone but you.

You were wrecked. Raw. Loved.

And as you drifted to sleep, safe between them, marked and made whole you smiled. Because tomorrow? You were absolutely going to worship them all over again.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

how the bigbang boys would act after finding out her girlfriend/wife (reader) was diagnosed with a deadly illness

Deadly

Characters: Gdragon, Daesung, T.O.P

Summary: It's above, loves

warnings: Deadly illness???

Gdragon

He didn’t remember sitting down.

One moment, Ji-yong was standing next to you, arm loosely around your shoulders, and the next he was in the stiff plastic chair by your hospital bed, hands dangling uselessly between his knees.

“Stage four,” the doctor had said, voice neutral. Almost too neutral. “We’ll begin palliative options, but…”

But.

That word had slammed into his chest harder than any paparazzi headline ever had.

You didn’t cry. That was the worst part. You just nodded slowly, like you’d been preparing for this. Like you’d had time to process something he hadn’t even seen coming.

Ji-yong felt like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

The room buzzed faintly from the overhead lights, but everything else was quiet—too quiet. He could hear your breathing. Steady. Tired.

You reached for his hand.

He flinched before he even realized it. You stilled.

“I’m not mad,” he said quickly, voice hoarse. “I just—give me a second.”

You gave him more than that. You gave him the grace to fall apart.

He stood abruptly, walking to the window like it could offer him something—air, answers, escape.

It didn’t.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he said finally, his reflection ghosted on the glass. “I was supposed to—be the strong one.”

“You are,” you said softly.

“No, I’m not. I’m not.” He turned to you, voice shaking now. “You’re sick. And I can’t write my way out of this. I can’t fix it with money or tours or—” He broke off, biting his lip hard.

You gave him a small smile, tired but genuine. “You don’t have to fix it, Ji. You just have to be here.”

He hated how easily you said it. How kind you still were. How it made him want to cry.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said, finally coming back to your side. “And I’m terrified.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“I’m not gone yet.”

That undid him.

He buried his face in your lap, arms wrapping around your waist like he could physically hold time still. You stroked his hair like you always did, like he was just your Ji, not the idol, not the legend—just the man you’d married.

And in the silence that followed, with machines beeping softly and winter sun slanting across the floor, Ji-yong made a silent promise:

As long as there was breath in your body, he’d be there—loving you, grieving you, living beside you.

Even when the beat faded.

Daesung

The doctor’s words didn’t register at first.

Daesung sat there, hands clasped too tightly in his lap, nodding like a good student—but his ears were ringing. His heart pounded like a snare drum that had lost its rhythm.

“Daesung-ssi, did you hear me?” the doctor asked gently. “We’re looking at Stage IV. We’ll do everything we can, but…”

That was the moment the ringing stopped.

Everything else—every concert, every TV show, every sold-out arena—disappeared into a dull fog. All that mattered now was the way your hand trembled in his, and the way your eyes stayed locked on the floor.

You didn’t cry. That was what made it worse. You just sat there, nodding once. Calm. Resigned.

As if you’d already known.

At home, the silence felt unbearable.

The world had changed, but the apartment looked exactly the same. The kitchen still smelled like the orange peels you’d left in the sink. Your mug sat by the window, half full of lukewarm tea. The framed wedding photo on the mantle smiled too brightly, frozen in time.

He followed you to the bedroom without saying a word, helping you out of your coat like he always did. His fingers moved automatically. You went straight to the bed and sat on the edge, shoulders curling in. The air felt too heavy to breathe.

“Say something,” you whispered, finally.

He crouched in front of you, slowly—like his knees had forgotten how to bend. “What can I say?” His voice cracked. “Tell me what to say, and I’ll say it.”

Your hand touched his cheek, brushing a tear he didn’t even know had fallen. “You don’t have to fix this.”

“But I’m your husband.” His voice broke open, raw now. “I’m supposed to fix everything. I’m supposed to protect you.”

“I know,” you murmured. “And you do. Every day.”

“But not this.” His throat burned. “Not this.”

You pulled him into you then, arms wrapping around his neck as he finally let himself fall apart—right there on the bedroom floor, head in your lap, sobbing like the world was ending. Maybe it was.

You didn’t flinch. You held him through all of it. The strong one. The one dying.

The next few days passed in a blur of hospital visits, consultations, treatment plans. He smiled where he could, joked when you needed it, brought your favorite snacks and held your hand until it ached. But every night, when you were asleep and the apartment was dark, he’d go out to the balcony and cry into his fists.

And then one night, he didn’t cry.

He just stared at the stars.

And whispered, “Even if the sky falls, I’ll be here. I’ll hold you up.”

Because he finally understood: he couldn’t save you. But he could walk with you. Every step. Every appointment. Every bad day. Every good one.

Even if the ending was written.

He would love you through it all.

T.O.P

The doctor said the words like they were reading from a page: “Stage four. Aggressive. We’re sorry.”

Seung-hyun stared at the wall. You, on the other hand, nodded. Quiet. Brave. Braver than him, somehow.

“Okay,” you said.

Not why me, not what now, not even how long—just that one word. Like you already knew.

The next few months were a blur of hospital lights, sleeping upright in chairs, and Seung-hyun clutching your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His face grew thinner, hollow-eyed. Yours, softer somehow. Like you were becoming part of the air.

“I want you to go,” you whispered one night, weeks before your final breath.

“To hell with that,” he’d snapped, instantly ashamed of his tone. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

You shook your head. “On tour. You have to go. I want them to hear you. I want you to be heard, even when I’m gone.”

He gripped your wrist. “Don’t talk like that.”

But you only smiled. “Write for me. Sing for me. That’s how you’ll love me after.”

You made him promise.

So he went.

It was the third city of the tour—Tokyo Dome. He’d done the soundcheck half-present, still checking his phone every three minutes like he could will good news into appearing.

But there were no updates.

Your mother said you’d fallen asleep earlier that afternoon and hadn’t woken yet.

“She’s peaceful,” she said. “I’ll tell her you called.”

He was pacing backstage when it happened.

The text came from your sister. Two words:

She’s gone.

He walked on stage anyway. Something automatic in his limbs. The crowd’s roar sounded like wind through an empty canyon.

He opened his mouth to rap his verse and instead whispered: “She’s… she’s gone…”

Then his knees buckled.

Someone shouted.

The lights blurred.

They said he fainted before he hit the floor. They said he stopped breathing for three seconds. They said the EMTs got to him in time.

They didn’t know he died a little, too.

Back home, the world was too quiet. The bedroom smelled like your lotion. Your mug was still on the shelf. There were voice notes from you he hadn’t had the strength to replay yet.

But there was also a letter.

Folded under the lamp by your bedside.

His name written in shaky, familiar script.

He read it with trembling fingers.

My love, if you’re reading this, then I didn’t make it to your next show like I promised. But you did. And I’m so proud of you. Don’t let this break you. Let it bend you into something even stronger. Sing louder. Love harder. I’m still listening—just from somewhere softer now. Love, always. Me.

He wept for hours. Clutching the letter like a lifeline. Like a song not yet written.

Months later, he would return to the stage. The first words he said into the mic weren’t lyrics.

They were: “This one’s for her.”

And somewhere, maybe, you heard it.

[fishparasite]

hi im talking about my ocs again. it's been easier to find songs for david and particularly david's perception of nate than vice versa. but one day ill find the perfect nate song i know

[prisonhannibal]

!! DONT SKIP !! donations urgently needed They are only at €5,561 out of €50,000 goal

I was contacted by Nader to draw pictures for and help spread his brother Abdulsalam Al-Anqar’s fundraiser to save their family. Nader is a 17 year old boy who lives in Gaza with his family: parents Ahmed (54) and mother Iman (49), brothers Abdulsalam (26), Mohammed (14), and Omar (21) and Abdulsalam’s wife and their one year old daughter Iman. Imagine it was your sibling, your friend, your son, who should be in school or with his friends, who instead has to hide from bombs and ask for help online to save his family. His family have suffered through one year of genocide. All of you are their hope to get to safety.

This fundraiser is vetted by @gazavetters, number four on the spreadsheet here

Abdulsalams daughter Iman is only one year old and has lived most her life in a war zone. She is suffering from malnutrition. It’s every fathers worst nightmare to see their child starve and not be able to feed her. Please help him feed his daughter and get her to safety. No child should grow up hearing the sound of bombs. Every child has the right to food and safety. You can help give Iman the childhood she should have, where she can sleep in a safe bed at night with a full stomach.

Their father Ahmed has cancer and needs surgery and medication. It is not possible to get the treatment he needs in Gaza. every day his illness is left untreated, the cancer will continue to spread through his body, so he very urgently needs money for treatment and travel. If you help them get to their goal, you are saving their fathers life. Don’t let this family who have already lost so much lose their father, husband, and grandfather

Nader has showed me pictures of this explosion close to them, thankfully they were able to get away. Every day they stay in Gaza their lives are at risk from israeli bombs. Every day and hour counts. I know there are compassionate and kind people who are willing to help. every euro helps, YOUR donation will bring them one moment closer to safety. With love and hope I’m asking you to give what you can, I believe in the kind people of the world and I beg you to not let them die. If you can’t donate, please share so it may reach people who can.

Never forget that palestinians are not numbers on a list of deaths. Please think of each of them, think of their names and faces and know that you can help them. I think of them every day. I think of the hopes and dreams they should achieve, I think of their education, their future, and the love they show when they work hard every day to get help. You may feel powerless to stop this genocide, but you have the power to save Abdulsalam and his family. I dream that the day will come soon where they may use their days to rest and recover from what they’ve been through, where they can share a meal and laugh and the children will play, instead of having to use their time to beg the world to listen and help them. We can make this possible.

50 000 euros is a lot of money for one person to give, but for all of us together, it can be done. Please don’t look away.

(drawing above by @neechees)

Thank you for reading their story. Please don’t keep scrolling without sharing

here is the link again to their fundraiser

tagging for reach:

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