#i should be sleeping right now but instead

[mulloey]

Can you write a full length fic of boyfriends!sanhwa reminding the reader who she belong to after someone tried to flirt with her at party and she was too oblivious to understand and went with it?

Can you include overstim and them having the reader on their lap. And a bit of size kink on sanhwa's part.

Do not include: mxm, misogynistic terms like whore and slut.

too sweet

san & seonghwa x fem!reader

words: 1k

join my taglist

warnings: overstim, punishment, soft doms!sanhwa, kind of innocent!reader, reader is smaller than sanhwa, big size kink (you’re referred to as small, tiny, little etc)

—

“Do you understand now?”

Seonghwa’s voice is low and teasing in your ear, making you squirm in his hold; he has you on his lap, your legs spread apart and held in position by his own strong thighs. His arms are wrapped around your torso, stroking your flushed skin as you sob through another orgasm.

You don’t know how many you’ve had now, nor how many you’re yet to endure; San’s fingers pump in and out of your pussy relentlessly, his other hand holding a vibrator firmly against your swollen clit. You writhe pathetically in Seonghwa’s arms but you all know it’s pointless; they could overpower you in your sleep, and when they’re this determined to teach you a lesson, there’s nothing you can do but take it.

“Yes, Hwa,” you hiccup. Your voice is tiny and pathetic, hoarse from screaming and begging for God knows how long. “Hwa, m’ sorry, please.”

He laughs softly into your skin, lips trailing across your neck. “Oh I know, honey,” he coos. “It must hurt so much, huh?” His voice drips with condescension and you know he doesn’t actually care if it hurts; he wants it to hurt, wants you so drunk on pleasure that you can’t think of anything except them, their hands, and how sorry you are for being so bad.

And you were really, really bad—or so they said. You don’t think it’s fair, honestly, to be punished for something you didn’t even know you were doing, but you’re not silly enough to protest; Seonghwa in particular hates when you try to weasel out of a punishment, sees it as the ultimate form of disobedience—so trying to talk yourself out of this would only have made it worse. For the nth time tonight your safeword dances on your tongue but you have no intention of using it. They know as well as you do that you absolutely adore being used like this.

Still, it would be better if this wasn’t happening as a punishment; then you’d be able to ask San to take it slower, or to pull his fingers out and fuck you instead. But if that’s what you wanted, then maybe you should have been more careful.

They knew they shouldn’t have taken you to that party. A company event filled with other artists and staff, it was all too easy to lose you in the crowd; you were smaller than most of the people, a social butterfly, and endlessly optimistic of people’s intentions. For just ten seconds San had looked away from you to chat with one of his stylists—but that was all the time it took for you to slip away.

It was Seonghwa that found you chatting happily with one of the choreographers. To be fair to the guy, he was new and didn’t know the nature of your relationship to them yet; but that didn’t make the sight of him leaning against the wall with his hand on your arm any more pleasant. And you, sweet thing that you were, had no idea what he was doing.

He got you out of there quickly, both of your boyfriends bundling you into the car despite your protests; Seonghwa nearly broke the speed limit trying to get you home before he snapped and took you right there on the motorway.

You’re just too sweet for your own good. And the noises you make as you approach another orgasm certainly are.

You can’t bear to look at San anymore; the focus on his face and the bulging muscles of his arms as he works you open are only turning you on more, so you bury your face in Seonghwa’s neck, crying pitifully into his hair. You shudder through your next orgasm, barely in control of your limbs anymore and San kisses your cream-covered thighs. “Pretty girl,” he croons. “Naughty girl.”

“M’ sorry,” you whine. “Sannie, please, I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Seonghwa says with a sweet smile. “You’re gonna, baby.”

San hums in agreement as he resumes his assault on your aching cunt. “Such a pretty pussy,” he purrs. “So tiny for us. Only for us, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you whisper. “Only for— only for you. Only for Sannie and Hwa.”

“Good girl,” Seonghwa says. “Such a sweetheart, learning her lesson so well. Isn’t she, Sannie?”

“She is, yeah. One more orgasm, baby, then I’ll fuck you, alright?”

You nod dizzily, barely aware of what’s going on; just as your last orgasm approaches, San pulls the vibrator away and attaches his mouth to your clit, sucking harshly at it and it’s all takes for you to come crashing over the edge, releasing onto his face. He comes up with a grin, mouth and chin wet with your juices as he pulls you out to Seonghwa’s arms and into his own. He pushes you down on the sheets, hovering over you. “Hi, tiny,” he smiles. “Want me in your pussy?”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly. “And— and Hwa?”

San’s smile widens and you hear Seonghwa laugh from next to you. “Silly girl,” he says. “How am I gonna fit in there with Sannie? You’re too little, baby, we’d tear you open.”

“Don’t care,” you say. Your voice is stubborn and San pinches your thigh in warning.

“Be good,” he mumbles. “Hwa’s right, honey. We’re too big to fit in that little pussy. But if you ask him nicely I’m sure he’ll fuck your mouth, right?”

“Right.” Seonghwa grabs your chin gently, turning your head to face him where he’s kneeling at the side of the bed. His eyes are soft and impossibly aroused as he looks you up and down. “Want me in your mouth, pretty?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Please.”

“That’s not enough.” There’s a stern edge to his voice now that makes you shrink into yourself a little and his lips quirk amusedly when he notices. “You were really, really naughty tonight, baby. If you want me in your mouth you’re gonna have to beg for it, aren’t you?”

“Please,” you say. “Please, Hwa, I need— I’ll be so good. I won’t be bad again, I won’t let anyone flirt with me again, I swear I learnt my lesson, pl—”

“Sh, sh,” San soothes you with a chuckle, rubbing your pussy gently; the wet sounds make you blush. “We know, baby, good girl. Always so good.”

“You are,” Seonghwa smiles.

As you feel San start to push into you you feel the bed dip under Seonghwa’s weight as he climbs onto it. His dick is already leaking when he presses it against your lips.

“Open up, baby.”

—

ateez taglist: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi @tangerineastronaut @fancypeacepersona @aloevendetta @lemonkait00 @uhh-awkward-rightt @whyokoa @miyaluvvsyou @yabbadabbatuh @mylovelymito

requests open!

[espresso1patronum]

Nine Lives, One Knight

(batman!gojo x catwoman!reader)

synopsis: By day, Gojo Satoru is Gotham’s golden boy—billionaire, genius, untouchable. By night, he’s the Bat, a relentless force in the city’s shadows. You? You’re Catwoman—master thief, chaos incarnate, always one step ahead. You’ve spent years dancing around each other, neither willing to truly win. But when a new faction, the Black Veil, sets its sights on Gotham’s most powerful players—including you and the Bat—you’re forced into an uneasy alliance. Tension crackles, lines blur, and the game you’ve always played turns deadly. Because this time, it’s not just about the city. This time, it’s about each other.

cw: batman au, mutual pining, slow burn, sort of enemies to lovers, angst, violence, blood, injury mention, gun violence, kinda gory? kinda forbidden love? Toji, geto, shoko and nanami cameo lmao

word count: 10.1k

author's note: this had been in my drafts for a very long time and after the poll results, I thought i'd finish this. it's not much, but I enjoyed writing this jjk x dc crossover.

Gotham was never silent.

Not even at midnight.

Not even when the rain came down in thick, suffocating sheets, drenching the city in shadows. Somewhere below, sirens wailed. Tires screeched. A single gunshot cracked through the air, distant but unmistakable.

To some, the noise was chaos. To you?

It was home.

You move across the rooftop with practiced ease, the weight of the Black Veil’s encrypted drive tucked safely into the pocket of your suit. The heist had been too easy. A little slip past the lasers, a quick crack of the safe, and just like that—you were out.

Something worth a small fortune in your hands. Or rather—something that could destroy half of Gotham’s elite if it ended up in the wrong hands.

(Or the right ones, depending on who you asked.)

A clean escape. A successful job. You should be gone by now.

And yet—

A shiver runs down your spine. Not from the cold. Not from the rain. From something else.

Something you can’t see, but feel.

You land soundlessly on another rooftop, pausing only for a second to scan the city below. Nothing. No movement. Just the familiar neon glow of Gotham’s underbelly.

Still—your fingers twitch. Instinct coils in your gut, whispering a warning you don’t want to acknowledge.

Too easy.

Too—

“Going somewhere, kitten?”

The voice comes from behind you, smooth as silk, dark as thunder.

You don’t startle. You don’t turn. Instead, you let a slow, knowing smirk curl at your lips before you finally glance back.

There he is.

Perched on the edge of the rooftop like he belongs in the night, the rain dripping off the edges of his cowl, his cape shifting slightly in the wind. Batman.

Or rather—Gojo Satoru.

You should’ve known he’d show up. Maybe you did. Maybe you ignored it.

"Bold of you," you murmur, fingers flexing, ready to bolt. "Sneaking up on a cat in the dark."

His head tilts, and though the mask hides half his face, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Please," he drawls. "You knew I was here before you even touched the ground."

He's right. You did. But you don’t let him win that easily.

"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Bat?" You shift your weight, rolling your shoulders, keeping it casual. "Or do you just like following me around?"

He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. The way a storm rolls in—inevitable.

"You stole something," he says.

You sigh, dramatically. "I steal a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific."

"You know what I’m talking about."

He’s close enough now that you can see the flicker of blue beneath his mask. The kind of dangerous blue that makes your pulse stutter for half a second before you shut it down.

"Give it to me," he says, voice quieter this time.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. "Oh, Bat. You always ask so nicely."

Before he can move, you bolt.

And that’s when the rooftop explodes.

A deafening boom shatters the night, the blast wave knocking you clean off your feet. You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to react—your body moves on instinct, twisting midair, boots scraping against the slick rooftop as you skid dangerously close to the edge.

Shit.

The explosion wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you.

You barely have time to register the shift in the air before an arm wraps around your waist—strong, unyielding, and familiar—yanking you backward just as the ledge beneath your feet crumbles.

You don’t fall.

Because he doesn’t let you.

When the smoke clears, you’re half-sprawled against him, one of his arms still locked around your waist, his other hand braced against the rooftop. Your breaths come hard and fast, heart pounding against your ribs, adrenaline flooding your veins.

"Well," you huff, dazed but not broken. "Didn’t think you cared, Bat."

His grip tightens—just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it.

"I don’t," he says flatly. But his jaw clenches. "Stay down."

You snort, pushing off of him as you roll onto your feet. "You and I both know that’s not happening."

He doesn’t argue. Because you’re right. Because whoever just tried to kill you isn’t done.

And they’re not alone.

From the rooftop across the alley, figures emerge from the shadows. Armed. Precise. Waiting.

Batman’s shoulders go rigid. His voice is low. Dangerous.

"They knew you’d be here."

You exhale sharply, adjusting your gloves. "Looks like we’re on the same side tonight, Bat."

The rain slicks the rooftop, turning it into a death trap. But you’ve fought in worse.

Across the alley, four figures move into position. Their weapons gleam under the glow of a distant streetlight—guns, knives, and something that looks an awful lot like a taser baton.

Cute.

Satoru tenses beside you, assessing. Calculating. His voice is low, barely audible over the rain. "Stay behind me."

You scoff, rolling your shoulders. "Not happening."

He doesn’t waste time arguing. Because you’re both outnumbered, because the enemy is moving—because there’s no time to fight each other when you’re about to fight them.

And then—they strike.

One gunshot. Two. You react on instinct, dropping low, twisting away, boots skidding against the rooftop. Batman’s cape flares as he moves—one sharp flick of his wrist, and a batarang slices through the dark, knocking a pistol clean from one of their hands.

Fast and efficient. Classic him.

You? You have your own way of doing things.

The second attacker lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, grab their wrist, twist—the blade clatters to the ground. Before they can react, your elbow smashes into their ribs, sending them stumbling backward with a wheeze.

"Really?" you taunt, dodging another strike. "You came all this way just to embarrass yourselves?"

Batman doesn’t look at you, but you swear you can feel his exasperation.

"Focus."

You grin. "I am focused."

And then you flip over one of the attackers, landing smoothly behind them before slamming them headfirst into a ventilation unit.

Batman exhales sharply. "Could’ve just knocked them out."

"They’ll wake up." You dodge another strike. "Eventually."

More gunfire. Batman twists mid-air, cape flowing like liquid shadow as he dodges the bullets. In the same motion, he grabs your wrist—yanking you forward, pulling you out of the line of fire just as another shot rings out.

You’re so close you can hear his heartbeat.

For half a second, the world shrinks. The rain, the chaos, the rooftop beneath your feet, it all disappears.

It’s just you and him. Breathing the same air.

Then—"Move."

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You both explode into motion, flawless in sync. A kick to the ribs. A punch to the jaw. A perfect sweep of your leg sends another attacker sprawling.

It’s fast. Clean. Too easy.

When the last enemy collapses, groaning, you barely break a sweat.

You exhale, shaking out your arms. "Well," you say, breathless. "That was fun."

Satoru glares at you. "This wasn’t a game."

"Could’ve fooled me." You step over one of the unconscious bodies, crouching slightly to pat them down. No ID. No insignia. No obvious ties to the Black Veil.

But then— your fingers brush against something cold. Metal.

Your stomach drops.

A small device is clipped to one of their belts. Black, sleek, with a blinking red light.

Shit.

Your head snaps up. Satoru sees it the same moment you do, his voice is sharp. "Bomb." A soft beep. A single second.

And then— the rooftop blows apart beneath your feet.

Pain.

It drags you back to consciousness, slow and disorienting, like surfacing from deep water. Your body aches, the sharp sting of a fresh wound cutting through the dull throb of bruises.

The last thing you remember—the rooftop. The explosion.

And then—falling.

Your eyes snap open. You’re not on the street. You’re not dead.

Instead, you’re somewhere dimly lit, the soft hum of an old heater filling the silence. A safehouse.

Your head tilts slightly. The room is small—just a battered couch, an old desk, and a half-broken lamp casting flickering shadows against the walls.

And across from you— standing near the door, arms crossed, still in full suit— is Batman.

Gojo.

Watching you.

You shift, trying to sit up, but a sharp pull at your side stops you. That’s when you realize— your suit is torn and your stomach is bandaged, and you sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "Didn’t take you for the hands-on type, Bat."

His jaw ticks. "You were bleeding."

"Aww," you tease, voice still hoarse. "You do care."

He steps closer. The soft glow of the lamp catches the edge of his mask, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders.

"You almost died." His voice is quiet now, lacking its usual smugness. Too honest.

You tilt your head, studying him. Something about the way he’s looking at you feels... different.

Like he hated seeing you like that. Like it unnerved him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is thick, heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Then—he exhales, stepping back, breaking the moment.

"You need rest," he mutters.

You shift again, testing the pain, biting back a wince. "I need answers."

"You need to not die."

"You didn’t answer my question."

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is sharp, precise. Avoiding something.

"The bomb was a trap. Someone wanted you dead."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, I figured that part out, Bat."

He ignores the sarcasm. "Who else knew you’d be at that vault?"

"Just me."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and assessing. Like he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. "Look, I don’t have a name yet. Just whispers about a buyer wanting the drive. But if they’re willing to go that far to kill me for it—"

"—then you’re already in too deep."

There’s something grim in his tone that makes your stomach twist. You study him carefully. His cowl hides most of his face, but you’ve seen him fight, seen him move.

Gojo Satoru is always too confident. Too smug. Like he knows he’s the strongest, the fastest, the smartest in the room.

But right now? Right now, he looks... frustrated.

Not at you. He is frustrated for you and the realization is dangerous.

You push it down and swallow it whole. "Relax, Bat," you say, forcing a smirk. "I still got, what, six lives left?"

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t take the bait. But then your breath catches as he kneels infront of you but you don't move.

You should. You should say something—anything—but you don’t. Because his hands are on you again, pressing carefully against your bandaged side, checking his work.

He’s too close. His touch warm, solid, and careful.

And for the first time, he looks at you—not as an opponent. Not as a thief. But as something else entirely.

The silence stretches and you wish it hadn't because your heart is pounding in a way it isn't supposed to.

And then— he shifts.

You feel it before it happens. The slow lean forward. The weight of his stare. The way your own pulse betrays you, beating too fast, too hard, in the space between you.

Almost—

But then, the moment shatters.

The old radio in the corner crackles to life, static hissing before a voice cuts through. "Breaking news—an attack on Gotham’s financial district just moments ago—"

You blink as he pulls back and you just clear your throat, wanting to push all the wierd thoughts that were clouding your mind right now.

Satoru's expression hardens, as he stands, straightens his suit and steps away. "You stay here," he says, all business again.

You smirk, ignoring the sharp ache in your ribs. "Come on, Bat. You know that’s not happening."

He exhales, long-suffering. "You’re injured."

"And yet I still fight better than half your enemies."

He pauses and stares at you as though you'd said something wrong. Then, finally—a reluctant smirk. "Try to keep up, kitten."

Satoru hadn’t always been like this in the past when you met him. He was obnoxious, full of himself, always eager to show off his strength and speed in front of you. But today—this time—he felt different. For the first time, he seemed genuinely serious. And maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of vulnerability in the way he spoke, in the way Gotham’s Batman spoke.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with you. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t help but wonder—what if it did?

Sneaking into Gotham’s financial district isn’t hard. But sneaking in with Batman?

Now that’s a challenge.

You slip through the shadows like you were born for this—because you were. Satoru moves beside you, silent, precise, and still annoyingly smug. You glance at him. "Not bad, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you. "Not trying to impress you, kitten."

Liar.

The building looms ahead, dark and empty except for the guards patrolling the perimeter. "Twelve," you murmur, already counting. "Four on the roof, two at the entrance, six inside."

He hums. "I’ll take the roof. You take the inside."

You grin. "Awfully trusting, Bat."

"If you get caught, I’m not saving you."

You both know that’s a lie.

Getting in is easy. Getting to the main office where the stolen drive is hidden? Even easier. You’re already at the vault, fingers working over the lock, when— you hear footsteps.

Shit.

You whirl around, but it’s too late—one of the guards spots you. The alarm blares.

"Dammit," you hiss, already moving, flipping over the desk as more guards storm in. You could take them. You should take them. It's really easy for you actually.

But before you even get the chance— a blur of black crashes through the skylight. Batman lands hard, cape billowing, taking down two guards before his boots even hit the floor.

You blink. "Show-off."

"You’re welcome," he mutters, throwing a punch.

It’s a blur of fists, kicks, and electricity. You move too well together, too in sync. It’s not just skill—it’s instinct. Every time you dodge, he’s already covering your blind spot. Every time he moves, you’re already reading his next step.

It’s flawless. It’s deadly. It’s perfect but— a bit too much. At some point, you end up back-to-back. Panting, bruised and your adrenaline spiking.

His voice is low, breathless. "You good?"

You swallow hard because you shouldn’t be this affected. You shouldn't be affected by anything he says or he does because you don't care, right?

"Always."

And then— a hand grips your wrist. It was a guard you didn’t see. You twist your hand, ready to counter, but before you can, Batman moves first.

Fast. Too fast.

His hand grips the front of your suit—yanking you forward, spinning you behind him as he slams the attacker into the wall with enough force to shake the room.

With a loud thud, the guy drops instantly and you hear nothing but the silence that is lingering in the air. The only sound is your breath and his, his hand still gripping your suit, still holding you.

You look up at him and find him already watching you. He’s too close for your liking. Or is he?

His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling in steady yet controlled breaths, and his grip on you remains firm. Your pulse slams against your ribs. There’s something in the air—something that shifts, pulling both of you in. You feel it. And so does he.

You hate this. Or at least, you tell yourself you do. But the truth is, you can’t stop it. It’s happening, inevitable and inescapable. This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is something else entirely. And this time, no one interrupts. No radio crackling to life, no explosions in the distance, no convenient excuse to look away.

It’s just you. Him. And a choice.

Before you can even pull yourself back, before your mind can fully grasp the situation, Satoru makes the decision for you. He yanks you forward, his lips crashing onto yours, his mask half-pulled up—just like yours. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer.

And despite everything, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t—you kiss him back.

Your back slams against cold metal, the impact sending a shiver down your spine—not that you can focus on it. Not when he’s leaning in, fingers curling into your suit, pulling, pressing, taking.

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until it’s too late. Until your hands are in his hair, gripping, tugging, dragging him closer. Until his weight is the only thing keeping you upright.

The vault. The alarms. The entire damn mission—forgotten. Because all you can think about is—

This is dangerous. This is a mistake. This is—

“Fuck,” you breathe against his lips.

And then— he pulls back, barely.

His breath is ragged, his gloved hand still firm on your jaw, his eyes burning with something wild, like he can’t believe he just did that or like he can’t believe he wants to do it again.

The silence between you crackles like a live wire.

Then he swallows. “We can’t—”

You shove him off. Hard.

Your body still hums from his touch, your lips still tingling, your pulse betraying you. But you don’t let any of it show. Instead, you smirk, sharp as a blade.

“Didn’t know the Bat had such bad impulse control.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see it—the exact moment he chooses denial. The way his walls snap back into place like steel reinforcements.

His mask comes down. His voice turns cold. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Because now, the line between you is blurred beyond recognition. Because now, you know what he tastes like. Because now, everything has changed.

And there’s no undoing it.

Gotham’s elite love to party.

It’s how they distract themselves from the fact that their city is rotting beneath them.

Big money, expensive champagne, and a ballroom filled with people who don’t care about anything but themselves.

It’s your kind of scene.

A place where no one notices a missing diamond necklace. Where a stolen keycard goes unreported. Where masks are more than just accessories.

And yet— tonight, you’re not here to steal. Tonight, you're here for him.

It had been a few days since that night—since everything that happened between you and Satoru. Or Batman.

Now, another party was being thrown by Gotham’s elite, and of course, Batman had been invited. And, of course, you had to see him again.

It felt awkward.

Because no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, that kiss had meant something. To both of you. And you didn’t want it to.

You wanted to talk to him like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever would happen again. Right?

You wanted to tell him it was just the adrenaline, just the chaos of that night, nothing more. That’s all it was. That’s all it could ever be.

Gojo Satoru feels you before he sees you.

A shift in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck.

And then— you walk in, dressed to kill.

Silk. Black. Dangerous. A slit running high up your thigh, the soft glint of diamonds resting against your collarbone.

And when your gaze meets his across the ballroom— his throat goes dry.

Because he hasn’t seen you since the kiss. Because you’re smiling like it never happened. Because the second you do— you turn away, and walk straight into another man’s arms.

You feel his stare before you even see him. It lingers on your skin, heavy and unrelenting, like a touch without contact. But you don’t look. Not yet.

Instead, you let the man beside you—some rich idiot with more money than sense—pull you closer, his hand brushing over your waist, his breath warm as he leans in.

"You look exquisite tonight," he murmurs, voice smooth, practiced.

You hum, barely interested. "I know." And still, you feel him.

Watching. Brooding. Jealous. Exactly as you wanted.

So when you finally turn—when your gaze finally locks onto his across the crowded ballroom—you make sure to smirk.

And just like that, he’s gone.

But you know better. He didn’t leave. Not really.

So when you step outside onto the balcony, the cool Gotham night air brushing against your skin, you’re not surprised to find him already there. He stands by the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed, fingers curled around a glass of untouched champagne.

His mask is gone, but his walls? Higher than ever.

You exhale slowly as you step closer, watching him carefully. "Didn’t take you for the jealous type, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "I’m not."

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. "Could’ve fooled me."

Silence settles between you, thick with unspoken words and something else, something heavier. The tension coils between you like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

And then, you break it.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you say, your voice quieter now.

His jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t shift. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"Maybe," you admit. A small smirk tugs at your lips as you step even closer. "Or maybe I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s not how this works, kitten."

"Then how does it work?" Your voice is softer now, your gaze steady. "Because last I checked, you kissed me."

His breath hitches, barely audible.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

And then— you’re against the railing, his hand is on your waist, his grip firm, fingers pressing against the silk of your dress as if anchoring himself in place. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice low and edged with something dangerous.

"It was a mistake," he murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind the words.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly. "Then why are you still thinking about it?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because you already know.

And when his grip tightens on your waist, when his breath ghosts over your lips, you can see it—the exact moment he realizes he’s already lost.

You could kiss him right now. It would be easy. He’s already too close. His body is practically caging you in, his presence overwhelming. His fingers press into your waist like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath his touch. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

And you know he wants it. Because he hasn’t moved away. Because his grip keeps tightening, like he’s fighting himself but losing the battle.

Because when you whisper, "What are you so afraid of, Bat?" his lips part—like he’s about to answer.

Like he’s about to give in. Like this is finally it.

And then— "We’ve got a problem." The comm in his ear crackles to life, shattering the moment.

Just like that, his entire body stiffens. The warmth disappears, replaced by something cold, something distant. You watch it happen—the exact second he shuts down. The moment he remembers who he is. Who you are. What this is.

His hand falls away. His walls slam back up.

When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of whatever had been lingering between you just seconds ago. "I have to go."

You don’t let it show—the disappointment, the frustration curling inside your chest, the ache you don’t want to name. Instead, you force a smirk, tilting your head slightly.

"Duty calls, huh?"

His expression remains unreadable. "Always."

And with that— he’s gone.

But there's always a problem. You should've known this was a setup. You should have left the party the second he walked away.

You should have ignored the champagne, the meaningless conversations, and the empty laughter echoing through the ballroom. You should have disappeared into the night before anyone had the chance to notice.

But you didn’t. And now, you are paying for it.

The moment you step out the back entrance and into the dimly lit alleyway, something slams into you with brutal force. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, sending you stumbling. Before you can react, a sharp sting pierces the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs instantly as your body feels heavy and unsteady. The world tilts beneath you as you struggle to stay upright, but your limbs refuse to cooperate.

Through the haze, a voice reaches your ears, low and amused. "Nighty night, kitty."

Darkness swallows you whole.

"Say that again."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Shoko hesitates over the comms. "She’s missing. No one’s seen her since the party. Word on the street is—"

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. He is already moving. His mind is no longer in the conversation. His focus sharpens, narrowing in on a single, undeniable truth.

Someone took you. And that changes everything.

This isn’t part of the game you and he have played for years. This isn’t the usual chase through Gotham’s streets, the endless dance of pursuit and escape. This isn’t teasing smirks and near-missed captures.

This is something else, something darker.

Someone dared to take you, and that is a very, very big problem.

Because you are his to chase. Because no one else gets to touch you. Because if they have hurt you— he will burn this entire fucking city to the ground.

Pain is the first thing you register. The feeling's not new at all though.

A dull, throbbing ache pulses behind your eyes, heavy and unrelenting. A sharp sting burns at your wrists where the rope digs into your skin. Cold metal presses against your ankles, the bite of steel cuffs locking you in place.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself as the haze begins to clear. You’re tied to a chair.

The air is thick with the scent of damp concrete, musty and stale, like an old basement that hasn't seen fresh air in years. A single lightbulb flickers overhead, its dim glow casting long, shifting shadows against the cracked walls.

You take a slow breath and assess your surroundings.

You’re underground. Maybe an abandoned warehouse. Maybe a storage facility. Wherever you are, it's hidden, tucked away from prying eyes.

And whoever took you here—they know what they’re doing.

You flex your fingers, testing the restraints, but before you can shift too much, a voice cuts through the silence.

"Ah, you’re awake."

The words are smooth, laced with amusement, as if this entire situation is nothing more than an entertaining inconvenience to him.

Your eyes snap toward the source of the voice, adjusting to the dim light, and when you finally see him, irritation flares in your chest.

Fushiguro Toji.

You let out a slow breath, biting back a groan. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me."

Toji smirks, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. "Surprised, kitty?"

"Annoyed," you correct, rolling your shoulders against the ropes. "Didn’t think I was worth your time."

He chuckles, dark amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Oh, you weren’t. But then I heard about your little… situation with Gotham’s Bat."

The words are casual, but your stomach twists.

You don’t react. You don’t tense. You don’t let the flicker of unease show on your face. Instead, you arch a brow and smirk. "Didn’t know he had fans."

"I wouldn’t call myself a fan," Toji muses, tilting his head. "But I do love a good weakness. And you, sweetheart?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’re his."

Your heart skips just for a second.

But you keep your expression neutral because he’s wrong.

Right?

Right.

Right.

…Right?

Gojo finds the first guy in ten minutes.

The second in five.

By the time he gets to the third, his knuckles are already bloodied, bruises forming across his fingers from the force of his hits.

The man stumbles back, pressing himself against the brick wall, his breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. "I-I don’t know where they took her, I swear—"

Gojo’s expression is unreadable beneath his blindfold, but his voice is ice. "Where."

It isn’t a question. It’s a demand.

The man chokes, scrambling for words. "P-please, man, I just heard they took her underground—"

That’s all Gojo needs.

His fingers loosen, and the man collapses to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. But Gojo doesn’t wait. He’s already gone. Because he’s close. Because they took you from him. Because they think they can keep you.

And they’re about to learn just how wrong they are.

You won’t let him see you sweat.

Not when the ropes burn against your wrists, cutting into your skin with every twitch of your fingers. Not when your head pounds from whatever the hell they drugged you with, the fog in your brain refusing to lift. Not even when Fushiguro Toji leans in, eyes dark with amusement, the sharp glint of his knife catching the dim, flickering light.

He’s enjoying this.

Enjoying the way your muscles tense when the blade spins between his fingers. Enjoying the way your gaze flickers toward the door, toward the single exposed bulb swaying overhead.

Enjoying the way you’re waiting for something.

Or rather, someone.

"What’s wrong, kitty?" he murmurs, the cold edge of steel pressing against your cheek. "Thought your Bat would’ve come for you by now?"

Your lips curl into a smirk, masking the way your stomach coils with unease. "What, jealous?"

Toji chuckles, low and amused, before his fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His grip is firm—not cruel, but controlling. A predator playing with his food.

"Nah," he muses. "Just curious how long it’s gonna take him to break."

Your stomach tightens because if there’s one thing you know about Gojo Satoru, it’s this— he doesn’t break.

He shatters. And when he does— he takes everything down with him.

Gojo hears your heartbeat before he sees you. He has some sirt of a bat instinct, you see.

Faint. Steady. Alive.

That’s the only thing keeping him from ripping this place apart.

But the moment he steps inside—the moment his eyes land on you, tied to that fucking chair, with Toji crouched in front of you like a wolf toying with its prey—something inside him snaps.

"Step away from her." His voice is quiet and deadly. The kind of voice that promises violence.

Toji doesn’t even turn around. Instead, he grins, spinning his knife between his fingers. "Took you long enough, Bat."

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. "This is your only warning."

Toji finally turns, his sharp green eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Or what?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

Then—he smiles. "Or I’ll show you why Gotham is afraid of the dark."

You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen the way he moves—quick, calculated, precise.

But this? This is different. This isn’t the controlled Bat, this isn’t the patient hunter.

This is Gojo Satoru with nothing left to hold back. And it’s terrifying. Because he’s not just fighting Toji.

He’s dismantling him.

A fist meets flesh with a sickening, brutal crack. Toji throws a punch—Gojo catches his wrist mid-air, twisting hard enough that the snap of bone echoes through the empty warehouse.

Toji grits his teeth, lunges—Gojo moves faster, dodging with ease before slamming him into the concrete so hard the ground cracks beneath them. There’s no banter. No smirk. No teasing.

There’s just rage.

And the worst part? Gojo is enjoying it. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is everything.

This is Gotham. The corruption. The powerlessness.

This is every ounce of anger he’s swallowed down for years, unleashed on the one bastard stupid enough to give him an excuse and if you don’t stop him now— he won’t stop at all.

"Satoru." Your voice barely reaches him over the pounding in his ears.

But the second you say his name—his real name— he freezes.

Fist still curled in Toji’s bloodied collar. Breath coming in slow, heavy exhales. Shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury.

And then, slowly—he turns. His eyes meet yours, and for the briefest moment, they flicker—from Gotham’s Bat to the man underneath. That’s all you need.

"Let him go."

Gojo stares at you, unmoving, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sharp breath—he lets Toji’s unconscious body drop to the ground. The tension in his frame lingers, coiled tight, but his steps are steady as he moves toward you. The anger is still there. The darkness. The weight of everything he just did.

But his hands are gentle when they find the ropes binding your wrists.

"Let’s get you out of here."

The silence is suffocating.

You should be grateful though. The moment he cut you loose, he got you out—carried you through Gotham’s backstreets, made sure you weren’t followed. Now, you’re in a hidden safehouse—one of his, no doubt—sitting on an old couch, trying to ignore the dull ache in your wrists.

And him? He’s in the bathroom. Avoiding you.

You hear the water running, the steady drip of blood swirling down the sink. You should leave, you should run. But you don’t. Because you’re not done with him yet.

But for him it keeps replaying in his head. The way you said it.

'"Satoru."'

Not Batman. Not Bats. Not some teasing, smug nickname meant to piss him off. Just his name.

Like you knew exactly what it meant to use it. Like you knew it would break him.

His knuckles sting as he washes off the blood. He should have killed Toji. He should have— no.

No, he shouldn’t have let you get this close. He grips the edge of the sink, eyes burning into his reflection. He can’t want this. He can’t want you.

But then—a creak of the floorboard, a shift in the air. He doesn’t need to turn around to know you’re standing in the doorway. And when you speak— he already knows he’s fucked.

"Let me see your hands."

He doesn’t move, neither does he look at you. But he also doesn’t stop you when you step forward and reach for his hand. The bruises are already blooming, dark and angry across his knuckles.

You should say something sharp—something to piss him off, make him smirk, drag him back into whatever stupid game you’ve been playing for years. But for once, you don’t want to play.

"You could’ve killed him," your voice is quiet.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I should have."

"That’s not who you are," you say as you caress the back of his hand.

That makes him snap.

His head jerks up, eyes flashing. "You don’t know who I am."

But you don’t let go.

You squeeze his hand—challenging. "Then tell me."

He doesn't say anything for a while and you feel frustrated.

And then, softer—barely a breath. "You don’t want to know."

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, coiling around your throat like a noose.

His hand is still in yours, bruised and warm, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to pull away.

Or worse—hold on tighter.

You don’t let go. Neither does he. And for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe— maybe this isn’t something you have to fight. Maybe this doesn’t have to be another battle, another game of pushing and pulling until one of you finally lets go.

Maybe— but then his grip tightens, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse. "You should leave."

The words hit harder than any punch.

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. You force yourself to smile, to tilt your head like this is nothing, like you aren’t standing on the edge of something that could shatter you completely.

"So that’s it?" you murmur, fingers tracing absent patterns along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath your touch. "I almost die, you almost lose your mind, and now you’re just gonna pretend none of it happened?"

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing, but he doesn’t pull away. "It can’t happen."

You scoff. "Can’t, or won’t?"

He exhales sharply, the muscle in his jaw twitching again. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make this something it isn’t."

Anger flickers hot in your chest, and this time, it’s you who tightens your grip. "And what exactly is this, Satoru?"

He doesn’t answer and that’s the worst part. Because you can take a fight. You can take sharp words and heated arguments, can take anger and fire and frustration.

But this? This silence? This refusal to even acknowledge what’s between you? This is what fucking hurts.

You shake your head, laughing bitterly as you finally drop his hand. "You know, for someone who always acts like he’s got all the answers, you really are a fucking coward."

Then you turn. And this time, you walk away first.

He lets you walk away, though he shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

Because if he stops you—if he says anything else, if he gives in even an inch— he won’t be able to stop himself at all.

He won’t be able to stop himself from pulling you back, from letting himself want this, want you, from letting himself believe that there could ever be a world where this doesn't end in disaster.

So he lets you go. He stays in that goddamn bathroom, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white, staring at his own reflection like it’ll give him an answer he doesn’t already fucking know.

Because he knows.

He knows that no matter how many times he tells himself to stay away, no matter how many times he buries it— it’s still there.

It’s been there for years. And now? Now it’s unraveling, slipping through his fingers like smoke, impossible to ignore, impossible to deny. Because the moment you walked away? He felt it.

The weight in his chest, the tightening in his throat, the overwhelming urge to chase after you, to take it back, to do something—

And fuck.

Fuck.

He slams his fist into the mirror before he can stop himself, glass shattering beneath his skin, pain blooming sharp and hot across his knuckles. He doesn’t even feel it. Because all he can think about—all he can fucking think about— is you. And that’s when he knows. This is it. This is the breaking point.

Because the second something happens—the second something puts you in danger again, the second someone so much as looks at you the wrong way— he won’t be able to stop himself.

And this time? He won’t fucking try.

You shouldn’t care. You tell yourself you don’t.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

You tell yourself you should be used to it by now—used to the push and pull, used to the way he always leaves first, used to the way you always let him.

But this time? This time, it feels different.

This time, it feels like something inside you has been cracked open, exposed, left bleeding in the space between you. This time, you were the one who walked away—and it still fucking hurts.

Because the truth is— you wanted him to stop you. You wanted him to prove you wrong. But he didn’t.

And that? That fucking stings.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples, eyes fluttering shut as you try to push it down, try to shove it deep, deep, deep beneath the surface where it can’t touch you anymore.

But the second you open your eyes, the second you see your reflection in the grimy window of your apartment—

You know. You know this isn’t over, because no matter how hard you try to run from it— it always brings you back to him.

You were lost in your thoughts, more like consumed by them that you forgot. You're Catwoman. You're in the freaking city of Gotham. You should've known. It happens fast. Too fast.

One second, you’re walking down the empty streets of Gotham, the cool night air biting at your skin, the weight of earlier still sitting heavy in your chest—

And the next? You’re surrounded.

Shadows slip out from the alleys, footsteps closing in, voices murmuring in low, amused tones. "Look what we have here…"

"Thought you were untouchable, sweetheart?"

Shit.

You recognize them instantly—Falcone’s men. Which means this isn’t a random attack. This is a message, a warning. A consequence for getting too close to Gotham’s Bat.

You bite back a curse, hands twitching at your sides, muscles tensing as you count the men, assess the distance, calculate your odds.

Four—maybe five. Armed? Most likely. A fight you could win? …Not without consequences.

But what other choice do you have? Because you already know— no one is coming to save you. Not this time.

Satoru feels it before he hears it.

It’s instinct.

A sharp, sudden shift in his chest, a gut-wrenching pull like something inside him is being ripped apart. Then— the comm buzzes.

"We got a situation." Nanami’s voice is clipped, urgent. "Falcone’s men. Five of them. Near Harbor Street."

And before he can even think—before he can stop himself—he’s already moving. Because he knows.

He fucking knows.

You don’t go down easy. They think they’ve already won. They think this will be easy.

They think you’re just a pretty little thief, just a girl who got in too deep, just another lesson to be taught. And that’s their first mistake. Because you don’t go down easy.

You move before they do—a sharp kick, a twist, a knife pulled from your belt and pressed to the throat of the closest man before he can even blink.

"Try it," you hiss, voice laced with venom.

He hesitates, and in that second, you know—you have an opening.

But then— a gun cocks.

And a voice—low, amused, familiar—cuts through the night like a blade. "Tsk. Always making things difficult, aren’t you, kitten?"

Your blood runs cold because you know that voice.

Suguru Geto.

And that? That changes everything.

You’ve honestly been in worse situations. But not many.

Not ones that make your stomach twist quite like this, not ones that make your pulse hammer against your ribs in something too sharp, too visceral, too close to fear. Because this isn’t just anyone. This isn’t some low-level thug. This isn’t even some mob boss looking to put you in your place. This is Suguru Geto.

And he doesn’t waste his time on small threats. No, when he moves, when he speaks, when he smiles—it means something.

"You’ve been causing quite the stir lately," he muses, stepping closer, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets. "Getting on the Bat’s good side, stepping on all the wrong toes—really, kitten, I expected better from you."

You force your grip to stay steady, the knife still pressed against the throat of the man you caught off guard.

"Flattered, really," you say, keeping your voice light, like your pulse isn’t hammering, like your fingers aren’t itching to grab your grapple and run. "Didn’t think I’d be important enough to warrant a visit from the great Suguru Geto himself."

He chuckles—low, smooth, condescending. "Oh, you’re important," he says. "Just not in the way you think."

Your jaw tightens. "Yeah? Then why are you here?"

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already figured out. "Because," he hums, "you have something that belongs to me."

The USB.

Shit.

Your grip on the knife falters for half a second—half a second too long. Because before you can react, before you can process, before you can even think— The man you were holding twists, shoving you off, the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your ribs before you can recover.

And just like that— you’re out of options.

Satoru's close.

Close enough that he can hear the words, close enough that he can hear your fucking pulse spike.

And that? That’s what does it. Because it’s one thing to be reckless. It’s one thing to be stubborn, to push him away, to insist that you don’t need him, that you can handle yourself.

But this? This is different because Geto doesn’t make idle threats.

And the second Gojo hears the sharp intake of your breath, the second he hears the shift of movement, the second he realizes exactly what’s happening— he moves. Fast. Too fast for them to react.

Because one second, Geto is smirking, enjoying his little game— and the next? He’s eating pavement.

Satoru doesn't hold back. He could, he should. But he doesn’t.

Because the second he sees that gun against your ribs, the second he sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes flicker with something you never let anyone see— it’s over.

The first punch sends Geto flying. The second cracks something, leaves him coughing up blood.

The third? That one’s personal.

Because Gojo has been patient. He’s let things slide, let lines blur, let the underworld think he’s just another player in the game. But this? This is different. This is you. And that? That changes everything.

You've seen his fight countless times, but not like this. Not like he’s tearing through them without a second thought, not like he’s this close to losing control, not like the only thing keeping him from going too far is the fact that you’re standing right there.

It should scare you.

It should make you rethink everything, should remind you why you’ve always kept your distance, why you’ve always told yourself you couldn’t afford to get caught up in whatever the hell is between you. But it doesn’t. Because all you can think, as you watch him break Geto’s men like they’re nothing— is that he came. That you didn’t even call for him, and he still fucking came.

And when it’s over, when the dust settles and Geto is left bloody and laughing on the pavement, when Gojo finally turns to you, breath ragged, knuckles split, eyes burning— you don’t run. You don’t even flinch.

Because you know what this means. What it’s always meant. And maybe—maybe this time, neither of you will walk away first.

You really think you should stop this. You should. You should shove him away, should tell him this doesn’t change anything, should remind yourself why this is a bad idea, why this has always been a bad idea.

But when his fingers curl around your wrist, when he tugs you closer, when his breath ghosts over your lips— you don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe. Because this isn’t like before.

This isn’t a game, isn’t a moment either of you will walk away from, isn’t something that can be brushed aside when the night is over. This is the point of no return.

And when he finally, finally closes the distance— you let him.

Because maybe—just maybe—you were never meant to run from him in the first place. It was always going to be you, always.

From the moment you first slipped past his defenses, from the moment you first met his gaze across the rooftops of Gotham, from the moment you first left him standing there with nothing but your name on his tongue and your laughter ringing in his ears— it was always going to be you.

And now? Now, with you in his arms, with your fingers tangled in his hair, with your taste on his lips, he knows there’s no going back. He doesn’t want to.

Because if Gotham is his curse, if the mask is his burden, if the weight of this city is something he’ll never escape— then you? You're the only thing that’s ever made it worth it. And for once, just once—he’s taking what he wants.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him, where it all began.

The city glows beneath you. The skyline stretches out, endless and alive, neon lights flickering, sirens wailing in the distance, the hum of Gotham’s heartbeat steady and unyielding.

It’s always been like this. Always moving. Always demanding. Always taking. And you? You’ve always been running.

But tonight? Tonight, you stand still. Because Gojo is in front of you, mask off, white hair ruffled by the wind, the cut on his lip still fresh from the fight, his eyes— those damn blue eyes—locked onto yours like he’s trying to memorize you, like he already knows what’s coming.

"So this is it, huh?" he says, voice low, rough.

You swallow hard, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Bat. You knew it wouldn’t last."

His jaw clenches. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

You step closer, tilting your head. "You’ll live."

He exhales sharply, like he’s about to say something—something real, something that might make you stay— but you can’t let him.

So you reach up, fingers barely brushing his jaw, a ghost of a touch, a silent goodbye.

"Goodbye, Batman," you whisper, voice softer than you mean it to be. "Gotham needs you."

For a second, just a second—you think that’s it. That he’ll let you go. That he’ll watch you disappear into the night like you always do.

But then— his hand catches yours. Tightly. Desperately. And when he speaks, when his voice finally breaks— it nearly stops you in your tracks.

"Why don’t you stay, Cat?" he murmurs, raw, unguarded, everything. "I need you."

Your breath catches as your heart lurches. Because that—that’s the one thing you weren’t ready for. But you force a smirk, even as your chest aches.

"That’s your problem, Bat." You squeeze his hand once, just once—before slipping free. "You’re not supposed to." You pause and for once give him a big genuine smile. "See ya later batman."

And with that— you step back and you turn, as you disappear into the night, like you always do.

Because Gotham needs him. And maybe he was never meant to need you.

@do-morochaa @madamechrissy @katthekat1234 (hope y'all like it😭💗)

[novascharms]

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 14.9 chapter index — next. chap.

c.w — smut, p in v masterlist

a.n — you did read that right. this has turned into a 15000 word monster... i'm not sure how it happened. ANYWAY. this is very late and i'm so very sorry. gramps went into emergency surgery, i started school and had the worst period cramps of my life but we all good, everything is much better now. i will be updating the other four parts very soon. (hopefully tee hee)

epilogue - part one

sunday, march 2nd

rafe was a heavy sleeper. you never knew that—not until now. he slept like a log, completely undisturbed despite the world moving around him. even with the sun pouring through the windows, turning his hair and eyelashes a shade of gold so soft it looked spun from honey, even with the familiar morning symphony of your family filling the house—your sister's giggles echoing from the yard as she played with your mom, your little brother waddling through the living room, bottle clutched in his tiny hands as he repeatedly bumped his head against rafe’s thigh—he didn’t so much as stir.  

he should consider himself lucky. you, on the other hand, could wake up from the mere sound of a door creaking open down the hall.  

you tried to imagine him in your bed instead of sprawled across your couch, head buried in your pillows, wrapped up in your blanket. would he sleep on the left or the right? hopefully the left, since you slept on the right—closest to the window, where the first light of morning always found you.  

did he dream? or did he have nightmares? did he mumble in his sleep? would you wake up to hear him speaking in slurred, sleepy gibberish, too out of it to make sense?  

did he sleep in sweats? pajamas? a button-up? shirtless? that felt very much like rafe, but you didn’t know. not yet, at least.  

did he linger in bed for thirty minutes before dragging himself up, or was he like you? someone who counted down from five to one and forced temselves up at one.

endless possibilities.

and something inside you whispered that you would find out. maybe not today. maybe not tomorrow. but the day would come, and when it did, you'd cherish it.  

you'd watch him just like you were watching him now, cataloging every detail—the way his lashes rested against his cheek, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. you’d memorize how his hair fell, how his lips looked impossibly soft, how the little crease between his brows never quite smoothed out, even in sleep. and you'd be allowed. 

you wouldn’t have to stop yourself from reaching out.  

you wouldn’t have to fight the urge to kiss him.  

because he would be yours. completely, irrevocably yours.  

“take a picture, it'll last longer.”  

your sister’s voice snapped you from your thoughts. you barely spared her a glance, still leaning against the archway separating the living room from the dining room, cradling a mug of now-cold tea in your hands.  

“go away,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm.  

she was right, but she could be right somewhere else.  

you'd been staring at him for well over fifteen minutes, still in your pajamas, unable to make yourself move, unable to be anywhere else. you had already called off work because the thought of leaving right now—leaving him—felt unbearable.  

were you one of those girlfriend? the kind who couldn’t stay away, who hovered and obsessed?  

girlfriend felt too soon.  

but then again, rafe had told you he loved you. twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-four seconds ago, to be exact. 

your dad passed by, replacing your cold mug with a fresh one, steam curling in the air. you thanked him absentmindedly, fingers wrapping around the warmth.  

what kind of boyfriend would rafe be?  

you already knew he was touchy, that he liked kissing, that he had a habit of nuzzling the tip of his nose against yours, of holding eye contact just a little too long when you weren’t paying attention. he liked to watch you, studying you as you tutored him, as you cleaned, as if every little thing you did was worth committing to memory.  

but what about the rest?  

would he bring you flowers? take you to the movies, or more late-night drives along the coast? would he want to sit on the beach with you until the sky turned soft with morning, or would he prefer extravagant dates, something grand and exciting?  

what kind of gifts would he like?  

would he appreciate personalized things—carefully written ‘open when’ letters, little boxes filled with things meant just for him—or was he more materialistic? would he want his favorite cologne, designer watches, the kinds of things that held status?  

or would he prefer something he could do? something he could experience—a trip, an activity, something he could share with you or his friends?  

you’d probably just get him all of it. just to be sure.  

you’d only had one boyfriend before—not that you and rafe were official yet, but still.  

being a girlfriend the first time had been… odd.  

like having a boy who was a friend, and sometimes he kissed you, and it was just… fine.  

but with rafe?  

it felt nothing like that.  

and god, you wanted to do it right.  

maybe there was a research paper somewhere on how to be a good girlfriend.  

not that it mattered. rafe made it easy.  

he made your heart stutter, your stomach twist, your cheeks burn. he made you want to be good to him. to be perfect for him.  

and maybe that was impossible.  

but you would try.

rafe stirred, his arm lifting sluggishly to rub at his eyes, fingers dragging through the remnants of sleep. the motion caught your little brother’s attention immediately, his tiny head snapping up, curiosity flickering across his face at the sudden movement in the room. once he realized rafe was awake, he held out his arms in a way that said 'pick me up before i hurl this bottle at someone.'

"hey, buddy…" rafe rasped, voice thick with sleep as he reached for him, lifting him effortlessly and settling him onto his chest.  

you stayed still, watching in silence, your body at ease yet your heart hammering against your ribs. it was as if you could physically feel it swell, stretching wide with a warmth so intense it made your breath hitch.  

and then, as if he could sense it, his eyes found yours. sleepy, unfocused, but piercing all the same. that disarming gaze of his tugged at something deep within you, pulling you toward him like gravity itself. god, you wanted to go to him. to press yourself against him, burrow into his warmth, tuck your face into the crook of his neck and let the rest of the world fall away.  

"morning."  

his voice was quiet, rough around the edges, heavy with sleep. it was almost ridiculous how the sound of it sent tingles through every nerve in your body, warm and electric, curling low in your stomach.  

"morning."

your own voice was steadier than you felt, but your feet wouldn’t move. he looked so cozy—messy hair, sleepy eyes, the laziest, softest smile pulling at his lips. he was huggable, he was yours, and the ache to touch him, to climb into his space, to sink into his warmth, made your fingers twitch at your sides.  

his head rested against the couch arm, eyes impossibly tender as they traced over you.  

"gonna stay over there?"

he was almost smiling, teasing, but something expectant threaded through the words—something hopeful.  

your little brother wiggled off his chest and padded away, but rafe didn’t look away, didn’t so much as blink. he was watching you now, watching the hesitation in your stance, the way your weight shifted like you were trying to resist something inevitable.  

"i'm enjoying the view."

you grinned, and the corner of his lips twitched, a smirk creeping in slow and lazy.  

"taking in the sights?"

you nodded.  

"like what you see?" his brows lifted slightly, smirk deepening. "hope i’m up to standard."

another nod, another hum of approval.  

and then, softer—almost pleading—  

"c’mere."

your body moved before your mind could catch up. one second, you were standing. the next, you were there, sinking into him, his hands finding your waist as your knees pressed into the cushions.  

the need to touch him was unbearable, searing through your veins, clawing at your ribs.  

and then, finally, it hit you—you can.  

as much as you want. as long as you want.  

because he was yours.  

not some far-off dream.  

not a delusion.  

real.

your hands found his chest first, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin through the cotton. slowly, they traveled upward, fingers brushing over his throat, his jaw, until your palms cradled his face, your thumb tracing the high point of his cheekbone.  

rafe turned into your touch, his lips brushing against the heel of your palm.  

"sleep okay?" he murmured, though there was a knowing edge to it, a quiet concern that made your stomach twist.  

because you both knew why he was asking.  

last night, by the time you’d finally come inside, you were wrecked. tear-streaked, hiccuping, clinging to rafe like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. you hadn’t wanted him to sleep on the couch. you had fought him on it, insisted, pleaded, but somehow—you weren’t even sure how—he had won that fight. maybe it was the exhaustion. maybe it was the way your body had already been shutting down from the sheer weight of the night.  

"me? i'm not the one who slept on the couch."

you narrowed your eyes, fingers still cupping his face, and his lips quirked at your pointed tone.  

"i slept good," he assured you. "hard surfaces are better for your back, you know?"  

you snorted, unconvinced. "got facts now, huh? copying me, cameron?"  

he chuckled, tilting his head against your palm, lashes fluttering briefly as he stretched out with a groan.  

"didn’t you know? i’m coming for your spot."  

your smile widened. "you sure you want that? i go to the library for fun, you know?"  

rafe made a face, and you laughed.  

"still want me?" you teased, only half joking.  

he tilted his head slightly, considering. for half a second.  

then, he kissed you.  

soft. chaste. a barely-there press of lips that still managed to steal the breath from your lungs. and god, you didn’t care that he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet—you’d kiss him like this forever if he let you.  

when he pulled back, his nose nudged yours.  

"the real question is…" his voice was low, careful, like he was treading unsteady ground. "will you still have me?"  

you exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, just soaking him in.  

the past twenty-four hours had been an emotional wreckage. you had him, then you lost him, then you had him again in the span of a few, heart-crushing, life-altering hours.  

it was enough to make your head spin.  

enough to make you terrified that you could lose him just as easily.  

"that's a silly question."

your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he melted into you, hands slipping around your waist, tugging you even closer until you could feel his heartbeat against your own.  

"is it?" he murmured, his fingers dragging along the length of your spine, leaving shivers in their wake.  

"it is," you whispered. "m’never letting you go."  

his hold tightened.  

"you promise?"  

the words were barely audible, spoken against your skin, fragile in the way only he could be.  

you squeezed him, felt his heartbeat against your own.  

"cross my heart."

after a surprisingly normal breakfast, rafe had stepped outside to take a phone call. judging by the rare, genuine smile pulling at his lips, you were pretty sure it was sarah. his sister was one of the few people who could make him look like that—unguarded, softened.  

you were elbow-deep in soapy water, stacking dishes into the drying rack, when your mom poked her head into the kitchen. her eyes twinkled with thinly veiled curiosity.  

“so,” she started, dragging out the word as she leaned against the counter.  

you turned, brows lifting. “so?”  

her gaze flicked meaningfully toward the glass doors, where rafe was pacing the length of your backyard, phone in hand. “do you have a boy who is a little more than a friend?” she asked, feigning nonchalance.  

a smirk tugged at your lips. “mm, are you asking if rafe is my boyfriend?”  

“am i asking if the boy who has been sleeping on my couch and practically living in my house for the past two months is your boyfriend now? yes, i just might be.” she deadpanned, eyes shifting between you and the boy outside.  

you smiled to yourself, wiping down a plate. “nope.”  

“no?” your dad’s voice came out of nowhere, making you nearly jump. you turned to see him standing in the doorway, confusion written all over his face.  

your mom echoed his disbelief. “no?”  

you nodded, amused. “not yet.”  

your dad huffed, crossing his arms. “not yet? well, what the hell is his plan? because i’m not about to have some kid walking in and out of this house—”  

before he could finish his sentence, the sliding door creaked open. rafe stepped inside, still distracted by his phone, but when the room fell into a tense silence, his eyes flickered up.  

his brows furrowed. “uh… hey, guys…” his gaze found yours, searching. “am i interrupting or…?”  

you shook your head a little too quickly. “no, no. they were just wondering what time we got home last night.” you turned to your parents, forcing a casual tone. “around ten, i think. you had only just gone to bed.”  

your mom pursed her lips before smiling at rafe. “uh huh. well, hope the couch wasn’t too terrible. it’s not exactly made for sleeping.”  

rafe waved a hand dismissively. “it was fine. i should’ve asked before crashing, it was kind of a last-minute thing.”  

your dad, who moments ago was seconds away from throwing him out, suddenly beamed. “that’s alright, you’re always welcome here, son.”  

you gawked at him, utterly incredulous, but he ignored you.  

your mom grabbed your dad’s arm, tugging him toward the hallway. “well, we should go because…” she shot him a pointed look, silently urging him to come up with an excuse.  

“because…” he faltered, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “we have children! yes, we should check on our other children. the little one’s been, uh… constipated lately—”  

their voices trailed off as they disappeared down the hall, leaving you blinking after them.  

“your parents are funny,” rafe murmured, stepping up behind you. you barely had time to react before he dropped his head atop yours, the warmth of his body settling against your back.  

“they’re weird,” you corrected.  

he chuckled, a quiet, deep sound. “they’re a little weird.”  

his breath was warm against your temple, the closeness of him making your chest feel tight in a way you weren’t sure how to name.  

“want me to help you dry those?” he asked softly.  

you nodded, unable to stop the smile curling at your lips. “here.”  

you handed him a mug, and he slid away just enough to grab a dish towel, falling into step beside you.

"were you on the phone with sarah?” you ask quietly, unable to hide your curiosity.  

rafe nods, still absentmindedly drying the dish in his hands. “yeah, she was asking if i was eating dinner with them tonight. we’re in that phase where my parents act super happy that she’s home—before they start picking fights with her.”  

your brows pull together. “they didn’t know she was coming back?”  

“no, they did. it was only really a surprise for me.”  

your stomach twists a little at that. “sorry it didn’t go exactly as planned,” you murmur, voice laced with quiet regret.  

rafe doesn’t answer right away. instead, he gently takes the cup from your hands, setting it down on the counter before his fingers slip around yours, warm and firm. “i’m the one who should apologize,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “it happened at my house, with my friends. i invited you. i should’ve—i should’ve been better. if i knew—”  

“you already apologized,” you cut in softly. “a couple of times, actually. and it’s okay. you didn’t know.” you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i also have fault in this, you know?” you look away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “i was scared. scared to communicate, to let you all the way in, to trust you sometimes. i can say without a doubt that if i’d handled a few things differently, we wouldn’t be where we are.”  

rafe tilts his head side to side, clearly disagreeing. “you don’t have any fault in this.” he tugs you closer, guiding your arms around his neck. “how were you supposed to trust me when you already knew what i was like? maybe not in detail, but the vague image was always there—even before cora said anything. you were protecting yourself. it’s one of the most human responses.”  

your lips part, ready to argue, but he beats you to it. “but,” he exhales, a tiny smirk playing at his lips, “i doubt i’ll win this fight, so let’s just agree to disagree.”  

he kisses you once, then again, softer this time, like the words themselves weren’t enough to settle it. your lips twitch with a smile you can’t control.  

“agree to disagree,” you whisper against his mouth before pressing a few more kisses to his lips, unable to stop yourself.  

he lets out a small chuckle, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, slow and affectionate. you think you could live in this quiet forever.  

“what time are you leaving?” your voice is quiet, already heavy with the weight of missing him before he’s even gone.

“soon,” he murmurs, his breath warm as it brushes against your temple, “but i’m coming back.”

your brows knit together, searching his face, his eyes, the way his lips barely quirk like he knows something you don’t. “you’re coming back?”

he nods, fingers grazing the curve of your jaw like he’s memorizing it. “there’s this girl…”

your smile is instant, soft and knowing. “mm?”

“she’s been running through my mind for so long,” he says, voice dipping lower, threading through your hair, “and i’m crazy about her.”

your grin spreads, helpless against the pull of him. “sounds serious.”

“yeah.” he smirks like he’s got a secret, and god, you love when he looks at you like that. “and i haven’t taken her on a date yet.”

you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest in mock scandal. “you haven’t taken her on a date yet?”

he shakes his head, feigning shame. “shameful, right?”

“absolutely. they should lock you up and throw away the key.”

his laughter rumbles between you, deep and warm, and you wish you could steal it, keep it somewhere safe. “damn,” he grins, pulling you closer. “throw away the key and everything?”

you nod solemnly. “except… if you can redeem yourself.”

he hums, amused. “redeem myself?”

you tip your chin up. “mmhm. like telling her where exactly you want to take her.”

his lips hover over yours, his voice a murmur against your mouth. “no can do. state secrets.” he presses a kiss to you, then another, softer between each word. “and we leave at four.”

your head spins. you barely register what he’s saying because all you can think about is the way he tastes, the way his hands tighten on your waist like he’d rather not let you go at all.

then he pulls back just enough to tilt his head, studying you like he’s about to say something important. “you should tell your parents you’re sleeping at hazel’s house,” he says casually, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, “and bring an overnight bag.”

your eyes widen. “an overnight bag?”

his smirk deepens at your reaction. “mmhm.”

“are we staying at your house?” you ask, suspicion creeping in.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “give me a little more credit than that.”

you narrow your eyes but let it slide. “okay… how should i dress if you won’t tell me where we’re going?”

he exhales, like he’s carefully picking his words. “it’s… outside. we’re walking around. not hiking or anything, but walking. like, imagine a museum—but it’s not a museum.”

you blink. “imagine a museum, but it’s not a museum?”

he nods, his grin tilting. “and bring warm clothes to sleep in.”

your stomach flips at that. he must notice because he laughs softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “no, we are not sleeping outside.”

relief floods you. “thank god,” you mumble. “i’d do a lot of things for you, but camping? not one of them.”

rafe grins, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “camping is actually fun, you know,” he teases, his words muffled in your hair.

you let out a tiny, skeptical laugh. “yeah, the bugs, the grass, the dirt… my dream.”

his chest shakes with laughter, pressing his lips to your forehead. “you’re such a pessimist. they’re not bugs, they’re just little critters. it’s not grass and dirt,” he grins, “it’s nature and fresh air, and it’s good for your soul.”

“no, i’m a realist. and ‘critters’ do not sound better than bugs.”

his laughter softens, something deeper settling in his eyes as he looks at you. his arms tighten, holding you like he’s grounding himself in you, in this moment, in everything you are.

“you’re good for my soul,” you whisper, barely a breath between you. “that’s enough ‘good for the soul’ for me.”

his body relaxes against yours, the air shifting, something warm and certain pressing between your ribs. he leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, his breath stirring your hair.

“think it’s enough for me too, baby.”

you’d read somewhere that the brain falls in love in 0.2 seconds. a fraction of a moment—less than the blink of an eye—and suddenly, chemicals flood your system. dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline. the same kind of high that leaves people breathless, euphoric, addicted.  

you never really believed it. 0.2 seconds? seriously? your brain had to have more fight in it than that. love seemed more complex, something slow-building, something earned. but now, pressed against rafe’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you—you realize it wasn’t just true. it lasted a lot longer than that.  

and god, were you in trouble.  

eventually, rafe pulled himself away, murmuring something about needing to shower and change. he promised he’d be back at four, but you were too restless to wait. by two, you were already ready to go.  

you cleaned your room, checked over your schoolwork, called off volunteering, helped your mom downstairs—anything to burn through the extra energy buzzing beneath your skin. and still, there was too much time left.  

with nothing left to do, you were ready to just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until you got a text from your friends.

“hey!” you greeted, too bright, too excited.  

three pairs of eyes blinked at you through the screen, varying degrees of shock and mild concern staring back.  

“hey… y/n,” hazel started cautiously, brows furrowed. “are you okay?”

only then did you remember—they had no idea what had happened after ivy left.  

by the time you finished telling them everything, their reactions were wildly different.  

hazel, unsurprisingly, remained skeptical. her lips pressed into a thin line as she folded her arms, eyes narrowing in that way that told you she was biting back several very strong opinions. “you need to be careful,” she warned. “i wouldn’t have taken him back on principle.”  

you rolled your eyes, already bracing for a future where hazel inevitably fell in love and her poor, unfortunate partner suffered under her stubborn, unshakable sense of justice.  

devon, on the other hand, was thrilled. she’d always liked rafe the most, but devon liked everyone that could make her laugh. and since she found almost everything funny, her enthusiasm wasn’t exactly a surprise. “this was all adriana and cora’s fault,” she declared confidently. “it only seems complicated because of misunderstandings.”  

honestly, she wasn’t completely wrong.  

ivy was the last to react, but only because she needed everything explained twice. she kept getting lost in the names and timelines, but once she caught up, she leaned back, thoughtful. “i get where hazel’s coming from,” she admitted. “but… i’ve never seen someone look at another person the way rafe looks at you.” she shook her head, like even she couldn’t believe it. “he’s in love with you. and i think you guys deserve a real chance.”  

your chest tightened, an ache so sweet it almost hurt.  

hazel made valid points. you couldn’t deny that things could have been handled better, that rafe had a past, that there were risks.  

but love had to count for something.  

the way he touched you like you were something delicate and precious, the way he kissed you like he’d been starving for you, the way he looked at you—like you were the most important thing in the world.  

you had to see this through. you deserved to try.

by the time the conversation was winding down, your phone buzzed with a message from rafe—here—and before you could even process it, the doorbell rang. the timing made you smile, a giddy, unshakable thing that only grew as you imagined him just downstairs, waiting for you. waiting to kiss you the moment you reached him, to pull you close in the car, to sit beside you, hands brushing, the warmth of him something you could sink into.  

there weren’t enough words to describe what it felt like to be in love with rafe. he was lightning in your veins, a thrill in your pulse, the kind of presence that made your skin hum and your heart stumble over itself. every bit of him exhilarated you—the way he looked at you, the way he laughed, the way just existing near him felt like standing at the edge of something breathtaking.  

“alrighttt,” ivy teased from the tiny rectangle on your laptop screen, dragging out the word with a knowing smirk. “go get your man before you implode.” she waved a hand, shooing you off.  

“i’ll text every hour, okay?” you added, mostly directing it toward hazel, who nodded, lips quirking.  

“have fun!” devon grinned, throwing up a thumbs-up.  

“fun with protection,” hazel added flatly, and your jaw dropped, eyes going wide.  

“hazel!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-scandalized.  

she only shrugged, entirely unbothered, and waved you off as you ended the call.  

you shut your laptop, the nerves settling in properly now, fluttery and insistent. you rushed down the two flights of stairs, your heart thumping louder with each step, and before you even reached the bottom, you could already hear his voice, deep and familiar, threading through the hallway.  

“no, the season’s over,” rafe was saying, his tone easy, patient.  

your mom hummed, and then—ohhh, drawn out like a realization had just dawned on her. “so, it’s like the seasons of the year? like winter, fall—”  

you nearly winced before you heard rafe chuckle, cutting in quickly, “no, no, no.” he sounded amused, not condescending, his usual charm at play. “it’s one season. the season runs from mid-august to mid-november. that’s when we play in the big arenas. the rest of the year is off-season training, then pre-season prep, and sometimes, we have non-official games against other teams.”  

“mm,” your mom nodded, absorbing the information. as you stepped up behind her, she turned, startled for a second before her face softened. “oh! i was just talking to rafe about his soccer schedule—it’s quite intensive, actually.” her expression shifted to that motherly concern she always wore when she thought you were stretching yourself too thin.  

you bit back a grin, already knowing what was coming.  

“it’s like what i tell y/n, you know?” she said, turning back to rafe, who raised his brows, clearly entertained. “always with her head buried in those books. i keep telling her, anything with ‘too much’ or ‘too little’ in front of it is bad. too much studying, and her little head might break.” she sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “i worry—”  

“okay, mhm, i know, mom. i know,” you interjected, nodding quickly as you looped an arm through hers, gently steering her toward the living room before she could launch into another full speech.  

rafe, for his part, was valiantly holding back a laugh, his lips twitching as he watched you usher your mom away. you shot him a look, but the fondness in his eyes made your stomach flip.

“your mom complaining because you study too much? that’s unheard of.” rafe teases the moment you step back into the foyer, an embarrassed smile tugging at your lips.

“my mom is unheard of,” you correct, but the words barely register as you take him in. he looked good. he always did, but tonight—tonight he looked unfairly good. black cargos, a deep green sweater snug against his frame, the edge of a white shirt peeking out beneath it. his hair, effortlessly tousled in that way that made him look like he had just rolled out of bed—but you knew better. he did that on purpose.

before you can say anything else, he hooks a finger into the hem of your shirt, tugging you forward. you don’t resist, smiling as the space between you vanishes.

“hi,” you murmur, tilting your chin up as his hand cups your face, thumb brushing featherlight over your cheek.

“hey,” he breathes back, leaning in—so close you can almost taste the mint on his breath. but just as his lips are about to touch yours, he stills.

his voice drops to a whisper. “your sister is staring at us.”

your eyes snap open in horror. mortified. and annoyed.

sure enough, when you turn your head, there she is, standing in the hallway like a tiny executioner, arms crossed, smirk sharp.

“take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you mock, throwing her own words from this morning back at her.

without a beat of hesitation, she pulls out the little flip phone your dad gave her.

“oh my god! don’t actually take the picture!” you gasp, exasperated. behind you, rafe’s quiet chuckle vibrates through your back.

she doesn’t even acknowledge you, just huffs, arms crossing tighter. “dad!” she calls out, voice ringing through the house. “y/n won’t let me take a picture of her and rafe kissing!” she storms off.

you squeeze your eyes shut, dying inside, but rafe only laughs again. the sound is warm, reassuring—just like the way his arms slip around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

“you look pretty,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your shoulder, lingering. “and you smell good.” his mouth trails higher, ghosting over your neck, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

your fingers tighten in his sweater as you exhale, tilting your head just enough to capture his lips in a soft, fleeting kiss. “thank you.” your voice is quieter now, just for him.

you pull back slightly, hands drifting to his shoulders as you study him again. “hmm…” your grin curves slow, playful. “you look nice, but i still can’t tell where we’re going from this outfit.”

he smirks, leaning down for another kiss, this one deeper, slower. when he pulls back, his voice is lower. “that’s kind of the point with surprises.”

you laugh softly as he grabs the duffel bag from your hands.

“we should get going.”

you nod, stepping away. “yeah, i just need to say bye to my parents. i’ll be right out.” you’re already turning when he murmurs his agreement, stepping out the front door.

inside, you find your parents in the living room. your mom is braiding your sister’s hair, her fingers moving with practiced ease.

“hey, i’m heading out. i’ll see you guys tomorrow after school?”

your mom glances up, eyes sweeping over you like she’s checking for something. “you don’t have a thicker sweater? it’s quite cold.”

“it isn’t that cold, she’ll be alright,” your dad interjects, offering you a thumbs-up. “just text us when you get to hazel’s, alright?”

you nod quickly, then turn back to your mom. “i’ll take my good coat, and worst case, i’ll ask rafe for a sweater.” you offer her a reassuring smile.

she studies you for a beat longer, then softens, giving you a warm nod. “okay. have fun.”

you turn on your heel, snatching your coat from the wall hook in one fluid motion before stepping outside. the crisp air rushes to greet you, cool against your flushed cheeks, curling around your skin like a whisper of excitement. the door clicks shut behind you, sealing away the warmth of inside, but you don’t mind—not when rafe is here, waiting.

he leans against his car, fingers idly playing with his keys, the metal glinting under the dim glow of the streetlights. he’s distracted, his head tilted down, but the second you step out, he pauses. his eyes find yours instantly, scanning your face, his lips parting just slightly. “all good?” his voice is gentle, edged with something soft, something careful.

you nod, unable to contain the giddy energy bubbling inside you. your feet carry you to him quickly, almost skipping, like a child running toward something they’ve been waiting all day for. “all good, good, good.” you beam up at him, stretching onto your toes to press a quick, eager kiss to his lips.

his chuckle is quiet, warm, but his arms instinctively settle around your waist, keeping you close. “you’re happy,” he observes, amusement laced in his voice.

your grin widens as you nod. “i’ve got every reason to be.” the words are as much for him as they are a reminder to yourself.

his nose brushes against yours, the smallest touch, but it sends a shiver down your spine. “i love seeing you smile,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

and because it’s him, because it’s always him, you smile even more. “i love you.”

his forehead rests against yours, his eyes locking onto yours like they hold the whole world inside them. “i love you too, baby.”

the drive to your destination is both too slow and far too fast, stretching time and collapsing it all at once. you want to savor every second, but you also ache to get there, wherever there is.

every car ride with rafe is something special. even the short ones, when he’d drop you off at the retirement home, where you’d linger in his car long after he had already parked, just talking, stretching the moment, neither of you wanting to leave, not ready to say goodbye. but the long ones? those were the best. time felt slower then, like the world outside the car didn’t matter, like all that existed was the steady hum of the engine, the soft music threading through the speakers, and the effortless conversation between you.

talking with rafe was easy. being with him was easy. you were always full of things to say, stories to tell, and he was always ready to listen, to laugh, to add his own thoughts like your words were puzzle pieces he was eager to fit together. the soft melody playing in the background only made it all feel more domestic, more right, like something you could do forever.

“remember when we were at the beach, and you said you should have more fun?” he asks suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of conversation.

you nod, thinking back to that day, the way you had sighed and confessed it like it was a secret. “yeah. this is something fun?”

he grins, nodding. “it is.”

your mind spins with possibilities. “is it…” you pause dramatically, narrowing your eyes at him, “roller skating?”

his laugh is easy, shaking his head. “you already guessed that one.” he tilts his head toward the windshield. “we’re almost there, though.”

your gaze follows his, and in the distance, bright lights glow against the night sky, unmistakable and familiar. your heart stutters.

“the fair!” you nearly scream, your excitement bubbling over into your voice. you turn to him, wide-eyed. “oh my god, i haven’t been back in years. i never—”

“find the time?” he finishes smoothly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

you nod, eyes shining. “thank you, thank you!” the words spill out as you grab his face, pressing frantic kisses all over his cheeks, his nose, anywhere you can reach. he just laughs, letting you, his hands resting on your waist.

“this is gonna be so fun.” you bounce slightly in your seat, your gaze snapping back to the road, watching as the fair grows closer, the colors sharpening, the lights glittering. anticipation buzzes under your skin. “i hope you’re ready to spend the next fifteen hours here, because i am not leaving until we’ve played every game. oh! we have to go on the ferris wheel.” you turn back to him, eyes pleading. “and we have to do the duck fishing game! a lot of people find it kinda boring, but i always loved it as a kid. you get fun prizes!" you ramble, the memories flooding back, making you smile at the thought of it all.

"anddd!" you continue, as rafe parks the car and unbuckles your seatbelt for you, "we can do the can knockdown and the basketball shootout! though i’m not very good at that..." you tilt your head, biting your lip.

"basketball shootout? that’s my game," rafe says, his tone teasing yet reassuring. "don’t worry, i'll show you how to score." a grin spreads across your face, and you can’t help but lean in, kissing him again, your lips lingering against his, sharing a moment of warmth.

when you step out of the car, rafe briefly checks his parking, but you're too eager to wait. you tug gently at his hand, your excitement bubbling over. "okayyy! let’s go!" you urge, practically bouncing on your toes.

"okay, someone’s excited," rafe murmurs with a smile, pulling you close, his arm sliding around your shoulder as you both start walking toward the fair, the lights ahead like a dream come to life.

the fair was alive with energy, a constant hum of voices blending with the sounds of laughter and music. the air was thick with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn, and you could feel the vibrant pulse of excitement as people swarmed the grounds. scattered among the crowd were a few familiar faces from school, most of them nodding or waving at rafe from a distance, though there were one or two who actually stopped to chat with him for a moment.

you dove into the carnival games, clearly more excited than anything else. your enthusiasm was contagious as you breezed through everything, from the ring toss and pick-a-duck to the basketball shootout, can knockdown, and the bb gun shooting booth. you even tried your hand at the hammer strength test and the wheel of fortune. each game offered a prize, and by the time you were done, you had racked up so many stuffed animals that rafe had to make a quick trip to his car to stash a couple in the backseat. you kept only the one he won for you, clutching it close as if it were a prized possession.

"i’ve got a perfect name for him," you grinned when rafe returned, slipping his hand into yours. you hugged the bear tight to your chest.

"yeah?" he asked, a curious glint in his eyes.

"rafe jr!" you exclaimed, your face lighting up with mischief.

rafe paused, turning to look at you with a playful smile. "he’s your son. isn’t he adorable?" you ask him.

"i think he’s our son," rafe said, his tone teasing but warm.

you hummed thoughtfully, "yeah, from nine a.m. to ten p.m., he can be our son. but at night, he’s all yours. i need my eight hours of sleep," you joked, and rafe gave you a mock disapproving look.

"unbelievable," he muttered, feigning indignation as he took the bear from you. "give me my son. you don’t even deserve him," he laughed, shaking his head as you giggled.

"let’s do the mirror palace," rafe said suddenly, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the next attraction.

"oh, no," you groaned, a playful whine creeping into your voice. "i suck at mazes. do you know how many bruises i've gotten because of this place?" you complained as he led you into the line. he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you close.

"you were probably between six and ten years old the last time you were here," he teased, his lips brushing your shoulder. "but don't worry, we’ll stick together. i’ll make sure we get out without any bruises."

you couldn’t help but smile at his reassurance, finding comfort in his presence. "okay," you agreed, your voice soft. "can we do the ferris wheel too?" you whispered, hopeful.

he gave you a tender smile and nodded. "we’ll do the ferris wheel, baby," he whispered back, his voice low and soothing as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. you smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of his affection, and he kissed you again, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away.

the line for the maze isn’t long, and rafe makes the wait feel like nothing at all. "hey, two tickets, please," he says, voice low but casual as he pulls his wallet out, handing over a stack of bills. the cashier, with a soft smile, takes them, passing back two tickets with practiced ease. "here you go," she says, her tone polite but robotic, "no running and no backtracking. have fun." the words sound like a rehearsed mantra, something she'd said to every other person before.

"no backtracking?" you ask, your voice tinged with nerves as rafe laces his fingers through yours, pulling you toward the entrance. "what if we get lost? what if we—"

"baby, we won't get lost," he laughs, that deep, confident sound that always manages to settle your racing thoughts. he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, the warmth of his lips grounding you. "this is a game for little kids. we’ll make it, no problem." you can’t help but smile, knowing he’s probably right. you nod, taking another step forward into the maze, the twisted corridors pulling you further in.

the maze is oddly quiet, aside from the occasional echo of laughter or giggling in the distance. the floors beneath your feet are dotted with glowing lights that form shifting patterns, while above, the ceiling is impossibly high—so high that you can't quite make out its end, thanks to the mirrored surface reflecting everything around you. it all feels like a strange dream, the kind where you’re falling endlessly but never quite hit the ground.

"god, this is so weird," you mutter, as rafe gently tugs you back just in time to avoid you running into yet another mirror. "i swear, we’ve been down this hallway already." you stop in your tracks, scanning your surroundings. rafe continues walking, but his hand, still clutching yours, halts him after a few steps.

"we haven’t been down this hallway yet," he says, looking over his shoulder at you. "i’d know." his tone is teasing, but you can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

"all the hallways look the same," you protest, "how would you know?"

"i’m a pro at this," he grins, tugging you closer. "you just don’t believe me." his hands settle on your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt. "or trust me," he murmurs, lips barely grazing your ear as he pulls you even closer.

"i’m too young to die, and i can’t die in a maze, rafe," you whine softly, your voice barely audible. he chuckles, the sound warm against your skin.

"don’t be whiny," he teases, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before you can even respond. your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

"i’m not whiny…" you protest, though the words are muffled as his breath fans across your lips. your eyes flutter closed, and you exhale softly, the warmth of his presence overwhelming in the best way.

"really?" rafe’s voice is low and teasing as his lips brush against yours, barely making contact. "because you sound pretty whiny to me." his hands slide up your back, sending a chill through your spine as his lips trace the curve of your jaw. he pulls you flush against him, his body pressing into yours with a teasing urgency.

"rafe…" you sigh, words getting caught in your throat. you want to beg him to kiss you, to press you up against one of these endless mirrors and kiss you until you're breathless, but somehow, the words won’t come. instead, you lean into him, your lips chasing his in desperate need.

"yeah, pretty girl?" rafe’s voice is rough, husky, and it makes your knees feel weak. your heart races in your chest as you try to form a coherent thought, but all you can focus on is him. his presence. the heat between you. your lips are barely a breath away, and you lean in, chasing him as your fingers tangle in his hair.

he pulls away just enough for you to feel the loss, his lips brushing against your skin. "tell me," he insists, his voice barely a whisper, but it carries an urgency that makes your breath catch. he kisses everywhere but your lips, trailing soft, teasing touches along your jaw and neck. his nose skims your skin, the sensation making your body shiver.

"want you to kiss me…" you manage to murmur, almost begging, your hands tightening in his hair. rafe hums, the sound vibrating through your chest.

"wasn't too hard now, was it?" he whispers, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing mockery of what you’ve been yearning for. and before you can respond, his lips crash against yours. it’s frantic, hungry, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you. you’re pushed up against the mirror, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his body.

his hands find their way to your waist, pressing you harder against him as his tongue slips into your mouth, coaxing a soft gasp from you. the kiss deepens, and it’s no longer just a kiss—it’s consuming, overwhelming, a blur of heat and touch. the world fades away, and all you can think about is rafe. his lips. his hands. him.

the kiss drags on, relentless, until you’re both left gasping for air. rafe pulls back slightly, brushing his lips against yours with a soft smile. "don’t think that’s ever gonna get old," he murmurs, his voice low and satisfied. he takes your hand, tugging you along deeper into the maze.

eventually, though, he does get you both out. you’d almost lost hope twice, ready to scream for help, but somehow, you made it out together.

with his hand nestled in yours, fingers laced together like a quiet promise, you wandered through the fair, the golden glow of string lights casting soft halos over the crowd. laughter and the distant chime of game bells filled the air as you played a few more rounds, the scent of caramel and fried dough clinging to the night. finally, you reached the ferris wheel, its towering silhouette outlined against the deep blue sky.  

"line's a little long," rafe noted, eyes flicking toward the slow-moving queue stretching toward the ticket booth. he exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "i'm gonna head to the food stand and grab us something small while we wait. that okay?"  

you nodded quickly. "okay."  

he leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against your lips before you could say anything else. you caught his sleeve as he pulled away, adding, "can you also get me some water?"  

"mm, be right back," he murmured, squeezing your fingers before slipping into the crowd.  

left alone, you took the moment to respond to a few messages, the ferris wheel’s bright lights reflecting in your screen. the line inched forward, and just as you pocketed your phone, rafe reappeared, pressing a warm pretzel wrapped in a napkin into your hands.  

"here," he said, and you quickly took a bite, the buttery salt melting on your tongue.  

"you didn't get anything?" you asked, noticing he only held your bottle of water and a can of coke.  

"not hungry enough for anything right now," he shrugged, tucking his arm around your shoulder as the line moved forward again. without a second thought, you held up your pretzel to his lips.  

he grinned and took a bite, murmuring a muffled, "thanks," as he chewed. you smiled and leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek.  

at the register, rafe pulled out his wallet, handing over cash for two tickets. standing closer to the wheel now, he tilted his head up, studying it. "jesus," he muttered under his breath. "when you're this close, it’s really high..."  

you grinned, nudging him. "got a little fear of heights you forgot to mention?"  

he rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "no fear of heights," he countered, feigning nonchalance. "just didn’t think it’d be this tall."  

when the attendant swung open the little cabin door, rafe let you step in first before sliding in beside you. the seat was softer than expected, and as the wheel began its slow ascent, he draped an arm around you, settling comfortably.  

"you can see the whole island from the top," you mused, eyes sparkling as you glanced at him.  

rafe smirked. "yeah?"  

"mm-hmm," you hummed, then added mischievously, "and don’t worry—it goes reallll slow."  

he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "i’m not scared of heights," he insisted.  

"uh huh." you shrugged, taking another bite of your pretzel.  

the cabin continued its gentle climb, and a small window near the side caught your attention. curiosity got the best of you, and before rafe could react, you popped your head out for a better view. the wind brushed against your face, cool and sweet, but before you could even take it all in, rafe's hand was gripping your waist, tugging you back in with a firm urgency.  

"okay, that's enough," he muttered, brows drawn together, his jaw tight.  

you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as he shot you a glare that wasn’t nearly as serious as he wanted it to be.  

if he wasn’t so tense, you might’ve asked to go again. but seeing the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his grip on you lingered even after the moment had passed, you decided against it. you’d spare him—for now.

ooh! a photobooth!" you yell out, excitement bubbling over as you grab rafe’s hand and pull him toward the big red box in the distance. the glossy surface gleams under the carnival lights, and you practically bounce on your feet as you take in the example pictures displayed on the side. “look at this! i think it’s new…” your fingers trail over the smooth panel, eyes scanning the details. before you can even turn to ask rafe if he wants to take some, he’s already ducking inside, reaching back to tug you onto his lap with effortless ease.  

“let’s see…” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he scrolls through the options on the screen. you pull the small curtain shut, enclosing the two of you in the intimate space, the air thick with anticipation. “black and white or color?” rafe asks, his chin resting on your shoulder, voice low and unhurried. you tilt your head in thought before deciding, “uhh… black and white.” the choice feels right, timeless. you fish out a couple of coins from your pocket, sliding them into the slot with a soft clink. 

“okay, ready?” rafe asks, his blue eyes flickering with amusement as he watches you. you nod, grinning. but then a thought crosses your mind, and you blurt out, “wait, how many does it take?”  

“four, i think,” rafe replies just as the first flash goes off. instinctively, you stick your tongue out, only realizing after that your hair is a mess. laughter spills from your lips as you quickly try to smooth it down, but rafe is faster—his fingers weave through the strands, gently fixing it as the countdown begins again.  

“oh, god, the countdown is so fast!” you squeal, both of you scrambling to pose, but it’s useless—you end up just laughing at each other, faces flushed with amusement.  

“that one is cute. look at your smile,” rafe grins, tilting his head to study the preview. your cheeks warm at his words, a touch of shyness creeping in. rafe notices, his own smile softening before he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek just as the third picture snaps.  

the final countdown begins, and rafe’s fingers—gentle yet firm—grasp your chin, turning your face toward him. “last one,” he murmurs, a teasing glint in his eyes. you don’t hesitate. instead, you wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him in, lips meeting his in a kiss just as the last flash goes off.  

when you pull away, rafe chases your lips for a second, stealing another soft kiss before finally letting you slide off his lap. you push the curtain open, stepping out into the cool night air, the distant hum of carnival rides and laughter filling the space around you.  

seconds later, the photo strip slides out from the machine. you grab it eagerly, holding it up. “they came out so cute! look!” you beam, showing rafe as he steps beside you.  

his gaze flickers over the strip, a small smile tugging at his lips. “they did. the black and white looks good,” he agrees, his fingers effortlessly intertwining with yours as you both start walking again, your eyes still fixed on the little captured moments.  

they were perfect.

"i had so much fun, thank you for bringing me here," you say, glancing at rafe as the two of you walk through the parking lot, the cool night air settling over your skin. the distant hum of traffic, the flickering neon signs, the soft scuff of your shoes against the pavement—it all feels like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.  

"i’m happy you liked it," rafe replies, his voice carrying a certain secrecy that immediately piques your curiosity. "but the date’s not over yet."  

you blink at him, lips curling into a smile. "it’s not?"  

he shakes his head, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. "nope. one more surprise. now get in." he nudges you playfully, holding the passenger door open like the perfect gentleman he pretends not to be.  

your heart flutters as you slide inside, excitement buzzing through you despite the dull ache creeping into your feet. the night is stretching on, dark and velvety, but instead of feeling tired, you feel alive, giddy with the thought that the evening isn’t over yet.  

"can i try to guess this one?" you ask the moment you buckle in, eyes gleaming with anticipation.  

rafe chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car. "you know, it wouldn’t kill you to let it be a surprise. ever heard of ‘curiosity killed the cat’?"  

"and what brought it back?" you counter smoothly, neatly tucking the photobooth pictures into your bag. "the truth."  

he scoffs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. "even if i gave you hints, you’d still be terrible at guessing."  

your mouth drops open in exaggerated offense. "no! your hints just suck!"  

"oh, my hints suck?" he laughs, shooting you a knowing look. "i literally said you might walk away with some prizes, and you thought i was taking you to a casino."  

you roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile stretching across your face. "it was a solid guess! a casino is a place where you can win things!"  

"try thinking about why i asked you to bring warm pajamas."  

you pause, tilting your head as you study him. he’s taking you somewhere cold, that much is obvious—but where? and why?  

the rest of the ride is spent grilling rafe, who remains infuriatingly tight-lipped, dodging every one of your guesses with a smug grin. the city lights blur past in streaks of gold and red, and eventually, the car rolls to a stop near the docks.  

you step out, scanning your surroundings. the air is thick with the scent of salt and freshly grilled seafood, the restaurants nearby buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses. but none of this explains why he told you to bring warm pajamas.  

he takes your hand and leads you past the restaurants, past the shops, past everything—until you’re stepping through a smaller, tucked-away entrance that spills out onto the docks, where at least fifty boats are lined up in neat rows.  

"are we getting on a boat?" you ask, glancing at him in surprise.  

he still doesn’t answer. just pulls you along, his grip firm but gentle.  

"rafe, i—"  

the words catch in your throat.  

because suddenly, you see it.  

a boat, different from all the others, its edges wrapped in warm golden lights that twinkle against the dark water. flower petals are scattered along the deck like something out of a dream. a table is set for two, draped in crisp white linen, with two gleaming cloches covering the plates beneath. and above it all, the sky is painted in breathtaking shades of pink and lavender, the last remnants of the sunset bleeding into the horizon.  

you don’t move. you don’t breathe.  

rafe steps onto the boat first, setting the bags down before turning back to you, his expression softer now, almost nervous. he holds out a hand. "c’mon."  

your fingers tremble as they slip into his.  

"rafe," you whisper, voice barely above the lapping of the waves, already feeling the sting of tears gathering behind your eyes.

rafe reaches behind you, fingers brushing against the back of the chair as he grabs something—then, turning back to you, he reveals a bouquet of flowers.  

"before you say anything, i just need to do this," he murmurs, voice quieter now, as he hands them to you.  

your hands tighten around the bouquet instinctively, but you barely register the softness of the petals, too caught up in the way his eyes flicker, how his throat bobs as he swallows.  

"there's a note inside," he continues, rubbing the back of his neck as if he's trying to steady himself. "i wasn’t sure if i’d be able to say what i needed to say, so i wrote it down. but now that you’re standing right in front of me..." he hesitates, glancing down at the bouquet, then back at you. "i think i want to read it to you."  

your breath catches.  

he reaches into the bouquet, pulling out a small, neatly folded note, his fingers careful as he smooths it open. the sun is dipping lower, casting everything in gold and amber, and for a moment, you just watch him. the glow of the fading light makes his features impossibly soft, the strands of his tousled hair illuminated like something out of a dream.  

his eyes scan the paper, then flicker up to you. he exhales sharply.  

"god," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head slightly.  

your brows pull together. "you don’t have to—"  

"no, no," he interrupts quickly, waving a hand. "it’s not that. it’s just... you—" he exhales again, almost frustrated with himself. "you look really good right now. i can’t think straight."  

your heart stumbles over itself.  

heat spreads across your cheeks, and you bite back a grin, stepping closer to him. "you’re awful."  

"i’m awful?" he scoffs, tilting his head at you, a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "you’re the one over there, completely wrecking my concentration."  

his voice is soft, teasing, and the way he’s looking at you—like there’s no one else in the world—makes your chest ache. without thinking, you rise onto your toes, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss.  

he kisses you back, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. but as soon as your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, he pulls away with a pointed look.  

"see?" he murmurs, shaking his head in mock exasperation.  

you throw your head back in laughter. "okay, okay! i’m sorry! you have my undivided, uninterrupting attention."  

his lips twitch into a smirk before he clears his throat, bringing his attention back to the note in his hands.  

his voice is steady as he begins to read.  

"last semester, our science teacher told us that romantic love activates the same brain regions as drug addiction—especially the dopamine reward system."  

he glances up at you briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting like he already knows how silly he sounds. but he keeps going.  

"at the time, i didn’t think much of it. honestly, i probably forgot about it five minutes later. but a week after our first tutoring session, that random fact came rushing back. because by then, i wasn’t just falling for you—i was being consumed by you. every little thing you did, every quirk, every expression. the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something so intricate i could barely follow. the way you smiled. the way you blinked, even."  

he pauses, his jaw clenching for a second before he continues.  

"i couldn’t understand why i couldn’t stop thinking about you—why you had settled so deeply into my mind, in my bones, under my skin. and then, suddenly, i did. that fact from last semester snapped back into place."  

his voice is quieter now, more careful, like every word is something he needs you to hear.  

"you’re the first thought in my mind when i wake up and the last thing i think of before i fall asleep. you are my favorite part of every day."  

you feel your breath hitch, your hands tightening around the bouquet.  

"i will always feel sorry for anyone who never gets the chance to know you the way i do—to be wrapped in your kindness, to hear your laughter over and over, to know what your lips feel like, to be loved by you."  

his gaze flickers up to yours, a quiet intensity in his eyes.  

"you are extraordinary, and i know you’re going to go places neither of us can even dream of."  

he hesitates, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper slightly, like the words are heavier now.  

"if you’ll let me, i’d be honored to stand by your side for as long as you’ll have me."  

a beat of silence.  

"will you be my girlfriend?"  

you don’t realize you’re crying until you’re frantically wiping at your face, nodding—nodding so hard it almost makes you dizzy.  

"yeah?" rafe breathes, a laugh slipping from his lips as he pulls you in.  

"yes!" you cry, grinning through the tears. "are you serious?"  

his hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears as he shakes his head with a soft smile. "you can’t cry on our first date," he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.  

"you can’t make me cry on our first date," you sniffle, voice barely above a whisper.  

"touché," he murmurs.  

and then his lips find yours.  

the kiss is slow, unhurried—like he has all the time in the world. like he wants to take his time. his fingers slide into your hair, holding you close, and when you press against him, you don’t know if you want to smile or cry all over again.  

but you do know one thing.  

there is nowhere else you’d rather be.

rafe pulls away, his lips barely ghosting over yours as he exhales, his nose brushing against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. “let’s sit, yeah?” his voice is low, gentle, and you nod, but not before pressing the softest kiss against his lips. he smiles against your mouth, then steps back, pulling out your chair with an effortless sort of grace. you settle into the seat, placing your flowers carefully beside you, the delicate petals brushing against your arm.  

your arms tighten around yourself as you take in the scene before you—an intimate table set under the open sky, flickering candlelight casting golden hues across the linen, the sound of the waves lapping gently against the boat. it’s beautiful, breathtaking, and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. your throat tightens as tears well up, your voice trembling despite your best effort to steady it. “how did you plan this all in one day?”  

rafe’s brows knit together like the question itself is absurd, and he reaches across the table, his hand warm as it closes over yours. “one day?” he echoes, shaking his head, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “baby, i’ve been planning this for two weeks. three if you count the seven days straight i begged my dad for the boat.” he says it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most natural thing in the world to spend weeks making something perfect just for you.  

your breath stutters as you swipe at your damp cheeks with the back of your hand, overwhelmed. “t-this is…” the words get caught in your throat, and rafe watches you, his face soft with affection but laced with the slightest bit of concern.  

“baby.” he moves before you can blink, dropping to his knees beside your chair, his hands resting on your thighs as he looks up at you, all blue eyes and steady presence. “if i knew this would make you cry this much, i would’ve just taken you to mcdonald’s.” his lips twitch into a teasing grin, and the laugh that bubbles out of you is watery but real. you lean forward until your forehead touches his, exhaling shakily.  

“no, n-no, it’s perfect… i j-just…” you try to gather yourself, grounding yourself in the way his hands hold you like you’re something precious, something he never wants to let go of. you breathe deeply, eyes flickering between his. “i think i’ve been telling myself for so long that i didn’t want this—the romance, the grand gestures, all of it. convinced myself i didn’t need it, because it’s easier to not be disappointed by something when you’ve made yourself believe you never even wanted it in the first place. but now…” you swallow hard, your fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “this whole date, this entire day… it’s been incredible. and i can’t believe i let myself miss out on you for almost two decades.”  

rafe’s gaze flickers with something unreadable, something deep. he cups your face, tilting it ever so slightly. “i’m here now,” he murmurs, the words like a vow. “and i’m not going anywhere for at least another couple of decades.”  

he pulls you into his arms before you can respond, guiding you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. his fingers thread into your hair, grounding, soothing. “i’m sorry i’m such a mess,” you mumble into the warmth of his skin.  

“you’re my mess,” he murmurs, lips pressing softly against your temple.

it takes five tissues and a few deep breaths before you’re composed enough to properly sit down and eat. you lift the cloche, and immediately, the rich steam curls into the cool evening air. the scent hits you next—warm, savory, mouthwatering, like something fresh out of a five-star kitchen. your eyes sweep over the dish, taking in the careful presentation, the attention to detail. “this looks delicious…” your voice is tinged with awe as you glance up at him, suspicious. “who made this?” a part of you half-expects a chef to step out from behind the mast.  

rafe leans back in his chair, smirking. “i did.”  

you arch a brow. “no, you didn’t. you were with me all day.”  

his grin deepens as he watches your skepticism unfold. “where do you think i went after i left your house this morning?”  

you narrow your eyes, still not convinced. and he just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’d doubt him.

"i should probably explain how i planned all of this," he says, voice smooth, almost sheepish, like he's letting you in on some grand secret. you nod, twirling your fork into the soft, buttery pasta on your plate, waiting for him to continue.

"this boat is my family's, but really, it's my dad's. no one touches it without his permission, and he’s very… very particular about it." rafe exhales a small laugh, shaking his head as if recalling some past scolding. "but i wanted to do dinner here. thought it’d be more fun, more private. so i asked him—begged him, really—promised i wouldn't break anything, or at least, i'd try not to." his lips curve into a smirk before he leans in slightly, his voice dropping as if this is the part that matters most. "and finally, when i told him i really wanted to impress you… he said yes." he watches your face, gauging your reaction. "i think he likes you, which is a first."

your heart lightens, the weight of uncertainty easing just a little. his father likes you? you hadn’t been sure.

"really? he seemed a little…" you hesitate, searching for the right word.

"frigid?" rafe supplies, already nodding like he knew that’s what you were going to say. "yeah, he’s cold. has a hard time showing affection, all that shit. but he’s a good dad. we have our ups and downs, but he loves us, wants the best for us—most of the time." there's something almost distant in the way he says it, like he's repeating a fact rather than feeling it, but you don't press.

he exhales, shaking off the moment. "anyway, the plan was always dinner. but then, after i picked you up from the elderly home two weeks ago, we went to the beach, and you said you wanted to start having more fun." he glances at you, eyes twinkling under the warm glow of the string lights. "so i started thinking—what’s fun? i mean, dinner’s great, dinner and a movie is great, especially with you, but i wanted something more. i thought about a roller rink, ice skating, maybe an aquarium or the zoo. but the fair just felt… right. versatile, fun, a little chaotic."

you smile, warmth settling in your chest. all of those options would have been perfect, because they'd be with him.

"initially, everything that happened yesterday wouldn’t have happened," rafe admits, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his features. you nod, a little sad at the reminder.

"the plan was simple. you’d stay over at mine, we’d be lazy, stay in bed till noon. my parents and wheeze were coming back at two, so i figured i’d leave you with her for a couple hours. topper’s dad owns the yacht club right by the dock, so topper set it up so we could use their kitchen. i was gonna cook, come back, pick you up, take you to the fair, and text topper when we were close so he could go back, heat up the food, plate it here, and leave." rafe shakes his head, smiling at how much effort it had taken. "same plan, really, except we were at your house instead of mine. i cooked, picked you up, took you to the fair, texted topper fifteen minutes ago, he came, reheated everything, plated it, and left."

you stare at him, stunned. "jesus… that’s…" you start, grinning as you shake your head in disbelief.

rafe laughs, running a hand through his hair before picking up his fork. "yeah. and i hope you like it, because this is literally the only meal i can make."

you chew, smiling against your bite. "you know, you could’ve saved yourself a lot of time if you just ordered the food."

he shrugs, like the thought had never even crossed his mind. "i wanted to cook for you."

your heart stutters, just a little. "well, it’s really good," you admit, nudging his foot lightly under the table. "even if it’s the only meal you can make."

he grins. "better than nothing."

it took nearly two hours to finish eating, though neither of you minded. conversation flowed so easily, conversation leading to laughter, to teasing, to the occasional soft gaze that lingered just a little too long. the food sat half-forgotten between you, growing cold while you got lost in each other. the whole evening made you forget—truly forget—every dark cloud that had loomed over you in the past months. none of it mattered here. none of it existed. all that was real was this moment, the warmth of rafe's presence, the way he looked at you like nothing else in the world held his attention.  

after the last bite, rafe took the wheel, guiding the boat a little further out into the open water. not too far—just enough so the shore looked like something out of a dream, the golden glow of restaurant lights stretching across the waves, bars and shops humming with distant life. you curled up together on the bow, your head rising and falling with his steady breath, his arms wrapped securely around you. the throw blanket, already there like it had been waiting for this moment, draped over both of you. when you tilt your head up, you find his eyes already on you, like he had been watching you all along.  

"thank you for this," you whisper, voice barely louder than the gentle slosh of water against the boat. "this has been the most fun night." your eyes glisten in the soft light, emotions swelling in a way that makes your heart ache in the best way.  

"you don’t need to thank me," he murmurs, brushing his lips over yours, a fleeting, teasing touch. "i did it with pleasure. you’re my favorite person to be around, baby."  

your smile is small, but it holds so much, and you find his lips again, kissing him once, then again, and again, unable to stop yourself. "still gonna thank you," you breathe, nuzzling into him. "i would've been happy with just a mcdonald’s date, but you went the extra… extra mile. you didn’t have to do that."  

rafe scoffs, his face twisting in a way that tells you he hates the mere thought. "you’re too good for a mcdonald’s date," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. his lips trail down your jaw, slow and deliberate. "you’ve gotta know your worth…" the words are a murmur against your skin, his mouth lingering along your jawline, up to your ear. his teeth catch your earlobe gently, the softest bite, and your fingers dig into his bicep instinctively.  

"please…" the word leaves you in a breath, but the way it sounds—soft, needy—makes rafe tense for a beat.  

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. you’re so close your noses brush, sharing the same air. he’s asking you something without speaking, his gaze searching yours. you nod, slow and certain, and then his lips are on yours, the kiss stealing the breath from your lungs as he eases you down onto the soft cushions beneath you.  

the kiss is dizzying, has your mind floating, thoughts scattering like grains of sand in the wind. rafe kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like tasting you is the only thing that makes sense. his hands are impossibly warm, feverish against your skin, and soon he’s caging you beneath him, pressing closer, deeper. his lips leave yours only to travel down your neck, and your breath stutters, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.  

"rafe…" his name is barely a whisper, a plea, as your hands tug at the fabric of his shirt. you need him closer.  

he doesn’t make you wait. his shirt is off in a second, discarded somewhere in the dark, and his hands skim the hem of your top, fingers toying with the fabric before he pauses. his gaze finds yours again, softer this time. "you’re sure?" he asks, voice quiet, careful.  

you nod, your hands sliding into his hair as you pull him in, kissing him slowly, deeply. "i’m sure," you murmur against his lips.  

he pulls your top over your head, tosses it aside like nothing else matters but this. his mouth is on your skin immediately, mapping you out with slow, careful devotion, like he has all the time in the world. he kisses down your neck, lingers there, like he wants to memorize the way you shudder beneath him. his lips trail lower, between your breasts, his tongue and teeth leaving red marks behind—deep, burning reminders that you’ll feel long after the night is over.

"god, you're so fucking beautiful," rafe groans as he unhooks your bra with a precision that should be concerning—but the thought barely forms before his mouth is on you, his lips wrapping around your nipple, and suddenly, you can’t think at all.

your breath catches in your throat, a soft, shuddering gasp spilling from your lips as heat shoots straight through you. your fingers tangle in his hair, instinct taking over as you pull him closer, urging him on. "oh… oh—" the sound escapes you in a breathless whimper, pleasure twisting sharp and sweet through your body. your free hand fists the throw blanket beside you, lips parting as your head tips back into the pillow. the sensation is overwhelming, toeing the line between pleasure and something almost too intense, too much—but you don’t want him to stop.

rafe switches between your nipples, sucking and teasing until they’re left swollen, aching, but before you can even process the sensation, he’s moving lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. the warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you, but your mind stays hazy, pliant, following wherever he leads.  

two firm taps against your thigh. "up," he murmurs, and without thinking, you obey, lifting your hips like it’s second nature. he strips you bare in one swift motion, your skirt and underwear slipping down and away before you can so much as blink. the cool air kisses your exposed skin, but the heat of rafe’s mouth follows a moment later, his lips dragging slow, purposeful kisses from your lower stomach downward, inching closer, closer—  

your breath catches. he pauses. his gaze flickers up to meet yours, something dark and unreadable swimming in his eyes. "tell me you want it."  

at first, the words sound like nothing more than a demand, thick with lust. but when you really look at him—when you see the way he holds himself there, waiting—you realize he’s asking for more than just permission. he’s asking for certainty.  

"i want it," you whisper, the plea slipping out without hesitation, breathy and soft. "please…"  

something shifts in his expression, something unreadable yet electric, and then he’s gone—no, not gone—he’s there, right there, between your legs, his mouth stealing the very breath from your lungs.

the moment rafe’s tongue drags through your folds, pleasure slams into you so hard your mind blanks. your hands fly to your mouth, muffling the moan that tries to rip free, but it does nothing to quiet the way your body trembles beneath him. his grip tightens on your thigh, firm and unyielding, holding you in place as his tongue plunges deeper, tasting you, savoring you like a starving man.

everything else fades—thoughts, time, reality—until the only thing left is sensation. his mouth. his tongue. the slow, torturous way he builds you up, pushing you higher, higher, until you’re on the verge of tears.

"rafe… rafee…!" his name tumbles from your lips in a soft, breathless cry, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, desperate for more, for anything, for everything. your back arches, fingers tangling in his hair, clutching tight like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.  

he doesn’t stop. not as your body trembles, not as pleasure coils tighter, hotter, unbearable. not as tears burn the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. he keeps going, tongue lapping and lacking along your sweet cunt, dragging you to the very edge of bliss until you’re trembling, right there, ready to break—  

and then he pulls away.  

"no… no, no—" the whimper leaves you before you can stop it, pure desperation twisting in your chest as your hands fumble down between your thighs, chasing the release he so cruelly denied. but before you can touch yourself, rafe tsks, catching your wrists with ease.  

"uh-uh," he murmurs, his voice thick with something dark and dangerous. still gripping your wrists, he rises to his knees, unbuckling his pants with deliberate slowness. the hunger in his eyes makes your breath stutter.

his bulge alone leaves little to the imagination, but when he finally pushes his pants down, your lips part slightly, breath hitching as you take him in.

you'd seen him before—felt him before, had his cock in your mouth, remembered how he'd stuffed your mouth, memorized the way he stretched your throat—but somehow, the reality of it fitting inside you hadn’t fully processed until now.  

your pulse quickens. there’s no way. no way in hell—  

but rafe is already leaning down, tilting your chin so your gaze locks with his and only his. his eyes are molten in the dim light, steady and unshakable as he brushes his lips over yours, a whisper of warmth. "trust me, yeah?" his voice is low, rough, but so, so gentle. "just gotta trust me… i’ll make you feel good, i promise." it's hard not to believe him.

your stomach flips, nerves twisting with something softer, something deeper. slowly, you nod, and rafe rewards you with a lingering kiss—soft, patient, meant to soothe.

as his lips trail down your jaw, your arms instinctively loop around his neck, pulling him closer. he keeps you distracted, kissing you deeply, pulling you under his spell as his hands guide your thighs apart.  

your breath stutters when you feel him there—thick and hot, his tip gliding through your slick folds, teasing, testing. your body tenses. "r-rafe…" you stammer, voice unsteady, eyes flying open to meet his.  

he’s already watching you.  

"you’re okay," he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss against your lips, his thumb stroking your hip. "you’re alright."  

then he’s pushing in, forcing your cunt to expand and take all of him and your eyes fill with tears.

your walls stretches around him, foreign and overwhelming, a gasp breaking free as you clutch at his hair, fingers curling tight. the stretch is slow, unrelenting, inch by inch as he sinks deeper, forcing you to take him, molding you to fit him.  

"breathe," he urges, his voice firm but soothing, and only then do you realize you’ve been holding your breath. you exhale shakily, thighs trembling around his hips.  

"fuck," rafe rasps, his forehead nearly touching yours, breath warm against your lips as he sinks into you, slow but deep, stretching you, filling you completely. the moment he starts to move, sliding in and out of your slick, trembling heat, a shudder wracks through you, pleasure blooming so intensely it steals the breath from your lungs.  

your nails dig into his shoulders, your body clinging to his instinctively, overwhelmed by the sheer depth of sensation. "oh god—rafe, god—" his name spills from your lips in a broken sob, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, not from anything but the unbearable bliss of having him like this, of being his.  

you wrap your leg around his waist, and his body answers before his mind does, his hips rolling forward, pushing deeper, pressing impossibly close. a guttural groan rips from his throat, his hands gripping your hips like he never wants to let go. "fuck, baby," he groans, voice thick and ragged, "you feel so fucking good…"  

he thrusts into you again, and again, and again, each movement more intense than the last, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, as if you weren’t already his.

rafe’s fingers dig into your hips, gripping so tight you think you’ll wear his bruises for days, a mark of this moment, of him. his thrusts are relentless, slamming into you, pushing you higher, higher, until the pleasure is so consuming it’s nearly unbearable. the ocean roars around you, but it’s nothing compared to the symphony of moans and breathless cries spilling from your lips, to the desperate slap of skin against skin as he takes you apart piece by piece.  

he looks wrecked—utterly, beautifully ruined—his jaw clenched, eyes dark and hazy, drowning in lust, in you. "fucking christ," he grits out, voice wrecked, nearly a growl, his head tipping back as your walls flutter around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go.  

you can’t think, can’t form a single coherent thought beyond the white-hot pleasure slamming into your every nerve. he fucks you senseless, over and over, hitting that devastating spot inside you again and again until you’re sobbing, whimpering, utterly wrecked beneath him.  

"rafe… m’gonna— i can’t— n-need—" you babble, voice breaking, tears slipping down your cheeks as the pleasure coils tighter, unbearable, uncontrollable.  

"hold it," he pants, forehead brushing against yours, his own restraint fraying, his body trembling with the effort. you want to obey, want to listen, but you can’t—god, you can’t. "please… please!" your voice is nearly unrecognizable, high and desperate, trembling as he shifts, lifting your thigh higher, forcing himself even deeper.  

"just a little longer, babygirl," he rasps, mouth trailing over your parted lips, kissing you like he’s savoring your surrender. but you can’t kiss him back—you can’t do anything but take it, take him, take every last ounce of pleasure he gives you.  

"i c-can’t… can’t—!" your body is wrecked, overstimulated, pushed past the point of reason as he pounds into your already trembling, sore cunt.  

"that’s it," he groans, voice tight, desperate. "so fucking good, baby… doing so good for me." his rhythm falters, thrusts growing sloppy, more frantic, his control unraveling as he chases his own high.  

"cum, baby."  

his words crash over you like a tidal wave, and before you can even process it, you’re breaking—shattering—pleasure detonating through you so violently your vision goes white. your entire body trembles, clenches, your mind floating into oblivion as you come harder than you ever have, tears slipping from your lashes, lips parting in a silent scream.  

your heart is racing, hammering so wildly you think it might just burst right out of your chest.

rafe eases out of you carefully, and you wince at the overwhelming sensitivity, your body thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. his hands are on you instantly, soothing, tracing gentle circles along your waist as he watches you with quiet concern. "you good?" he murmurs, voice low, intimate, like it’s just the two of you in the whole world.  

even as exhaustion settles deep in your bones, as every muscle in your body hums with the ache of what you’ve just done, you nod. "that was…" you trail off, searching for the right words.

rafe’s lips twitch, but he stays quiet, waiting, his blue eyes filled with something unreadable. then, playfully, he tilts his head. "good..? bad..? overwhelming..? underwhelming..?" he teases, voice soft, coaxing, and that boyish grin—the one that always gets you—spreads across his face. even like this, damp skin glowing under the moonlight, hair a wild mess, he looks devastatingly beautiful.  

you smile, stretching out the anticipation before answering. "really, really, really…" you pause just to see him raise a brow at you. "good. like, seriously, mind-numbingly good."  

rafe chuckles, the sound warm and low, and he leans in to press the gentlest kiss to your lips. "yeah," he whispers against your mouth. "you did give me that impression."  

you laugh, giving his chest a weak shove, and he just grins, sinking down beside you with a deep, satisfied sigh. his arm curls around your waist, and instinctively, you tuck yourself against him, head resting over his heart, listening to its steady, soothing beat.  

a few beats of silence pass before he breaks it, voice amused. "you know there’s a bedroom down there, right?"  

your head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "rafe. are you serious?" disbelief laces your voice as you gesture to the makeshift bed and the throw blanket tangled around your legs. "we had sex here when there was a perfectly comfortable bed waiting right below us?"  

he’s already laughing, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders as he tugs you even closer. "but now you can say you’ve had sex under the stars," he offers with a smirk, like it’s the best selling point in the world.  

you roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, curling into a smile as you settle against him again. "yeah, that’s really something i’m gonna go brag about," you say dryly, and rafe chuckles, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.  

your heart swells, impossibly full, and when you lift your head, his lips graze yours, the touch so light it’s barely there. then, in the quiet, in the peace of the night, he whispers, "i love you…"  

you kiss his nose, his cheek, then his lips, slow and tender. "i love you too."

a.n —  they finally did it. YAY. i hope this was up to everyone's standards. more coming soon. leave a comment cause i rlly love to chit chat with y'all!

chapter index — next. chap

taglist — @rafeysworldim19 @my-name-is-baby @pogueprincesa @fveapplestall @chalametlover444 @slutglimreqpers @uarmyhopeworldwide @junxe3 @bakuhoethotski @wintercrows @magicalflowerstranger @kinderwh0r3 @bigjuli444 @singlethreadofivy @stylestarkey @squirreljoe

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist & interact with post to remain tagged <3

[comflexxed]

june huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh but close enough, the warmth in his chest only growing with hans’ teasing. he felt awake now — not in the way he had before, when sleep had been tugging at his edges, but in a way that made every moment feel sharper.

his fingers twitched beneath hans’, his heart still rattling in his chest, but he didn’t pull away. instead, he let himself lean into it, into the warmth of hans’ touch, into the way his thumb brushed so easily over his skin, as if this had always been natural.

“i wasn’t dreaming,” he murmured, voice still laced with drowsiness but carrying a thread of amusement. “i was definitely awake for that.” his lips parted, as if he was going to continue teasing, but hans’ hand was in his hair now, smoothing back a stray lock, and god, that was unfair. he exhaled slowly, tilting his head just slightly into the touch before blinking up at hans, something softer in his expression now.

there was something so easy about saying it out loud, about letting it settle between them without overthinking it too much. june had spent so much of his life overthinking, holding things at arm’s length before they could hold him first. but right now, in this moment, for the first time, he didn’t want to do that. he didn’t need to.

the tv cast shifting colors across the room, the red hues still lingering on hans’ face, and june thought maybe he should kiss him again. the thought alone sent another rush of warmth through him, startling but not unpleasant, something new and unfamiliar but not unwelcome. instead, he squeezed hans’ fingers lightly, almost absentmindedly, like a silent confirmation that he was still here, still with him.

“you’re right about one thing, though,” he murmured. “that wasn’t a goodnight kiss. not really.” he let the words settle for a second before tilting his head slightly, eyes lidded with something warm, something still hazy with sleep but holding no hesitation. “because now, i really don’t want to sleep.”

hans’ eyes scanned june’s face for his reaction, reading through every blink, every breath, any indication that hans had made a mistake. he did not regret the kiss, and boy, did he want to do it again. when june finally spoke, hans couldn’t help but chuckle in an amused but slightly nervous kind of way. 

“are you sure it happened? you seemed pretty sleepy, you could have dozed off and dreamt it up,” he spoke slowly, gently, as if any louder would wake june up fully even though he seemed much more awake now that he had been earlier. “does that mean you do dream of a kiss, hmm?”

it was another one of those moments that made hans feel brave, the kiss feeling like a barrier he had managed to scale and now he was greeted by a field of flowers inviting him to take his time and frolic. as his thumb brushed against the back of june’s hand, he couldn’t help but smile a self-assuring smile, one that reminded him of that sweet kiss, no matter how quickly it had happened. 

“it was nice,” he repeated, though he put more importance on what june thought rather than what he thought. “but it’s nicer to know you think it’s nice.” the tv screen shifted to a different scene that lit up half of june’s face in hues of red, and hans thought that felt fitting. because it was a moment of daring, of passion, that hinted at so much more. 

he lifted his hand to brush a stray lock of hair on june’s forehead, his lips still curled to a smile as he did so. “it was meant to be a goodnight kiss, but now it doesn’t seem like you’re going to sleep. i think i did a bad job," he teased.  

[capquinn]

what about quinn just basking in the way bug and mom interact?? its like they have their own secret language and he loves to watch it happen, makes him all fuzzy and warm and just honestly fall in love with you even more (if thats even possible) seeing you as a mom

i just know quinny would find himself tearing up every once in a while when he sees them all soft like this 😭😭

Quinn leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

The house is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the living room lamp. It’s late — Bug should be in bed by now, but instead, she’s curled up against you on the couch, her tiny body tucked into yours, head nestled beneath your chin. She’s talking, voice soft and sleepy, her words tumbling together in that half-lucid way they do when she’s fighting sleep. Quinn doesn’t catch all of it, but he doesn’t have to. Because you do. You always do.

And God, he loves watching it. Loves watching you. Loves watching you as a mother. It comes so effortlessly to you, like instinct, like something woven into your bones. The way you smooth your palm over Bug’s back in long, steady strokes, the way you hum in just the right places, murmuring quiet encouragements, responding to things Quinn doesn’t always follow, like you and Bug are speaking in a language only the two of you understand.

Bug pauses, her little lips pursing, fingers absentmindedly tracing tiny shapes against your arm, a habit she’s had since she was a baby. You don’t rush her. You just wait, patient, steady, your fingertips brushing through her curls, giving her all the space she needs to find her words. After a beat, she exhales, relaxing against you as the words come together in her sleepy little head.

“— and then the bunny had to go home,” Bug murmurs, voice getting sleepier by the second, “but the bear didn’t want her to.”

You tilt your head, waiting, because she always has more to say.

“Mm,” you encourage with a small hum, shifting just enough to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “That’s tough, huh? Bear and bunny are best friends.”

Bug nods against your chest, letting out a little sigh. “Yeah. But… but bunny said, ‘I have to go, bear. My mommy’s waiting for me.’”

You hum again, warm and soft. “Because her mommy misses her?”

Bug nods again, slow, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. Quinn thinks she’s finally given in, finally let sleep take her...

But then, in the tiniest voice, she murmurs, “You’d miss me too, right?”

Your arms tighten just slightly, your lips pressing to the crown of her head, fingers tracing slow, steady paths down her back. Quinn watches it happen — watches the way Bug knows the answer before you even say a word. She doesn’t need to ask again. She feels it in the way you hold her, in the warmth of your touch, in the way you keep her close like you never want to let go.

It’s something innate passing between the two of you, this quiet understanding that doesn’t need words.

Bug breathes out, a tiny, content hum slipping past her lips, her whole body going boneless against you. A smile, soft and sleepy, tugs at the corner of her mouth as she burrows impossibly closer, little fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clinging without urgency, without fear. Like she’s heard you loud and clear, even though you haven’t said a single word.

But you do, because you know she still wants to hear it.

“Oh, baby,” you murmur. “I always miss you when you’re not with me.”

And that’s all she needs. She sighs, long and slow, her body going completely slack against you, safe and sure in the way you love her.

Quinn watches, his heart caught somewhere between aching and overflowing, the kind of fullness that makes his chest feel too small to hold it all. Because this — this quiet, sleepy moment, the two of you curled up together, Bug safe and sound in your arms — it’s everything.

Quinn swallows, stepping further into the room, perching on the armrest of the couch.

“She out?” he murmurs, voice hushed.

You glance up at him, smiling softly, your fingers still stroking through Bug’s curls, lulling her further into sleep.

“Almost.”

Quinn reaches out, his knuckles grazing Bug’s cheek, and she makes a tiny sound — somewhere between a hum and a sigh — before burrowing deeper into your warmth, her little hand still gripping onto your shirt even in sleep, like she never wants to let go.

Quinn feels something tighten in his throat. Because he remembers when she was just a baby, small enough to fit in the crook of one arm, when her cries could only be soothed by your voice, your touch. And now, here she is, still finding her safety, her comfort, her home in you.

And God.

He thought he knew love before. Thought he had felt it in all the ways that mattered.

But this? Watching the way you hold her like you were made for this, made for her? Watching the way she leans into you like she doesn’t even need to think about it? This kind of love? It’s something else entirely. Something that makes him want to reach out, to touch, to hold.

So he does.

His hand drifts, skimming over your arm before curling around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a slow, grateful line against your skin. He leans in, presses his lips to your temple, lingers there for a moment longer than necessary.

You tilt your head just slightly, leaning into him the way Bug leans into you, and that’s all it takes. That’s all he needs. His family, his girls wrapped up in the kind of love that’s steady and sure and so achingly pure that he doesn’t know what he did to deserve it.

You sigh softly, shifting just enough to look up at him, your features soft in the dim light.

“You okay?” you ask, like you can sense it — how full he feels, how something inside him is stretching, expanding, trying to make room for all the love pressing against his ribs.

Quinn just nods, thumb still brushing lazy circles against your skin.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quieter than he intends. “I just… I love you.” His gaze flickers down, taking in the way Bug is tucked against your chest. “Both of you.”

Your smile is small, knowing, like you already understood before he even said it. Like the secret language you and Bug share, that unspoken understanding, somehow it extends to him too.

“We love you too,” you murmur back, your free hand reaching for his, fingers threading together, squeezing gently. “So much.”

Quinn leans in again, kissing you slow, deep, the kind of kiss that lingers, and Bug stirs between you, sighing softly. You both pull back, sharing a quiet chuckle, and Quinn shifts, slipping off the armrest to settle beside you properly, his arm curling around both of you.

The three of you sit like that for a while, wrapped up in warmth, in love, in the quiet certainty that there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Because if there’s one thing Quinn Hughes knows for certain, it’s this:

Bug has the best mom in the world.

And him?

He’s the luckiest man alive.

[4vanaa]

WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING, rafe cameron, 20

summary: y/n left the outer banks years ago, determined to build a life far from the memories of her childhood love, rafe cameron. now a botanist, she's moved on-though a quiet part of her still clings to the past. when an event brings her back to OBX, she's forced to confront the one person she never truly forgot.

cw: none | masterlist | 19 | 21 |

The group was buzzing, the energy in the club electric after the wedding rehearsal. Everyone had fallen into their own rhythm—JJ and Cleo tearing it up on the dance floor, Topper and Kelce playing some obnoxious drinking game, and Sarah holding court with John B by one of the lounge booths.

You stood by the bar, waiting for your drink, the crowd shifting and pulsing around you. The sleek black dress you wore fit like a second skin, the neckline daring, the slit high enough to turn heads. Your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders, catching the soft glow of the club’s neon lights.

You weren’t trying to get attention, but you weren’t blind to the effect you had—least of all on him. You felt it before you saw it, that familiar, heavy stare. Your skin prickled as you glanced sideways, catching Rafe standing a few feet away. He leaned casually against the bar, his sharp jaw illuminated by the amber glow of a nearby light.

His drink hung lazily in his hand, but his piercing gaze was anything but casual, trailing over you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” you said, your voice low but cutting as you turned to him fully.

Rafe didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened. He pushed off the bar slightly, stepping closer, his towering frame making the space between you feel even smaller.

“Why not?” His blue eyes flickered down to your lips for just a moment before meeting yours again. “I like looking at you.”

You faltered, swallowing thickly under his gaze. “You know what you’re doing.”

“I really don’t.”

He shrugged, though his smirk gave him away.

“Just noticing you, Sunshine. Can’t help it when you look like that.”

His eyes flicked down, slow and deliberate, taking you in. Your lips parted, your breath hitching slightly. You recovered quickly, crossing your arms in front of your chest, your lips curving into a faint, teasing smile.

“Careful, Cameron,” you said, leaning slightly closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You’re starting to sound a little obsessed.”

Rafe’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes.

“Oh, I passed a little a long time ago.”

Your cheeks heated, but you refused to let him see you squirm. Instead, you tilted your head, your gaze locking onto his like a challenge.

“You know my boyfriend’s right over there, right?”

Rafe’s smirk twitched, and you could see his jaw tighten just slightly. “Yeah,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter. “Doesn’t change anything.”

Your heart stuttered, and you hated the way it did. Hated the way his voice still had this effect on you, the way he seemed to see right through you.

“Rafe,” you warned, your voice soft but firm.

“What?” he asked, leaning in just enough that you could smell the faint mix of his cologne and whiskey.

“Am I not allowed to notice how good you look? You’re impossible not to look at, Y/N. Impossible to ignore.”

Your breath hitched again, and you couldn’t stop the slight flutter in you chest, no matter how much you tried. You leaned back slightly, your fingers curling around the bar for support.

“You should try harder.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” Something about the way he said it—low, honest, like a confession—made your chest tighten.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I came here to apologize, not... this.”

“For what?” His voice softened, his smirk fading.

“For what I said to you at the chateau,” you admitted, fidgeting with your drink straw. “I didn’t mean it, not all of it. I was angry.”

“It’s fine,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice low and deliberate. “You don’t owe me anything, Y/N. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel how I feel.”

“You were right, though. I haven’t done much to prove you wrong.”

You sighed. “Still. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken words.

“Y/N,” he murmured, stepping closer, “do you ever think about—”

You cut him off, stepping back. “Rafe, stop.”

But he didn’t. “What if you just let yourself—”

“Rafe.” Your tone was firmer this time, but the way your cheeks flushed betrayed you.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, your tone lighter again, teasing even.

“And you’re beautiful,” he shot back without hesitation, his voice soft but firm, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Before you could respond, the bartender slid your drink in front of you, breaking the moment. You grabbed it quickly, needing the excuse to pull away.

“Look,” you said quietly. “I don’t want this to be weird during the wedding. Sarah’s my friend, and—”

“I’ll behave,” Rafe cut you off, his smirk returning. “Scout’s honor.”

“Good,” you replied, stepping back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Enjoy the rest of your night, Cameron,” you said lightly, your tone airy as if you weren’t fighting the heat rising to your cheeks.

Your turned on your heel, walking back toward Noah. You felt Rafe’s eyes burning into you as you moved.

When you reached Noah, you didn’t hesitate. “Hey, babe,” you said, your voice soft and warm as you slid an arm around his waist.

He turned to you, his face lighting up instantly. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

“Perfect,” you murmured before standing on your toes and pulling him into a slow, deliberate kiss.

Noah blinked in surprise but quickly melted into it, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. When you pulled away, you smiled up at him, your gaze warm and steady.

Rafe watched from the bar, his drink untouched in his hand, his jaw tight. The knot in his chest grew tighter, the sharp sting of jealousy and longing intertwining in a way that made him dizzy.

You caught his eye over Noah’s shoulder as you walked past, your expression unreadable but deliberate.

It was a silent message, and it hit its mark.

Rafe’s grip on his glass tightened as he downed the rest of his drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to dull the ache.

🏷️: @xoxo-ada @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @sleepiibunniiii @urbrunettebombshell @sideboobrry11 @acidfeens @marleymarleymarleymarley @hadids-world @ursogorgeous13 @louxmcl @cyberkitty1 @pogueprincesa @drewrry @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not

a/n: i was very inspired by this edit. GO BIRDS 🦅 🦅

[rikan-oo]

SY and SJ sharing body shenanigans

I like how sometimes in fics, SY retels anime or famous story plot but with some renditions. It's fun to spot references

So, consider this. SY is trying to kickstart scum villain redemption arc before it's too late, so he tells a story of a young scholarly cultivator. She is a student of famous immortal and lives in Imperial city. Girl is talented and smart, exceling both in her cultivation and scholarly studies. But she lives like a hermit, doesn't really socialize with anyone, and communicates either with her little assistant or shizun. One day, she accidentally finds a prophecy of doom that should happen during the closest Summer solitice festival. One immortal, who turned on the path of demonic cultivation and wanted to put the world into eternal night, was sealed on this day, and a thousand years later, they shall come back. She tries to warn her shizun about upcoming disasters, but her shizun dismisses her worries and sends her to the small village to take care of organizing this year festival. And most importantly, have fun and make new friends. She could care less about that when catastrophe is near, and she needs to get ready in case seal formation really breaks.

But she obliges as a filial disciple and gets to the village. She organizes festivals and meets a lot of new people. Reluctant, she gets to know five of them a little better, but the festival is near, and she needs to find answers and make a plan. Instead of that, she couldn't sleep nor find anything because of an unexpected welcoming celebration in her house, what really gets on her nerves. And the night has come. The prophecy was right. the cultivator breaks the seal and comes back to the festival. Meanwhile, her shizun that should lead the celebration is gone. Now, somehow, young cultivator should stop them, but not without the help of her new acquaintances.

And yes, you guess it right, that's the plot of My Little Pony. Shen Qingqiu is gonna learn that friendship is magic, whether he wants it or not.

[its-luna-noel]

your obstinate charge | astarion ancunin

Astarion has never been allowed to say 'no' before. When he does, he realizes who he wants to say 'yes' to. You realize that he could kill you here, right now, in any number of ways. He could slit your throat, drive a dagger beneath your ribs & pierce your heart, bleed you dry until you're nothing but a memory upon this land. You realize this, and yet your body relaxes in his hands. You trust him completely.

warnings: 18+, MDNI, afab reader but any pronouns, durge reader, act 2 spoilers, previous abuse, smut, oral (f! & m! receiving), blood drinking

word count: 5.3k

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hello! i wrote this last year and posted on ao3, and i wasn't going to cross post since my blog is mostly jjk, but i reread it and was really proud of it, so here it is on tumblr! ty for reading & hope you enjoy!

Everyone at camp can see that Astarion is in a foul mood.

You arrived back at Last Light after your first journey to Moonrise Towers, finally having arrived at your end goal to destroy these tadpoles, and before you could all share your discoveries with the rest of the party, Astarion strode off towards the waterline, ducking into darkness before you could grab him.

You stare after him for a moment and shake your head. Then you turn towards the fire, folding your legs under you as you ready yourself for dinner.

Gale passes you a wooden bowl of the same stew you'd been eating since arriving in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. "How did it go?" he asks.

You shake your head again, shoving food in your mouth, and lift your shoulder in a shrug. "We found Ketheric," you explain, offering the memory of your meeting to Gale through your tadpoles. He grimaces as you share the images of Ketheric pulling the axe from his chest. You withdraw your mind from his and continue to eat. "We've convinced them that we're True Souls, for now. We'll see where it takes us."

Gale begins to speak over his own meal, airing his many ideas to the party as the others gathered around the fire. But your thoughts drift, and you aren’t even lucid enough to feel guilty for ignoring him; all you can think of was how you know Ketheric was somehow involved in your previous life, that life you can't remember. Determination begins to burn deep in your chest; you must find out what this all means.

Before you can try to sort out your disordered thoughts, Karlach plops down beside you, the heat of her warming you on all sides as she digs into her stew.

"Hey," she says through a mouth full of food, "what's wrong with Fangs?"

You shrug, pulling apart your warm roll of bread. "How am I supposed to know?"

"'Cause you're all cozy with him, or whatever." She looks at you, her bright eyes keen and knowing. "Whatever happened today, you know what must be bothering him. Maybe you should go check on him."

You almost laugh. "He doesn't want to see me," you tell her.

She gives you a stern look before returning to her meal. "Just think about it, soldier," is all she says.

You all finish your meal and talk about your plan for the next day before retiring to your own tents for the night. You change out of your armor and clean it, rubbing off stubborn stains of goblin blood. You try to lose yourself to sleep, but it does not take you, with your many worries for the next day. And, even though you don't want to, you can't help but think about what Karlach said.

"Maybe you should go check on him."

So, unable to sleep, and unable to think of anything else to do, you leave your tent and make your way towards Astarion's.

You walk over, the chill of the night making you shiver. You almost hope to find the tent closed up for the night, to find him already trancing for the night, but the entrance is still tied open. You peek inside, expecting to find your companion reclined and reading a book by candle light; you try to prepare yourself for whatever sly flirtation he has for you.

Instead, you find the tent empty.

You frown; you know that Astarion hasn't been able to find suitable prey since you'd arrived in the cursed lands, so you can't imagine that he's out prowling. You stand there for a moment, at a loss and trying to decide whether or not to just go to bed. But you sigh, as whatever blackened heart inside you pushes you forward.

You, thanking your lucky stars that he wasn't trying to hide when he skulked away, follow Astarion's tracks down towards the river.

—

You find him propped up on his elbows across the river, staring out across the water. You don't bother to try and hide your footsteps; you simply cross the river, taking care not to lose your footing on the loose stones along the way.

"Come to collect your obstinate charge?" Astarion sneers without looking at you as you approach.

You sit beside him, tucking your knees against your chest. You try to keep your dirty shoes off his cloak that he spread out on the ground beneath him.

Those words are familiar enough; that dreadful Drow called him that to your face when she asked for him to bite her. "She really got to you, huh?" you ask, resting your cheek on one knee as you turn to look at him.

He's still in his armor from the day, and he'd found a bottle of wine somewhere in the crates surrounding Last Light on his journey over. It's something cheap, something you're sure he finds repulsive, even as he drinks. He stares across the river towards the inn, and he's silent for so long you resign yourself to the fact that he's ignoring you. Then, as you're deciding if you should just leave him to his thoughts, he shakes his head and says, "I can't get it out of my head. The way she leered at me."

You watch him, waiting for him to speak. He swirls the bottle of wine and takes a drink, then grimaces at the taste and lets the bottle hang loosely from his fingers. He doesn't look at you as he thinks.

Eventually, he sighs, the sound light and airy. "I was being too precious, wasn't I?" You can tell he's trying to convince himself, to talk himself back into some dark line of thinking he'd grown accustomed since being turned. "We could have used her potion. A moment of unpleasantry doesn't matter if there's a fine reward. I should have just gritted my teeth as always and let her have me for a bit."

You feel your heart sink at his words. "Astarion," you whisper, unsure of what to say next.

He barks out a laugh, a short, derisive sound. "Oh, darling, I don't need your pity." He throws the bottle of wine towards the water, and the glass shatters against the river bank. Wine starts to spill into the river, spreading like blood.

You shake your head, confused by how quickly his mood shifts. You struggle to keep up. "Astarion, I don't pity you," you tell him. You turn to face him properly, to take this conversation seriously. He still doesn't look at you. "But you have the right to say 'no.' You don't belong to anyone anymore."

At those words, he shifts his gaze from the waterline to finally examine you. His eyes are narrow, the expression behind them inscrutable. "You really believe that, don't you?" He laughs again, but he's not amused. His voice is bitter as he continues, "Yes, well, I must admit, a part of me feels sick when I think about getting on my back for breadcrumbs again." He tilts his head, suddenly curious. "But you, you could have convinced me to take the deal. To just push through and get the potion, and we would've all just moved along with our lives. Why didn't you?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Your voice is slightly incredulous. "You said 'no,' and that's your right. I'm not here to force you to do anything." You, now, laugh without mirth. You know enough about not having a say in what you do, with your strange visitors haunting your every move.

Astarion is still watching you. He has to admit to himself, he doesn't understand you one bit. No one in this life or his last ever showed him any ounce of kindness; even the gods couldn't be bothered to look his way. But here you are, some insignificant wanderer with gore for brains and a strong propensity towards gruesome violence, sitting beside him and telling him he had a choice. "But you could've," he pushes, and he suddenly reaches forward, dragging aside your neckline to reveal bruised teeth marks from where he'd last fed. You stiffen slightly, caught off guard by his quick movements. "What have I done to deserve any of your grace? I deceived you, tried to hunt you in the night, have taken everything I could from you with no promises to give any of it back."

"Astarion," you whisper, and for the first time, you think you are finally seeing him. "What makes you think you have to earn it?"

And that, finally, is what breaks him.

He rises up on his knees and takes your face in his hands, and there's a frenzy there, a desperation that makes you tense. You think he might shake you so hard your ruined brain will rattle around in your skull, and you watch the thought form behind his eyes. You realize that he could kill you here, right now, in any number of ways. He could slit your throat, drive a dagger beneath your ribs & pierce your heart, bleed you dry until you're nothing but a memory upon this land.

You realize this, and yet your body relaxes in his hands.

You trust him completely.

The look in his eyes is suddenly wild, confused, exasperated. Of all the prey he's ever hunted before, why did you have to be the one he showed the monster to? Anyone else would've run; you should've, too. Yet here you sit, on this riverbank beside him, looking into his blood-red eyes because he's led you right where he wanted you. Surely you aren't too stupid to see that.

Yet here you are, staring at him with those big, trusting eyes as he holds your life in his hands.

There must be something wrong with you, he decides then. Beyond the parasite in your head, and beyond the spells of very bloody memory loss; there is something fundamentally, elementally, seriously wrong with you. It's the only way he can explain to himself why you're still sitting here, prey in its predator's sight, unwavering & unafraid.

At that look in your eyes, that brave, corruptible expression, he leans closer. He says your name, and it's like the last prayer he'll ever speak. "Tell me what you want," he whispers, and he's almost begging.

You lean in, too, until the tip of your nose brushes the slope of his, and you breathe, "You."

And then he's kissing you, and you let out a small gasp, because you can't believe this beautiful elf has chosen you. He breathes you in, his hands still cupping your cheeks, and you thread your fingers into his silvery curls, beckoning him closer. One of his hands traces down your side, wrapping around your waist and holding you closer so you can feel the lines of him through your camp clothes. You gasp again, surprised by his unyielding grip, and his tongue slips between your parted lips, searching, exploring, tasting. You groan quietly, low in your throat, and his other hand traces from your cheek to your neck, fingers searching for the source of the sound. They find it, and they squeeze…

With his hand on your throat, feeling your pulse through the delicate skin, Astarion is nearly hypnotized.

He wishes that hunger deep in his belly would fade, would disappear and leave him to enjoy this, to lose himself in the moment like he hasn't in two hundred years. But it burns hot, and he can hear your heart beating strong in your chest, quickening as he moves against you, presses into you. It gnaws at him, spurned and getting harder to ignore, and you feel him bracing, beginning to pull away because he shouldn't do this to you— he can't—

You pull back from him, and he wonders how you could have possibly known his thoughts and braces for the impact of a stake in his heart—

Instead you tilt your chin and arch your back, and your hands in his hair lead him right to where he needs to be. His mouth brushes the pulse at your throat.

His vision flashes red; he can feel your blood thrumming against his lips, feel the seductive brush of each pulse against his mouth. He groans, and he wants to fight it, because gods he wishes things were different, but his lips part and his jaw opens, and he's biting into your throat.

A breath hisses from between your teeth at the sensation, at the ice traveling down your spine and chilling you to the bone. His mouth on you is unyielding as he cradles you in his hands, drinking you in in every way possible. Your eyes fall closed, and you begin to float, your thoughts becoming lighter than the clouds. You smile, because you can still feel him grasping at you, wanting you, needing you.

You trust him completely.

That hunger inside him pushes him to drink you dry, to tear your life from your hands until it burns in his chest instead. But he pries himself away from your throat, mouth dripping with scarlet and breath stuttering from between his lips. You can feel his chest heaving against you, can feel air fanning against your neck. You're still smiling.

"You," he gasps, easing you back down against the ground beneath you as he licks his teeth clean, "you ruin me." And then he kisses that smile on your mouth, and he's hovering over you, holding himself above you. It feels like a question.

When he pulls away, you open your eyes to see the stars painted over his shoulders. He looks predatory, like he's standing over the tattered remains of his latest hunt, but you see the softness in his expression, the vulnerability. He doesn't want to hurt you; he doesn't want this to be like all the other times, and he surely doesn't want this to be the first of its own terrible kind. He wants you, you realize. Not your blood, not your power, not your protection or your loyalty or your allegiance; he wants you.

You're ready to let him have you, if he'll take you.

"Astarion." You whisper his name, and he leans closer, his curls brushing your cheek. It tickles, and you giggle under your breath.

He tries not to stiffen at the sound. He forgets how soft you are sometimes, how gentle. It creates an air of innocence, though he watched you tear through goblins and cursed undead only hours before, and he knows without a doubt you can handle yourself. For a moment, he feels like the monster under the bed again.

But you touch his face, so very gently, and kiss him. Softly, sweetly, you call him back to you.

"I'm yours," you breathe, "if you'll have me."

And oh, it’s not even a question.

He’ll have you, he decides, pressing you back against the ground until rocks dig into your shoulders. He’ll take whatever you will give him, and when you’ve had enough, he will probably still be on his knees before you, begging for more.

Before that thought can scare him away, he trails his touch over your thin, casual clothes, grasping at the hem of your shirt. He pulls it over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. He pulls back to look at you, to admire you, but you — suddenly cold and bashful — wrap your arms over your chest.

You hide from him, and he’s suddenly confused.

He examines the nervous look in your eyes, the way you're flushed in embarrassment and trying to hide beneath him, and all the little puzzle pieces suddenly click into place. This is new to you, he realizes. Maybe not truly and entirely; maybe you were taken to bed in whatever life you had before, but you don't remember that now. For you, with your absent memories and shattered persona, this was your first time.

It's suddenly all too much for him, and he shrinks away from you, leaning back into his heels. He holds his face in his hands, and he shakes his head ever so slightly, because it's too familiar a sight, to pin down bright innocence beneath his hips and drag it into the darkness. He wants to run away, to curse you for ever asking him to come to your camp and join your little band of misfits.

For a moment, he wishes he never met you; at least he wouldn't have to question every action he takes.

You prop yourself up on your elbows as he recedes from you, and very slowly and gently take one of his hands in yours. He's shaking, just barely, but your throat seems to close with a flood of emotion.

"Astarion," you whisper, and you gently pry his hand away from his face. His eyes are shut tightly, his lips twisted in a grimace. You bring his hand towards your lips, and you leave a kiss on his palm, feather light. "Astarion," you say again, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Of course, you have to be the first person to say those words. The first person to encourage him to say no, when all he wants — for the first time in two hundred years — is to say yes.

For a moment, he’s bitter, and you can see the flash of frustration in his eyes when he finally opens them. But it’s gone in a moment, and he grins, flashing his teeth as he leans back in. “My dear,” he says, his silver tongue and honeyed words his only protection against the overwhelming confusion that’s threatening to settle over him, “I want this, trust me.”

He moves to catch your mouth with his, but you put your hand on his chest and stop him before he can. Your brows are creased, pulled together in concern.

The message is clear; you won’t let him use you to destroy himself.

His eyes flutter closed once more, and he breathes deeply, reminding himself where he is, who he is with. When he opens his eyes, they are gentle, softer than you’ve ever seen. You think, for a moment, maybe he has grown to trust you, too.

Slowly, without that same underlying malice, he leans in, close enough that his lips brush yours when he speaks. “I want this,” he repeats, his voice so quiet you can almost convince yourself you’ve imagined it. But then his mouth is on yours again, and he returns to his work removing your clothes.

His movements are slow, now, methodical. Like he’s trying to shake off decades of ghosts as he slides your pants down your thighs; maybe he is, you think. The fabric reaches your ankles, and you help him wriggle you free, and he tosses the clothing aside. Your underwear soon follow. Then, for one long, languorous moment, he looks at you, naked under the moonlight. Your mouth is red and sinful from kissing him, and the chilly breeze of the ever-present darkness raises goosebumps along your skin. Your nipples grow hard and pink, and you shiver. His gaze continues lower, to where you nervously squeeze your legs together in one last attempt at preserving your decency.

He wants to ruin you.

He brushes your thighs apart with one commanding swipe of his hand, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. Pupils blown wide with desire, he stares up at you through his lashes as he dips down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the valley between your breasts. He settles his body between your legs, and he veers to one side and licks a line towards one nipple, catching it between his lips. The wind cools his saliva until you’re shivering, and you’re not sure if it’s the cold or the pleasure as your head tilts back, your body arching against the ground.

Astarion suddenly sucks, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he pulls at your nipple. You gasp, and he relishes in the sound, watching you bare your throat to him. He gazes up at you, admiring the sight, as his hand slips between your thighs.

Suddenly, you gasp when fingertips stroke against your core, revealing your glistening slick. Astarion groans, the mound of your breast still in his mouth. “All this talk,” he teases, reaching up and grabbing your jaw in one hand. With the other, he rocks his touch back just slightly, barely brushing against your clit. “You should be the one telling me how much you want it, desperate little thing.”

Your face burns at his words and his casual tone, but you can’t even argue with him before he sweeps his tongue into your mouth. He licks your teeth, and at the same time he presses two fingers inside you, and you let out a broken moan against his lips. You can feel his wolfish smile as he pulls back before pumping back inside you.

You can feel how wet you are, can feel it dripping down the inside of your thighs. He moves slowly, though, allowing the gentle stretch of his fingers as he kisses you. His thumb draws lazy little circles over your clit, and he catches each of your moans with his mouth, learning exactly what you like with a few strokes of his expert hands.

Then, just as your breathing starts to hitch and break, he pulls away, taking his hand from the wet heat between your legs.

The sound you make almost comes out as a whine, and Astarion laughs, watching you flush deep crimson. “Someone needs to mind their manners,” he chastises playfully, and then he lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Your flush impossibly deepens, and you almost look away in embarrassment. But you can’t tear your eyes from the shameful scene, and you can tell that he knows how much it turns you on to see him like this. He grins again, and then he dips his head, disappearing between your thighs.

Before you can process his quick movements, you feel him lick molten heat up your core, and you throw your arms out to the sides, scrambling for purchase. You gasp his name, and you feel him chuckle more than you hear it.

”Yes, my dear?” he asks before running the flat of his tongue against your clit.

Your body stiffens, and your face lifts to the heavens. “Don’t stop,” is all you can muster.

And he doesn’t.

He eats you out until you’re shaking, falling apart under him. He presses his fingers back into you, three this time, and sucks on your clit while he strokes you from the inside. He stares up at you while he does it, watching you writhe in breathless, beautiful agony. One of your hands finds his hair, brushing through his curls with a touch that’s much too gentle for what you’re suffering at his hand.

You can feel your pleasure mounting, tightening like a coil deep in your belly while heat flames between your legs. Your moans are coming out in pants, now, barely intelligible noises that break against the riverbed. Your hand in his hair tightens, gripping for dear life and holding him there and pushing him away all in the same movement, and your back bows off the ground, your eyes nearly rolling back into your head as he pushes you higher and higher—

Then, like a band snapping, your orgasm rocks through you, and your vision goes black while your hips stutter and your core clenches and quivers.

Bliss washes over you, and you slowly come back to earth, and you find Astarion unbuckling his armor, nearly frantic in his movements.

”Astarion,” you croak, reaching for him.

He leans over you, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his lips, his tongue. His hands tug feverishly at the buckles.

”Astarion,” you sound like you’re begging. “Astarion, please—“

He huffs playfully, still pushing off his leather armor one layer at a time. “What is it?” he asks, sparing one hand to stroke gently at your throat. “Do you need some attention? Aren’t you just obsessed—?”

”No,” you whine, finally rising up on your knees and reaching for his hands. “Let me— I want you to feel good.”

By now, his chest is bare, and he’s kicked off his boots. “Sweet thing, the thought of being inside you is driving me insane.” His leather pants slide down his thighs. “Do you want—?”

”Astarion,” you say again, your voice emphatic. You take his hand and bring it to your mouth, parting your lips against his fingers. “Please.”

Astarion freezes suddenly, staring at you with an expression of recognition. His eyes trail from yours down to your mouth, where his fingers sit. He can feel the heat of your breath, and he grows impossibly harder at the thought of what you’re asking.

It’s something he’s so rarely done since being turned. A pleasure he’s so rarely accepted.

Your lips brush his fingertips when you speak. “I want to make you feel good,” you whisper, and then you take two of his fingers in your mouth.

His stomach drops as he watches you, and his cock twitches at the sinful sight of your lips wrapped around his long pale fingers. You watch his pupils dilate, and his lips part slightly as you slide your tongue down, swirling gently. Your own desire pools in your belly, watching him watch you.

Please.

He nods, his breath starting to hitch slightly at the idea of filling that mouth. You smile, and you draw back until his fingers leave your mouth with a pop. Then you ease him back gently onto his elbows, picking up where he left off by dipping your fingers into the band of his underwear. You look up through your eyelashes, watching his chest heave up and down.

”Tell me to stop,” you say sternly, and he nods, understanding your meaning. So, having his confirmation, you continue.

You slide his last layer of clothing slowly down his strong thighs, watching every reaction your movements elicit. Watching for any sign of trepidation, of apprehension. But you only see desire, and one of his hands goes to your hair, knotting in your tresses. Encouraging you further.

You move your hands lower and lower, and your mouth begins to water as you follow the shaft of his cock. He’s gorgeous in every way, and when you finally reveal the pink head, glistening with precum, you have to hold yourself back from devouring him.

You tug his underwear the rest of the way off, and then you kneel in front of him, sure that whatever gods may be listening have placed him here in front of you.

You dip your head forward, wanting only to touch him with your mouth. With his hold on your hair, hopefully that would give him enough power to say no if it became too much. Tentatively, and watching for his reaction, your tongue slips out from between your lips and licks a gentle line along his shaft, giving you your first taste of him.

Astarion’s entire body stiffens at the sensation, and you do not move again, waiting for some sign that this was okay. After a moment, he tugs at your hair and very gently touches your cheek, and the look in his eyes is clear direction for you to continue.

You brush your lips against him, leaving gentle kisses, and then your tongue follows to the head of his dick, tasting his precum before swirling and bobbing deeper.

Astarion throws his head back, and he keens as you take him into your mouth. It’s a broken sound, but his hand in your hair pushes you deeper, and you obey. You drool when his hips cant forward, and you match his movements by swirling your tongue and pulling back before sliding all the way back down. He almost can’t believe the skill of your mouth, with how innocent you looked not five minutes ago, but then his thoughts scatter again when he hits the back of your throat.

He wants to press you down until you’re choking on him, wants to cum in your mouth and make a mess of you—

But he stops himself, pulls you back by your hair and kisses you, because he needs to fuck you.

He’s panting when he grabs you by the throat and lowers you onto your back. “Say it again,” he tells you, half delirious with the need to be inside you. “Say you’re mine.”

”I’m yours,” you respond immediately, eyes shining in the moonlight.

He groans your name, cupping his hands under your thighs. He wraps your legs around his waist, lining himself up at your entrance. Your cunt is still dripping for him, and he presses his fingers against your clit, watching you jump as he touches the swollen bundle of nerves. He laughs, a breathless sound, and then he places one hand beside your head, staring into your eyes as he slides inside you.

Thank you, he wants to say. Thank you for saving me.

But that’s much too vulnerable a thought to share, so he simply rocks his hips into yours, watching your mouth fall open in pleasure.

He’s perfect, you think as he slides back out of you before slamming back in, setting a brutal, unrelenting pace. He’s perfect and he’s here and he’s yours, and you want to tell him so, but you can’t even speak, so you squeak out moans and scrabble at his chest as he fucks you.

He watches you quickly come undone beneath him, and when he decides he needs more, he lifts one of your legs and props it over his shoulder. The new angle lets him hit a target inside you that has you seeing stars, and you’re a drooling mess beneath him, eyes glazed over with pleasure. His fingers once again find your clit, and he rubs those practiced circles, just like before. He watches your chest heave, and your lips try to form his name, but he’s knocking the wind out of you with every thrust. You feel him inside you, on top of you, all around you, and you know that this is dangerous, that this is the sort of magic that will keep you coming to his tent every night.

And oh, how you both want to tear each other apart each night.

You feel your second orgasm building, so much faster than the first, and you gaze up into his eyes, watching him fuck you, and it quickly becomes too much.

“Astarion,” you finally gasp, your voice pitched so high it almost breaks, “pleasepleasepleaseplease—“

The sound of your voice threatens to send him over the edge, and his thrusts begin to turn wild, frantic. He shoves himself into you until you come apart, unraveling at the seams. Your cunt clenches over and over again, pulling him closer from the inside, and before he can pull out to empty himself on your stomach, you grab his shoulder and tilt your hips forward, begging him to stay there.

Begging him to cum inside you.

The thought shatters him, and he moans into the crook of your shoulder, thrusting erratically as he rides out his own orgasm. You feel his cock twitching inside you, and you hold him close as his thrusts slow, then stop.

As you hold him, you press gentle kisses to his face. His forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his chin. His lips. He kisses you back, slowly, deeply. Then he pulls himself out of you, and you almost regret the sudden emptiness. But you can’t think about it for too long before he lowers himself to the ground beside you, and you follow him, still kissing every inch of him that you can reach.

”I’m yours,” you remind him. And even as you both start to clean up and head back to camp, he remembers those words.

He belonged to no one, but maybe one day, he wouldn’t mind belonging to you.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 7: I remember now.

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3💘

word count: 6.1k

————

”Lights out in ten minutes. Please prepare for bedtime."

The announcer’s voice echoed through the dormitory, artificial and indifferent.

Your group moved with quiet urgency, working together to execute Gi-hun’s plan. The idea was simple—cluster the beds together to create a barricaded sleeping area, a makeshift shelter beneath the bunks where mattresses could be laid out on the floor. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than being exposed.

There was an unspoken understanding between you all—this wasn’t just about comfort. It was about survival.

Dae-ho, Jung-bae and Young-il handled the heavier lifting, dragging the mattresses around.

Others were watching. Observing. You could feel it. Some players had already claimed their spots in isolated corners, eyeing the way your group worked with something between curiosity and calculation.

Meanwhile, you and Jun-hee gathered pillows and blankets, tossing them onto the newly formed sleeping space. You weren’t just setting up beds—you were creating a stronghold. A space where no one could slip in unnoticed. Hopefully.

Jung-bae exhaled loudly, adjusting one of the mattresses with a skeptical glance. "Is this really necessary? I don’t like sleeping under there."

Gi-hun didn’t hesitate. "Once the lights go out, somebody might attack us."

Dae-ho crouched beside Jun-hee. "What? Who?"

Young-il approached, wordlessly extending his hands to help you move the stuff around. You should have ignored him. Pretended not to notice. Pretended you were too busy, too focused, too anything to acknowledge him. But you weren’t rude.

Even if you wanted to be. At least, not to him.

Your fingers twitched around the fabric in your grasp, the weight of his presence pressing against your senses like an unwelcome reminder. You had barely spoken since dinner. Since the vote. Since the moment his name had been paired with a word you weren’t prepared for. Wife.

The thought still sat heavy in your chest, thick and cloying.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t naïve. You knew what kind of man he was. Controlled. Always a step ahead. He could say so much without saying anything at all. And yet, earlier, when that word had slipped into the conversation, he hadn’t said much of anything at all.

And that was what bothered you most.

Not the fact that he was married—okay, maybe that did bother you a lot—but the fact that when Gi-hun said it, Young-il hesitated. Froze. And looked at you.

Like there was something he wanted to explain but didn’t.

Like he had expected something from you.

And that was dangerous.

Because what the hell was he expecting? And more importantly—why did you care? You only met him yesterday.

Right?

It should have felt that way, but it didn’t. There was something about him—something that lingered just beneath the surface, threading through your thoughts like an old memory you couldn’t quite grasp. Like a name on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

And if you had met him before, if he really was the man from the rain—then why was he acting like you were strangers?

You clenched your jaw, shoving the thoughts down as you forced yourself to move.

Without a word, you handed him a blanket. Your fingers brushed his for half a second longer than necessary, and you swore you felt the slight shift in his posture, the way his grip adjusted just a little too slow.

You ignored it. You had to ignore it.

Because if you didn’t, you’d start thinking about the way he looked at you across the dormitory earlier. Or the way his hand had rested on your thigh at dinner. Or the way his voice dropped when he spoke to you alone, low and deliberate, like he wasn’t just speaking—he was choosing.

And you couldn’t do that.

So, instead, you exhaled sharply, turned away, and pretended that handing him that blanket hadn’t felt like handing him something much heavier.

Gi-hun continued, his voice steady but firm. "The prize money still goes up if we kill each other. It’s part of the game they designed."

Young-il, after positioning the last mattress beneath one of the bunks, finally spoke. "Gi-hun, I think you’re overreacting. Even if that were true, people wouldn’t do that."

The shift in the room was immediate.

Gi-hun’s head snapped toward Young-il, his gaze was full of hurt and anger. "In the previous games, dozens of people killed each other at night. Right here."

He stepped closer, his posture rigid. "You have no idea how people can change in this place."

Silence stretched between them.

Young-il didn’t flinch, but something unreadable flickered in his expression. Then, after a beat, he inclined his head in a slow, measured nod. "Alright. I guess I didn’t know what I was talking about. I’m sorry."

The words came easily, too easily. You weren’t sure if he meant them or if he simply didn’t see the point in arguing.

Gi-hun studied him for a moment longer before finally shifting his focus back to the group.

"We need to take turns keeping watch after lights-out. I’ll take the first watch. You should decide the order for the rest."

——

September 6th. The day the world ended. Not for everyone—just for you.

The speckled linoleum stretched endlessly beneath you, tiny cracks splitting across its surface like fault lines. You traced them with your eyes, again and again, mapping their paths like they meant something, like they were trying to tell you a story. But there was no story. No meaning. No reason.

The hallway was silent. Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the heavy, suffocating kind. The kind that swallowed you whole, that pressed against your ribs until it hurt to breathe.

The machines had stopped beeping. The nurses had stopped moving. The world had stopped making sense.

Jonah was gone.

You thought maybe if you didn’t move, if you sat still enough, you could pretend it wasn’t real. If you kept your hands in your lap, fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of your jeans that your knuckles ached, then maybe you could keep yourself from shattering. Maybe you could stop time. Maybe you could pull him back.

But you couldn't.

Because the machines had stopped beeping. Because the nurses had stopped moving. Because the world had stopped making sense.

Now you were truly and utterly alone.

Your body didn’t feel like yours. It was too heavy, too empty, too cold. Your arms felt like they weren’t connected to you, your legs stiff and numb. You weren’t crying. You weren’t breathing. You weren’t anything.

You just sat there. Frozen. Hollow.

Somewhere, a clock ticked. A door opened. Someone whispered. The world kept moving.

Didn’t they know? Didn’t they realise?

Everything should have stopped. The walls should have cracked, the ceiling should have caved in, the earth itself should have split apart. The sun should have burned out. The sky should have fallen. Something. Anything.

But it didn’t. People were still walking. Talking. Breathing.

And Jonah wasn’t.

Your stomach clenched.

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair.

He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be laughing, teasing, rolling his eyes at you. He was supposed to be alive.

But the machines had stopped beeping. The nurses had stopped moving. The world had stopped making sense.

A buzzing sound curled at the edges of your mind, dull and persistent. Your ears were ringing. Or maybe that was just your brain, trying to drown out the truth. Trying to drown out the nothingness swallowing you whole.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to sob. Because all the love you had for your brother was clawing at your chest trying to get out. You loved him so much. You still do. Where are you going to put it now?

You also wanted to rip the stupid linoleum tiles off the floor, to claw your nails into the cracks until they bled, to make the world feel the way you did—broken, jagged, wrong.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. So you just sat there. Alone.

And the world kept turning. Your fingers twitched, but they didn’t feel like yours. Your skin was ice cold, just like his now. You wanted to do something—anything—but you couldn’t.

Because if you moved, if you let the weight settle fully, you might shatter.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Time had lost its meaning. It stretched and folded in on itself, minutes bleeding into hours, into nothingness.

Then you heard it. At first, it was distant. A sound curling at the edges of your awareness, fragile, barely there. But then it sharpened. Louder. Raw. Broken.

A sob, choked and gasping. Then another. And another.

It clawed its way through the heavy quiet, through the walls you had built around yourself.

Your breath hitched. You knew that sound.

It was the same one crawling up your throat, pressing against your ribs, desperate to escape. The one you wouldn’t let out. The one you didn’t want to. Because you knew once it was out, it would never stop.

Your head lifted, your gaze pulling away from the lifeless floor for the first time.

And then you saw him. Sitting on a bench at the far end of the hall, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed low. His body curled in on itself, his fingers digging into his skull like he wanted to rip something out.

The man from the rain. Young-il?

You didn’t know how you knew—it was just instinct. Recognition without reason. Like something deep inside you had already decided before your mind could catch up.

For a moment, he didn’t see you. Then—he lifted his head. And your eyes met. Something in your chest cracked, sharp and sudden. A hollow ache you didn’t have a name for.

You didn’t know why you moved. Maybe instinct. Maybe something else.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your legs shaky, unsteady. He watched you as you walked toward him. He didn’t tense. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, his gaze flickering between you and the floor.

You hesitated when you reached him. Too close. Not close enough.

Without thinking, you sat beside him. Neither of you spoke.

The hallway was quiet except for the distant hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses in another room. The world kept moving. It always did.

A sharp, shaky exhale. A sound caught between a sigh and a sob.

"She’s gone."

His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and hollow.

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to. You already knew.

"So is he," you murmured.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. But something in the space between you shifted, heavier, thicker.

You didn’t tell him you were sorry. You didn’t tell him it would be okay. Because it wouldn’t. Because words were meaningless here. Instead, you reached into your pocket.

Pulled out a cigarette. Held it out to him without a word. He looked at it. Then at you. Then back at it. And then, finally, he took it.

You pulled out your lighter, flicked it open, let the flame dance between you. He leaned in, letting the fire catch, the orange glow casting flickering shadows across his face.

For the first time, you really looked at him.

The exhaustion was carved into his features, deeper than just a sleepless night. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw tense, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he brought the cigarette to his lips. But he was still beautiful. In a cruel way.

You exhaled, lighting your own, taking a slow drag. The two of you sat like that, side by side, smoke curling around you in quiet spirals.

Strangers. But not alone. After a while, he spoke.

“You asked for my name.”

You exhaled, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

"Does it matter?”

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But there.

"No. Guess not."

The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It just was. You didn’t know how long you sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. But eventually, your cigarette burned down to the filter, the ember flickering out.

But you still sat there. Till he ran out of tears.

You stood first. He didn’t stop you.

You took a few steps toward the door before pausing, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was still there. Watching.

Your lips curved, just slightly. Not quite a smile, but the closest thing to one you had in you.

And he nodded. Like he understood. Like he had always understood.

——

Your eyes snapped open, your chest heaving, lungs pulling in air too fast, too shallow.

The ceiling above you blurred in the dim light of the piggy bank, your pulse pounding in your ears.

You turned your head, struggling to piece together where you were—what was real. The steel bed frames above you, the concrete walls, the distant sounds of breathing. The dormitory. The games.

A nightmare. But not really. More like a bad memory, finally breaking through the thick walls your brain had built to keep it out.

Your brain does that—it buries things, tucks them away in the darkest corners, convincing you they never existed. Just so you wouldn’t hurt anymore. But now, the barriers had crumbled, and the truth stood bare. You remembered.

You looked at the makeshift bed to your left, but it was empty. Glancing at the stairs, you saw that Young-il was taking watch.

Your stomach twisted painfully, like you were going to puke. You pushed yourself up slowly, careful not to disturb Jun-hee beside you. The cold floor bit into your palms as you steadied yourself.

Young-il’s eyes scanned the room with quiet vigilance. The light cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look even more unreadable. Detached.

But you knew now. You knew. Finally.

Before you even processed what you were doing, you moved. Crawling out from under the bed, you crossed the small space between you. He didn’t react when you sat down beside him, only his eyes flickered to you for a moment.

For a long moment, you said nothing.

The weight of it sat in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. You stared at your hands, your fingers twisting together in your lap.

Then, finally, your voice came—soft. Unsteady.

"Why did you lie?"

Young-il stilled. A pause. Now, he looked at you.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “I remember now.” The words came out quieter than you intended, almost fragile.

Young-il didn’t look away. His dark eyes studied yours, with a hint of regret. For a second, you thought he might pretend not to know what you were talking about, might brush it off the way he always did. But he didn’t. He exhaled slowly, a breath that barely made a sound. “I know.”

You blinked. That was it? No denial? No feigned confusion?

Your fingers curled against your knees. The memory was still raw, still bleeding at the edges. Jonah, lifeless in that hospital room. The cigarette smoke curling in the dim hallway. The way the man from the rain—no, Young-il—had sat there, just as lost, just as broken.

"You knew who I was this whole time," you whispered. He didn’t answer.

I wasn’t imagining things.

Your chest ached, something sharp and tangled clawing its way up your throat. “And you—” Your breath caught. You weren’t sure which hurt more: the fact that he had remembered you and still chose to lie, or the fact that, for a while, you had believed him.

Young-il’s gaze flickered downward, toward his hands. He rolled his knuckles absently, like he was testing the weight of the silence between you. Then, finally, he spoke. “I thought it would be easier that way.”

Easier? You let out a bitter, hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Easier for who?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw twitched, his eyes flicking back to you. And this time, for the first time since you’d met him, there was no smirk, no teasing remark, no shield of indifference. Just something quiet. Something almost… resigned.

“For both of us,” he murmured. You stared at him, the breath hitching in your throat.

Easier. Like it was some kindness. Like pretending he didn’t remember wouldn’t make it worse when the truth came crashing down. Like there wasn’t a big hole inside your chest. You clenched your jaw, looking away, focusing on the cold concrete beneath you.

“That’s bullshit,” you muttered, barely above a whisper.

Young-il sighed, tilting his head back against the metal railing. The exhaustion was etched into every inch of him now, but you didn’t care. You weren’t going to let him off that easily.

“I needed to know,” you said, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve. “I needed to know if I was crazy. If I was just seeing things. If—” You exhaled sharply. “If you were real.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Young-il exhaled and looked away, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

“You were real to me too, you know.”

And just like that, you weren’t sure if you wanted to hit him or let yourself fall apart right there beside him. The silence between you stretched for a moment before he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

You raised your eyebrows. “About what?”

He clarified. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her sooner.”

You already connected the dots, but you still let him speak of her. He needed this. And you secretly did too.

“She was very sick,” he said. His voice was calm but carried a weight that made you hold your breath. His eyes fixed on the ground as he continued, “Acute cirrhosis. She needed a liver transplant, but she was pregnant.”

Your eyes widened, and your face fell as his words sank in. He kept going, his tone growing heavier. “When the doctor warned her about the risks and advised ending the pregnancy, she wouldn’t hear it. She was resolute. determined to carry the baby, no matter what would happen to her.”

You stayed silent, letting his words wash over you, as he went on. “When she felt worse everyday and no donor appeared, I borrowed as much money as I could from my brother to find a solution. But it was not enough.”

You turned your gaze away, unsure what to say. His voice softened but didn’t lose its seriousness. “I was desperate. A criminal heard about my situation and offered me money. I borrowed from him. But when you’re a police officer, that kind of stuff will get you fired. But I didn’t care. She needed it. My boss, however, saw it as a bribe. He fired me the next day. I’d devoted my whole life to that job. It was one of the few things I truly enjoyed, truly loved doing.”

You frowned deeply, feeling an ache in your chest for him.

“Then I was invited to join the games,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “I was gone for a week. As you probably noticed, in the hospital. By the time I won…she was dead.”

That’s when you noticed his eyes, glistening with tears. They silently fell, the weight of them was undeniable.

“It was horrible. There were so many times I became angry. Angry at my boss. Angry at those who didn’t step up to donate a liver. Angry at the world. But I was mostly angry at myself for leaving her when she needed me the most. That evening with you in the hospital… I wasn’t angry then.”

The room felt heavier with every word he spoke. You listened intently, unable to look away as he continued.

He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly. “And now, I have decided to come back. Because the last time I was here I felt useful for once.”

The tears in his eyes and on his cheek caught the dim light, making them shimmer as he gave a single, solemn nod.

His voice was steady but carried a note of vulnerability. “I didn’t- I couldn’t tell Gi-hun. Couldn’t tell anyone actually. Except you. Talking about her is really hard for me. But, with you it seems natural in some way.”

He took a deep breath.

”All I wanted was to play these games and… find the slightest bit of purpose in life. Even if it was the last thing I did.”

Suddenly, all the anger you had felt towards him the last few hours had completely vanished.

He was just a broken soul. Like you.

“And I think I found it again. I mean- what were the odds?”

Oh my god. Did he mean me?

You swallowed. Then, softly—almost too softly—you answered. "Better than you think."

You stared at him, at the way his hands curled into fists against his knees like he was bracing for something. The space between you felt heavier than before, like it was holding something fragile, something unsaid.

Then, before you could think about it, before doubt could creep in, you moved.

Not just a brush of fingers. Not just a hesitant touch. You reached for him fully.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jumpsuit as you pulled him in, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath your feet. Like letting go wasn’t an option.

And for a second, he didn’t react.

He stiffened—caught off guard, unprepared. For a single, agonising second, he didn’t move. You almost thought he wouldn’t.

Then, he exhaled fully. Like he let go. Slowly, his arms came up. His hands pressed against your back, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. If he should.

But then something broke.

He tightened his grip, pulling you flush against him, his chin resting near your shoulder, his breath uneven against your neck. His fingers curled into the back of your shirt, not rough, not desperate—just there, like he needed something to hold onto just as badly as you did.

Neither of you spoke.

The dormitory around you disappeared, swallowed by the sound of your own heartbeat, by the way his breathing evened out against your shoulder. His warmth bled into you, steady, grounding, like an anchor in the middle of something vast and merciless.

His fingers curled around the fabric of your shirt. The message was clear, don’t let go.

You exhaled, barely above a whisper. “I get it.”

Young-il let out a soft, humourless laugh, the vibration of it sinking into your skin. “Oh, I bet you do.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And you did.

Not just because of Jonah. Not just because you knew what it was like to lose someone who was supposed to be there forever. But because you understood the hollow space grief left behind. How sometimes, survival wasn’t about living. Sometimes, it was about finding something—anything—that kept you moving. Even if it didn’t make sense. Even if it killed you a little more every day.

Young-il buried his face in your soft hair and inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake something off. But he didn’t let go. Not yet.

“When I saw you here…” His voice was quieter now, lower, almost lost between you. “I thought I was imagining things.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

He huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence. Or if it meant something.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, softly, you said, “It means something. And… I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. If I had known—”

Young-il stilled. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

You felt him exhale again, his breath ghosting against your neck. His grip on you loosened, just slightly, like he was grounding himself. Then, finally—reluctantly—he pulled back.

Not all the way. Not far. His hands lingered at your waist, your arms still loosely looped around his shoulders. His face was close now, closer than it should have been, his eyes searching yours for something unspoken.

You weren’t sure if he found it. But he nodded. Like he understood. Like he had always understood.

You pulled back fully and moved to sit beside him. But his hand remained on your waist. Like it belong there. It felt like that, at least.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore—it just was. Steady. Quiet. A fragile sort of peace.

You pulled your knees to your chest, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. His face was unreadable, but his shoulders were no longer tense, his breathing even. He looked… tired. More than tired. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the games.

Eventually, you let your head tip to the side, resting against his shoulder. You expected him to shift away, but he didn’t. He just stayed there, solid and warm.

Minutes passed like that, the two of you sitting together in the dim glow of the piggy bank. The distant sound of steady breathing filled the dormitory, the world outside this moment fading into something far away.

For the first time since arriving here, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

As your head rested against Young-il’s shoulder, the exhaustion finally started catching up with you. Your body, tense for so long, slowly began to relax against him, the warmth of his presence lulling you into something close to rest. Not quite sleep—but something softer. Something quieter.

A small noise from behind you made you stir. You pulled back from Young-il. The absence of his warmth made you shiver slightly, but you ignored it, pushing yourself upright.

Dae-ho. You barely noticed him at first, still caught in the haze of half-awareness, but when you finally blinked, you saw him standing a few feet away, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

His gaze flickered between the two of you, something unreadable flashing across his face before he exhaled and stretched his arms above his head.

“My turn?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

Young-il nodded. You both stood up and made some space for 388. Dae-ho settled into the spot where Young-il had been, shifting his weight as he adjusted to the watch position.

“You should both try to get some sleep,” Dae-ho muttered, his usual easygoing tone softened by the quiet of the room.

Young-il hummed in response, offering you a hand. You hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it. Neither of you spoke as you padded back toward your sleeping area, careful not to disturb the others.

When you reached your beds—placed right next to each other—you both hesitated.

For a moment, the only thing that existed was the space between you. The unspoken understanding hanging in the air, thick and palpable. Then, at the exact same time, you both moved.

Neither of you said a word. You just pushed your mattress toward his. He mirrored the action, closing the distance until there was no gap left. Until it was just one space instead of two.

It wasn’t about comfort. It wasn’t about warmth. It was about not being alone.

You settled in first, pulling the thin blanket over your shoulders as you lay on your side, facing him. Young-il followed suit, his movements slower, more deliberate.

In the dim light, your eyes met. No words. Just a glance. Just a silent agreement.

You exhaled, closing your eyes. You felt Young-il shift slightly beside you, the faintest rustle of fabric as he adjusted, and then stillness.

For the first time in a long time, your mind wasn’t plagued by nightmares.

——

You barely noticed it.

Your body was warm, your mind floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, caught in that hazy space where the world didn’t quite feel real yet. The concrete floor beneath the thin mattress should’ve been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. Not really. Not when there was warmth pressed against your back, solid and steady.

Not when there was an arm draped over your waist.

Your breath hitched, the realisation hitting all at once. Your body stiffened. The weight of it was undeniable—the firm press of muscle through the thin fabric of your uniform, the slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Young-il.

A slow warmth crept up your neck. You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of where your bodies touched. His arm wasn’t just resting against you—it was holding you. Not tight, not restricting, but there. His hand was relaxed against your stomach, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your uniform.

You should move. You should wake him up. You should do something.

But you didn’t. It felt too nice, too right.

You stayed still, barely daring to breathe, your mind racing through the events of last night. The weight of his grief. The way his voice had cracked when he spoke of his wife. The way you had pressed yourself against him in that desperate, suffocating hug, needing him to hold you together just as much as he needed you.

And then, the mattresses.

The quiet, unspoken decision. The way neither of you hesitated when you pushed them together, filling the space between them, letting your bodies rest closer than they should. You hadn’t thought about what that meant last night—hadn’t let yourself.

Now, in the dim morning light, with Young-il’s arm wrapped around you, you couldn’t ignore it.

A slow inhale. A shift. His breath stirred against the back of your neck—barely there, but enough. Enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then, a pause. A slow tensing of his body. He was waking up.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, squeezing your eyes shut, pretending to be still asleep.

For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing slowed, like he was processing what he was feeling. Then, you felt it—the tightening of his grip, his fingers twitching slightly against your uniform like he was anchoring himself, pulling you closer to his chest.

The warmth of him seeped into you, steady and grounding, his presence a solid weight against your back. You could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, feel the faint rise and fall of his chest as it pressed against you with every inhale.

It should’ve been suffocating. It should’ve been uncomfortable. But it wasn’t.

You stayed still, barely daring to breathe, unsure if you even wanted to move.

Young-il’s arm was firm. There was no hesitation, no awareness of the line you had crossed last night when you’d pushed your mattresses together. Just quiet, instinctive closeness.

You weren’t sure how much time passed like that. A few minutes? An hour? It didn’t matter. Because for those few stolen moments, you weren’t in the dormitory. You weren’t in the games. You weren’t fighting for your life. You were just warm.

Then, the music started.

That familiar, eerie swell of classical strings echoed through the dormitory, signalling morning, pulling you both out of the fragile cocoon of sleep.

You felt the shift before anything else. The tensing of Young-il’s body. The slow, dawning realisation sinking into him like a stone. His breath hitched, and then his arm moved. Fast.

He withdrew from you like he’d been burned, fingers jerking away from your waist as he shifted back onto his side of the mattress. You felt the absence immediately—the cold rushing in where his warmth had been. For a moment, neither of you moved. You opened one of your eyes, hoping he wasn’t looking at you, to see what he was doing.

From the corner of your eye, you caught it—Young-il rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze flickering anywhere but at you. He looked flustered.

You almost laughed.

But instead, you waited. Just a second longer. Then you stretched, exhaling like you had just woken up, rolling onto your back and blinking blearily at the ceiling.

You made a sleepy sound of protest at the music, rubbing your eyes before glancing at him. “Morning already?” you muttered, voice groggy.

Young-il cleared his throat, sitting up fully. “Yeah,” he said, voice a little rough.

God, his morning voice was sexy.

You didn’t mention the waist-situation. Didn’t acknowledge the way his arm had been wrapped around you, the way his body had been pressed against yours. And neither did he.

But when you sat up beside him, feeling the ghost of his warmth still clinging to your skin, you swore you could feel the weight of something else, too. Something unspoken.

Around you, players began to stir, and the familiar voice of the announcer filled the dormitory:

“The third game will begin momentarily. All players, please prepare.”

You stretched, exhaling a quiet groan as the weight of sleep clung stubbornly to your limbs. The dormitory stirred around you—murmurs of waking players, the rustle of blankets, the low, grating snore of Dae-ho still lost in whatever dream he was still having. Jung-bae shifted nearby, Jun-hee rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Next to you, Young-il sat still, watching. His expression was unreadable at first, but then—there. A small, amused smile.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice lazy, playful. “Didn’t mean to stare.”

You blinked at him, catching on immediately. Tease.

With a roll of your eyes, you pushed yourself up, shaking off the lingering fog of sleep as you followed the others toward the centre of the dormitory. The room was cold, your movements sluggish as your mind struggled to fully catch up. You were walking along side Gi-hun as you tumbled a little bit.

Then—warmth. A touch. Steady, deliberate. Fingers curled around your waist, stopping you mid-step.

Your breath caught, your body tensing on instinct. But before you could react, Young-il was already there, closer than before, his hand firm at the dip of your waist. He pulled you closer into him. Like it was nothing. Like it was natural.

“You walk like you’re still stuck in your dream,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, amusement threading through it. “Thought you were gonna run into me.”

Your skin burned where he touched you. His thumb pressed slightly against your hip, the motion slow, absentminded, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. But you were.

You exhaled sharply, smirking up at him. “So instead of moving, you just—grab me?”

Young-il smirked. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

Your lips parted, but no retort came. Because he was right. And you hated that.

His smirk deepened, like he could hear every thought running through your head, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you. And then, just as easily as he touched you, he let go, stepping past you without another word.

Leaving you standing there, fully awake now, pulse hammering against your ribs, his warmth still ghosting over your skin. You exhaled, steadying yourself before moving forward, ignoring the way your body still buzzed in the wake of him.

The guards herded you through the dormitory doors, leading you into the labyrinth of the massive staircases. With every step, the tension in your chest coiled tighter. Another game. Another chance to live or die.

The uncertainty was suffocating. What if it was something unfamiliar again? What if you weren’t good at it? Worse—what if it was a game that turned you against the very people you had come to rely on? The thought sent a sharp pulse of unease through you.

Eventually, you were guided into a large room, the path ahead obscured by a heavy white curtain. Four triangle-masked guards stood at the forefront, weapons gripped tightly, their presence a silent warning. The crowd stilled, uneasy whispers fading into tense silence.

The curtain began to slide open.

The announcer’s voice rang out, calm and detached, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"Welcome to your third game."

[trashland-llamas]

Venetia

AO3 link

Reader who wants to keep her period on the down low, not telling her teammates out of desperation. To appear normal instead of feeling like she was on the brink of death. She had done so well, going to bed an hour earlier. Hiding her craving for chocolate behind a simple excuse to bake. Claiming she was taking over the counter pain meds for a migraine and not cramps.

But unfortunately for her, Jason finds out from their shared bathroom. Confused when he comes across the discarded pad hidden in its wrapper. Trying to identify where the weird smell was coming from. 'Hey, can I ask you something?' He doesn't bother to knock before entering her bedroom. Realizing how fatigued she looks. Having heard pained whimpers before he entered.

‘Yea, what’s up Jay-jay?’ Trying to play it cool. Reader had yet to find a comfortable position to lie in. One that didn’t annoy the fuck out of her back but also didn’t make her worry about leaking through her pad. All but giving up at this point. Jason wasn’t completely clueless when it came to periods. He had spent some time around women. 'I saw a pad in the trash, and it was kinda stinking up the bathroom. It's the time of the month for you, isn't it?' There was a striking pallor regarding her appearance. 'I'm just glad you didn't use the word loins, but yes.' If anyone had to know, she didn't mind Jason knowing. Jason would at the very least not be mad that she insisted on being so independent.

'Why did you think I'd use the word loins?' Jason is more amused than shocked by Reader's snark. 'I don't know, the fact that you mostly read classic romance books. Surprised you haven't tried dressing like Fabio yet. Oh wait, that's just Discowing,' Jason knew he should've expected she’d have a long list of insults lined up for him. 'Okay, I get it. You're probably in a shit ton of pain, if not discomfort. So pretty please, let me help however I can.'

She held out a tiny stuffed animal. ‘It’s one of those that can be microwaved. Should take one minute in the nuker.’ Jason fails to hide his laugh but he does take it from her hand. Going down to the kitchen. Giving Roy and Artemis a look that said to mind their beeswax.

Reader had drifted into a half-asleep state. Eyes fully opening when she felt Jason place the warmed plush on her stomach. ‘Hey, sleepyhead. Hopefully that helps with the cramps. Need anything else?’

‘Can you keep me company?’ Came her request. One that Jason readily agreed to. ‘Yeah, I’ll stay. Get some rest,’ having them lean up so he could slide in behind them. Leaning against the headboard with Reader using him as a pillow. The heated plush now trapped between their bodies. Slipping a hand under her shirt to press circles along the muscles in her back. Humming a lullaby that his mom used to sing to him. Jason smiled when he heard her begin to snore.

‘You realize I do enjoy books outside of the romance genre?’ Jason questions her sleeping form. Not expecting a response as the question was rhetorical. Even his family had shoehorned him as the romance aficionado. The layout of the room hadn’t changed at all since he had last been in it. The bed is still flush to the side of the wall. A bookshelf next to it, right under the window. Doubly acting as a nightstand.

Cataloging her books, he picks up a random book. One of Neal Shusterman's—Bruiser. As time goes on, Jason begins to read some of the passages out loud. Glad that his experience staying perfectly still during stakeouts came in handy for something outside of vigilantism.

[glittergoldie]

so I think the few times lucifer does take the train to eddyville he gets suuuper spacey. the one time in his life he’s ever been no thoughts head empty, lights on no one’s home. he knows this about himself and waits to take the eddy until he knows he won’t have to interact with anyone.

if he takes a 10mg gummy (that’s a lot for him) he plays piano for 4 hours (felt like 10 minutes to him) and goes to the kitchen at like midnight when he realizes he’s got the munchies badddd and he catches beel in there scavenging the fridge. and they stare at each other for like a full two minutes, beel waiting for lucifer to get pissed and lucifer just waiting for his brain to catch up to the fact that he probably should say something to his brother right about now.

but instead of getting mad lucifer just says “please tell me you didn’t eat my leftovers yet” and beel thanks his lucky stars he hadn’t shoveled those in his mouth yet so he just shakes his head and silently passes them to lucifer who nods at beel in thanks and without saying another word disappears in his room.

lucifer only gets 3 bites in to his midnight snack before he passes out on an armchair and then he sleeps until like 8am (that’s soooo late for him this mans circadian rhythm gets him up at 5am normally)

[bitchinbarzal]

Operation mom & dad | M Boldy

summary: jade is determined to get her mom and dad back together.

The roar of the crowd echoes through the Xcel as Matt takes the ice, his number bold on the back of his jersey. You watch from the stands, Jade perched on your lap, her tiny hands clapping wildly.

“Daddy’s the best, right, Mommy?” she asks, turning her bright green eyes up at you.

You smile, ruffling her soft brown curls. “Of course he is, baby.”

It’s always been like this. You and Matt—co-parenting effortlessly, supporting each other despite the past. Your friends tease that you’re just pretending to be broken up, that no exes should get along this well. But the truth is, you and Matt have a rhythm. A history. A love that never really faded, even if things didn’t work out the way you once planned.

But if there’s one person determined to change that, it’s your daughter.

Attempt #1: The Forgotten Jacket

It starts small. Too small to suspect anything at first.

One night, after dropping Jade off at Matt’s place, you get a call just as you’re pulling into your driveway.

“Mommy!” Jade’s voice is serious, like she’s on an important mission. “You forgot your jacket at Daddy’s!”

Your brows knit together. “Are you sure? I don’t think I—”

“You did,” she insists. “You have to come back. Right now.”

With a chuckle, you turn around and drive back. When you get there, Matt is standing in the doorway, holding his hoodie.

“She meant this,” he says, amused. “Pretty sure this has been in my closet since before she was born.”

Jade beams between you, looking way too proud of herself.

“You should keep it, Mommy,” she chirps. “It smells like Daddy.”

Your face heats, and Matt rubs the back of his neck, clearly unsure how to respond.

“Uh, thanks, J,” you mumble, clutching the hoodie to your chest as you leave.

It smells like cedar and something familiar. Like home.

Attempt #2: The ‘Oops, There’s Only One Bed’ Trick

On a weekend trip to Chicago for one of Matt’s away games, you and Jade stay in the same hotel.

Everything is fine—until you realize that your perfectly booked two-bed room has somehow turned into a single king-sized bed.

“The team told me they asked for two beds,” you tell the front desk, exasperated.

The receptionist frowns. “Your daughter told us you wanted one bed. I am so sorry we have nothing else available”

Your head snaps toward Jade, who grins, completely unrepentant.

“Jade—”

“It was worth a try,” she shrugs.

Matt arrives moments later, taking in the situation with a smirk. “Guess I’m sleeping on the floor.”

But when Jade starts fake crying—“We can all share! It’s a big bed!”—you both cave, lying stiffly on opposite sides.

Still, sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to Matt’s arm draped over your waist. And instead of moving away, you let yourself sink into it—just for a moment.

Attempt #3: The School Art Project

Parent-teacher night at Jade’s school is usually straightforward. You admire her work, chat with her teacher, and call it a night.

Except this time, her teacher greets you and Matt with a knowing smile.

“You have to see what Jade made,” she gushes, leading you to a table filled with colorful drawings.

There, in bright crayon strokes, is a picture of you, Matt, and Jade—holding hands, a big red heart above your heads. The words MY FAMILY are scrawled in crooked letters at the top.

You glance at Matt. He’s staring at the drawing, something unreadable in his expression.

“She talks about you two all the time,” the teacher says warmly. “How much she loves when you’re all together.”

Matt looks at you then, his blue eyes softer than you’ve seen in years.

And your heart stumbles.

Attempt #4: The “Oops, We Missed the Game” Move

One evening, as you’re supposed to take Jade to Matt’s game, she starts complaining of a “tummy ache.”

You fuss over her, canceling your plans, but by the time puck drop comes around, she’s suddenly perfectly fine.

“Jade…” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Were you really sick?”

She bats her lashes innocently. “I just thought Daddy would come check on us if we didn’t show up.”

You sigh, settling in to watch from the couch.

After the game you were tidying up when the door rings.

It’s Matt.

“You okay?” he asks, concern evident in his face “Saw you weren’t at the game.”

You exchange a glance with your daughter, who looks way too smug.

“We’re fine” you murmur.

Matt looks like he wants to say something more, but instead, he just ruffles Jade’s hair and stays for a while.

And you don’t mind. Not one bit.

The Breaking Point

It happened suddenly. A long shift at the hospital, a reckless driver on the road, and before you know it, you’re lying in a hospital bed instead of standing beside one.

You’re mostly fine—just a concussion, a few bruised ribs—but when you finally open your eyes, the first thing you see is Matt.

He’s sitting in the chair beside you, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. He looks exhausted, his usual steady composure cracked wide open. His hair is a mess, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times, and there’s a crease between his brows that only deepens when he notices you stirring.

“Y/N.” His voice is raw, barely above a whisper.

You try to smile, but your ribs protest at the movement. “Hey, Matty.”

He exhales sharply, his whole body seeming to uncoil as he leans forward, his hands hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he should.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmurs. “I got the call in the middle of practice, and I just—” He drags a hand down his face, exhaling harshly. “I thought— I don’t even know what I thought. I just knew I had to get to you.”

Your heart clenches. “I’m okay,” you reassure him softly. “Just a little banged up.”

But he doesn’t look comforted. If anything, his jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists.

“You shouldn’t have been alone” he says after a moment “I should’ve been there.”

His words make something ache deep inside you, something that’s been lingering for far too long.

“Matt…”

He finally reaches for your hand then, threading his fingers through yours. His grip is firm, steady, like he needs to feel you to believe you’re still here.

“I can’t do this anymore” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your chest tightens. “Do what?”

“This” He gestures vaguely between you, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your knuckles. “Pretending like we’re just co-parents. Like we don’t still—” He stops himself, inhaling deeply before meeting your gaze “Like I don’t still love you.”

The words settle between you, heavy and fragile all at once.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Matt…”

He shakes his head, his grip tightening. “No, just— just let me say this, okay? I thought we were doing the right thing, staying apart. I told myself that over and over again. But every time I see you, every time we’re together with Jade, it feels like I’m right back where I’m supposed to be. And tonight, when I thought—” He swallows hard. “I can’t lose you, Y/N. I don’t want to spend another second pretending like you’re not my home”

Tears sting your eyes. Because God, you know. You’ve always known.

Your life without Matt has never really been a life without him. He’s always been there, steady and sure, woven into your every day. And maybe you were both too stubborn or too scared to admit it before.

“I love you,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped”

A tear slips down your cheek, and Matt reaches up to catch it with his thumb. His hand lingers, his palm warm against your skin.

You lean into the touch, exhaling shakily “I love you, too.”

The relief that washes over his face is immediate. And then he’s kissing you—soft at first, careful, like he’s afraid you might disappear. But when you pull him closer, fingers tangling in his hoodie, it deepens into something more—something familiar, something new, something that feels like coming home.

A tiny gasp from the doorway makes you break apart, and you both turn to find Jade standing there, eyes wide with delight.

“Are you kissing?” she asks, her little hands pressed to her mouth.

You laugh breathlessly, swiping at your damp cheeks. “We are”

Jade lets out an excited squeal and bolts down the hall. “GRANDMA! GRANDPA! DADDY AND MOMMY ARE IN LOVE!”

Matt groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “She’s never gonna let us live that down”

You grin, threading your fingers through his hair. “Probably not”

He pulls back, brushing his nose against yours. “Guess that means we have to make it official, huh?”

Your heart swells.

“Yeah” you whisper. “I guess we do.”

And as he kisses you again,you know, without a doubt, that you’ve finally found your way back home.

[yall-batman-fanfic]

The Madman’s Dream | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician

Synopsis: Inspired by the 1992 Batman the Animated Series episode, Perchance to Dream.

“Why are there dreams and why are there nightmares? And why don’t we always remember what we dreamed about?”

Bruce was caught off guard with the question and turned from his work to Vivian who laid on the couch in his study reading one of the books in his private collection. Getting up from his seat, he approached Vivian, raised her legs so he could sit at that spot and be close to her. 

“What are you reading now?” He asked.

“I saw this on the shelf and I was just drawn to it,” she showed the cover. “Well, Batman? Why are there dreams and nightmares? And why can’t I remember the lottery numbers from that one dream I had the other night.”

She laughed and Bruce took the book to read what it was that got her asking. “Whatever we decide while we are awake, whatever we do, the things around us affects our dreams. It helps us cope with reality, with our trauma or be a constant reminder on why we keep going,” he answered. “Not a scholar’s answer but what I can answer the other part. You can't read in a dream because the part of your brain responsible for language processing, and reading, is significantly less active while you sleep, making it difficult to decipher letters and words on a conscious level.”

“So, it’s not the right-brain, left-brain theory then?” Vivian sat up.

“That’s a myth.”

“So, dreams? Where do they come from?”

“What has gotten you so interested in this anyway?” Bruce tossed the book on the table and pulled Vivian closer to him. “Earlier you were reading Carmilla.”

“I always did prefer Carmilla from Dracula… I don’t know, there was a debate in the faculty office about dreams whether it’s a subconscious thing or not, and why are there instances where people have lucid dreaming. It was an interesting topic.”

“And instead of a science book, you went for texts about Morpheus, the god of Dreams.”

“Well, I got you to explain all that shit to me anyway,” Vivian shrugged. “Did you ever have a dream where you were falling and when you woke up you’re actually still in that dream?”

“I do.”

“Good, that’s means you just watched Inception – ha! Bruce, don’t!” Vivian laughed as he tickled her sides, she tried to get away from him but Bruce had a good hold on her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—but seriously, there’s this thing about an endless dream where you’re trapped in some kind of limbo. Some would find it a dream because they’re given their ideal world, others it’s a nightmare because of—well, you get what I mean.”

“And how do you get out of it?”

“In magic, to be trapped in a dream means instant death because there are times when they jump or force their magic to wake them they excerpt so much effort that it could lead to complications in the body. Some just give up and live the dream, others die in it, and then a rare few get to escape.”

Bruce reached for her braided red hair and caressed the strands that got out of the knots. “How did you escape?”

“I had an anchor in the real world. He pulled me out.”

“Constantine?”

“Yes. But there are instances where the only way to get out of it is by understanding the root of the dream. Dreams are made from our time here in the Waking World… It helps us cope with trauma.”

“And nightmares?” He kissed her knee and held her hand.

“It’s to reveal a dreamer's fears, and to help them face it. So, I guess the right question I should be asking is: what are you afraid of, Bruce?”

“What?” He laughed, caught completely off guard with her question.

Vivian sat up straight. “You were having a nightmare last night, and when I asked about it you just shrugged it off. What’s wrong?”

Bruce frowned. “It’s nothing.”

“I know the anniversary is coming.” He remained silent and she sighed, “If you're ready, I’ll be here to listen, okay?”

It wasn’t really an answer but when Bruce laid on her, Vivian saw it as him promising her that he will open up but just not right now. And maybe he should have so he wouldn’t have been trapped that night.

~ * ~

They were amateurs, nothing that Batman can’t capture, and he could easily have done so if he wasn’t curious to know who had them put him in a wild goose chase. They went to a factory, ran across the catwalk, it wasn’t the one where the Joker was born but it looked so much like. It caught him off guard that just a moment of hesitation they got him with a the roof falling over him —

~ * ~

Bruce woke up on his bed, tired and confused. It was one of those sleeps where his body was just too heavy and too tired to move but he knew he needed to wake up and feel his fingers and toes. How did he get there? He thought.

“Viv –”

Strange, she wasn’t there and there weren’t any signs of her ever being there too. Did she head out already? Did they have a fight that Vivian decided to sleep in another room? He couldn’t remember. But he was sure that he was chasing two henchmen to a factory and then he was knocked out.

“Up and ready now, Sir?” Alfred greeted him as he entered the room with tea.

“Alfred, what happened last night? How did I get here?” He asked. 

“I suppose you did have too much to drink last night, Sir,” Alfred chuckled.

He didn’t seem to hear the butler’s comment as he continued to ask, “Was it Robin to took me back? Viv?”

“Robin and Viv?” Alfred raised a brow. “I do hope those are not names of women, Master Bruce.”

Now he was getting even more confused. “Alfred, what are you — where’s Vivian? Did she go to work now?”

“Vivian?” Alfred was astounded. “Sir, I am very much confused — did something happen last night with Ms. Madison?”

“Madison?” Bruce stopped in his tracks. “Julia?”

“Who else? Your fiance, Sir,” Alfred reminded him with a stern tone. “Unless things have changed last night with this mysterious Vivian you keep mentioning.”

“Alfred, I’m the one confused,” Bruce stormed out of his room. Something was wrong, very wrong. Alfred was acting differently and what is this about not knowing about Vivian and Julia! Julia Madison is a name he did not ever think to remember after all this time. And fiance? Yes, he proposed then to Julia but that was a long time ago, they ended the engagement almost immediately when he decided to leave and pursue his mission to be Batman. 

If anyone who Alfred should be mentioning the name next to fiance or the word engaged to him it would be Vivian. He already showed Alfred the ring he had made for her and had been talking to him on how he was going to propose. They even practiced a couple of times! Dick almost caught them one time—he couldn’t let Dick know about it, because if Dick knew then he would tell Vivian and the surprise would be ruined. 

Reaching the clock, Bruce was about open the thing and enter the Cave to figure out what was happening but when he opened the damn thing it only opened the glass that Alfred would open to clean it. 

“Alfred!” Bruce called out.

“Master Bruce, what’s wrong?” Alfred ran to him.

“What happened? Why is the Cave closed off?” 

“A cave?”

“The entrance to the Bat-Cave, what else?”

Alfred had a worried look on him. “Sir, I assure you, for as long as I have been working here, I have never encountered a cave — let alone a bat-cave in under the manor.”

“What is happening, that’s not–”

“Son, is everything alright? You sound upset?” A voice that Bruce never thought of hearing ever again made him freeze. It was older now and wasn’t as deep as it was but Bruce knew the voice of his own father.

Standing at the doorway were who Bruce thought for a moment were ghosts but then if these were ghosts, how come his parents have aged? They looked just as they should have if they were alive now. These were not ghosts, Thomas and Martha Wayne were alive and they were standing right before him.

“No, no, it’s impossible,” Bruce stepped back. “It can’t be you, it can’t be!” He ran past his parents hoping they were just phantoms—he would rather face whatever supernatural entity in the Manor than this—but he didn’t. He brushed shoulders with his father. 

“Son—”

Bruce ran out of the Manor. Everything was different. Where were Vivian’s things? Where were her books? Her diplomas and certificates that he insisted on putting up on the wall than hidden in the storage? Her photos and Dick’s photos too? And her flowers… Vivian asked Alfred then if she could plant some flowers in the garden and she picked the type she liked. She made sure the flowers were always lush there, along with some herbs that she would dry out in the kitchen. In the shed she would have a basket that she would take whenever she would go on a walk so she could pick up some mushrooms around the estate. 

Everything that was Vivian was gone.

With Vivian gone, so was Dick. 

This can’t possibly be happening!

Opening the hose, Bruce tried to wake himself by splashing water on his face, as he did he remembered the time he sprayed water at Vivian’s direction and the sound of her squeal and laughter ran in his mind. He still remembers her vividly, then how come she’s not here? 

And why were his parents alive?

“You okay, son?” Thomas came to see him. He sounded sincere. If this was some kind of simulation trap then he should find a way to get out without raising suspicion. Just like always.

“I’m okay,” Bruce answered. His father had him turn around and checked on his eyes and had him follow the movement of his finger. “I just… I must have partied too hard last night, that’s all.”

“You will be able to make it to the office will you? There’s this stockholders meeting later.”

“Sure. I’ll be there.” 

Maybe he can find answers in Wayne Enterprise.

“Good. Your mother and I have an appointment, too, this morning,” Thomas mimicked he was golfing and winked.

~ * ~

“This would do well for your meeting later, Sir,” Alfred pulled out a suit from his wardrobe. 

Bruce observed the large wardrobe and found it odd to find all of his things there and not just in one side. He and Vivian shared the wardrobe since she moved in to Wayne Manor. She was about to take a different wardrobe to not ruin the system that Alfred made and he’s used to for so long, but he helped her with moving some of his things—not Alfred, but just the two of them—and added hers to the side parallel to his clothes, shoes, and other accessories. 

As he looked at the side where more of his dress shirts were, he couldn’t help but miss the sight of the lingerie and negligee she purposely put there so whenever he was changing he would see those at the reflection of the mirror. Sometimes she would come in and purposely take her time to pick one while he was changing out of his work clothes. 

“What do you think of this?” Vivian would ask him, showing the article of clothing with a teasing glint in her eyes. 

But Vivian wasn’t there and nor were her clothes. The wardrobe didn’t even have a mix of her scent that he liked so much.

“Alfred, I know this is strange, but humor me for a moment,” Bruce began.

“Sir?”

“Can you tell me about my life? What is this life that I have? Please.”

“Very well, Master Bruce. Since your father retired you’ve been head of Wayne Enterprises. Well, Lucius Fox really runs the business—not that you aren’t capable, of course!”

“It’s alright, Alfred, go on.”

“And, um, unless plans have changed since last night, you are—as I said—engaged to Ms. Julia Madison. You proposed to her last week.”

“No, it’s wrong, it’s all wrong,” Bruce shook his head. 

“There are worse lives to have lived.”

He knows. He’s lived it but in that dark nightmare, he found a ray of hope that maybe the life he had isn’t a total nightmare at all. There’s light in it too. There was happiness. Vivian showed him that she lit the way in that dark hole he’s been stuck in for so long, and helped him climb out of it. They were still in the journey out but she was always there to light the way and give him hope.

~ * ~

Sitting in his office at Wayne Enterprises, Bruce couldn’t help but look at the photo he placed down. It was the photo of Julia Madison, not of Vivian. There was supposed to be a photo of Vivian there, it was the one that Dick took while they were going out on a date which Vivian invited Dick to join along. 

The knock on the door pulled Bruce from his reverie, before he could call in the person who knocked a woman walking in. She had red hair 

“Vivian!” Bruce got up but then the woman that came didn’t have her face. This one was different. From the structure, her nose, lips, brows, freckles, the blue eyes, and even the fashion of her clothes was different. It wasn’t Vivian. 

“Julia?” Bruce said.

“Hello, darling,” Julia greeted him. “Your mother called me, telling me you were acting off, and who better to ease the nerves than the woman you’re marrying next week?”

She was about to kiss him in greeting but Bruce turned away and her lips landed on his cheek instead. 

This was wrong.

“Bruce, you really are upset, what’s wrong?” Julia asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“Batman!”

“What?” Bruce turned to the window where she pointed and saw—Batman swinging down the building, chasing a thief and taking them out easily. The sight of the vigilante had Bruce running with Julia chasing after him, calling his name. They arrived just in time when Batman handed the thieves over to the police and grappled away.

“Who is he?” Bruce asked.

“They call him Batman.”

“No, I mean, who is he?”

“No one knows. He just appeared in Gotham a few weeks ago. Bruce, are you okay? You’re beginning to worry me, what’s this all about?”

“I’m losing my mind, that’s what…”

Julia was about to wrap her arm around his but Bruce pulled away and walked ahead of her. 

~ * ~

He first went to Leslie Thompkins to ask about what was happening to him. This wasn’t a simulation, he realized that when he saw Batman. What was the point in showing him Batman a all in this simulation? Her answer struck like a knife to the heart, one he wasn’t ever ready to hear:

“You lived a life where everything is handed to you. Even Wayne Enterprises was handed to you. You don’t feel like you have accomplished anything, it’s all laid out for you. So your unconscious created a life that’s more satisfying for you. You identified with someone whose every deed has great value.”

Batman.

“It’s called disassociation. Once you find pride in your own existence, these delusions will vanish.”

But he wasn’t delusional. He knows that his memories are real, not visions. Vivian was real. That’s why he took the risk. If science can’t help then maybe magic has the answer to his question.

After coming home that night to join his parents for dinner—at their insistence— the following day, instead of going to work, Bruce tried to focus on his mission but the sight of his parents there brought him happiness too. If only they were really complete there. Dick sitting at his usual spot, telling stories about his day and Vivian beside him. The following day, Bruce was parking at the visitor’s lot in Gotham University, Bruce tried to make himself inconspicuous, but like in his real life, upon stepping in its grounds many identified him and started crowding around. One of those who crowded around him was someone he knew would know Vivian too. 

“Professor Justin Kirk, right?” Bruce said.

“That’s right,” Kirk shook his hand. “Anything I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes, I was just wondering if you know where Professor Vivian Pryor is.”

“Via?” Kirk’s smile fell. Even here Kirk is an admirer of her. “Yeah, uh, she’s in class. Symposium—Elliot’s Hall—4B3.” The very same room he would always find her in. “Mind if we ask what you want with her?”

“It’s best if she finds out first before news spreads.”

Bruce walked down the stairs and made the same turns he would whenever he would come to visit her. Entering the classroom, Bruce saw the familiar lecture hall with students writing or typing their notes, the huge white screen showing the projector’s slides, and the woman at the front giving the lecture about the symbolic meaning of Venus and Mars. Aphrodite and Ares. 

The lecture ended right as the last slide showed and the lights turned on, students were already packing while Vivian gave her last reminders.

“Your papers before you go, on my desk! And because Mr. Valdez asked so nicely in his last drunk-email about not giving you guys another paper because you’re already busy af with all the shit you’re doing for the others, I’ll move the test next week to give you guys a buffer.”

Many cheered.

“Make sure to thank Mr. Valdez—he was the only one who had the balls to email me for it,” Vivian laughed. “And, Leo,” she told the kid who handed his paper, who Bruce guessed was the one who emailed her about it. “Tell me what were you drinking that night because I want to get to that level on the weekend.”

Valdez laughed and told Vivian the brand.

In return, she handed him a dollar bill. “Your meal’s on me today, for the hangover.”

“Thanks, Professor!” Valdez accepted the gift and ran up to be the first to get to the cafeteria. Just as he was headed to the door he froze as he identified who was there. “You’re Bruce Wayne!”

The mention of his name had Vivian look up in shock. 

“What’chu doing here, Mr. Wayne?” one of the students asked.

“Wayne finally stepping down from his high-horse and be with the commoners, huh?”

What was happening?

“Hey! Come on, let the guy breathe,” Vivian shooed them away. “Go, or I’ll take back about the test.”

The students left, running.

Vivian sighed and turned to him. “I’m sorry about that… So, what brings Bruce Wayne down here to the basement of Gotham University’s College of Liberal Arts, Social Science and Philosophy?”

“Do you know who I am?”

Vivian raised a brow. “Are you serious right now?”

“It’s just–”

“Listen, Wayne, I know its been a while but you don’t get to act like you’re a fucking Roman Emperor, okay?”

“What? Viv, what did I do?” 

“I have class to go to, so bye. You can see yourself out.”

He watched as Vivian walked away with her things. What did he do to make her hate him so?

~ * ~

Later that night, Julia joined them for dinner, but like before he ignored her. His mind went on, wondering what was happening, why were his parents alive and how were they alive, and why does Vivian hate him? He must have done something for her to hate him like that, right? 

“Bruce, how was your day? Lucius mentioned you left the office early today,” Thomas asked him.

“I did.”

“Any reason, son?” It was Martha this time.

“I-I went to Gotham University.”

“Why?”

Maybe they would know what happened.

“I needed to see someone,” Bruce began. “You know Professor Vivian Pryor, right?”

Thomas and Martha shifted in their seats and glanced at Julia’s way. Julia was a shocked to hear the name.

“Why would you want to see her, Bruce?” Julia questioned.

“I needed to ask about… there was just something about the Foundation. We’d hope to have her as a guest speaker in the next event, since she was supported by the Foundation in her studies.”

“Then why not have her meet you and the members of the Foundation instead? Why go to see her?”

“Julia, it was just a meeting, and I think I owe her to tell her in person, considering…”

“Considering you both were close?” Julia scoffed.

So, have they dated before? Is that it?

The topic was dropped and that was all Bruce got.

~ * ~

Bruce took the chance to see her again, this time outside of Gotham University. He waited at the gates at the time he knew she would get out of work. Right on time she was walking out, wearing her coat and was about to put on her earbuds until he called for her.

Vivian rolled her eyes at the sound of his voice calling her. “Mr. Wayne,” she greeted him. “What is this?”

“I just want to talk to you—a consultation. You’re a Symbologist, Iconologist, and a Historian, maybe you can help me with something?” He shrugged. “We can talk at this cafe not far. I promise, that’s all.”

Vivian thought for a second, thinking against it, but then she sighed again and walked ahead of him, the opposite way of the bus stop. “Well, come on, Wayne?”

They went to a cafe where Bruce ordered their usual. Black coffee then two pastries that they would share. 

“You remember?” Vivian raised a brow.

“Of course, I would.”

“So, what is it, Wayne?”

“I just need your help.”

“Yeah?”

“Recently, I haven’t felt myself. Something’s wrong.”

“Wayne, listen, I came here because you said you want a consultation about something. I’m not a psychiatrist nor am I your fiance. So, if it’s something about your life, best to talk about it with Julia, right?”

“You’re the only one I can trust about this,” he grabbed her wrist before she could leave. “Please, just hear me out. Vivian…”

She must have seen his desperation because Vivian sat back down. Their coffee and pastries came and Bruce offered she take a sip or a bite first, she didn’t move at all.

“Recently, I’ve been feeling like this isn’t the life I know I have. And I know that this isn’t it too. Maybe there’s an explanation for it?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, Bruce, how would I know?” Vivian took a sip of her coffee.

So, she hasn’t revealed she has magic.

“What happened to us, Vivian? Humor me—please—I have no recollection of what my life is here.”

He saw the quizzical look she had as she looked at him. “You really don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Right after my book launch, you asked me out on a date. We went out and, as everyone expected, we slept together. The morning after you left with a word and I was at the front page of a tabloid branded as another conquest of Bruce Wayne. That became my reputation…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You’re still angry.”

“It took me a while to find the respect with my peers again after that. Some started acting like the real assholes they are and tried to…”

“Viv–”

“Doesn’t matter. What else do you want to talk about?”

“Would you believe me that in this life I mentioned we’re together?”

Vivian got up, scratching the chair on the floor. “Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Wayne. I think you had enough pictures you needed for the tabloids again.”

“Vivian, wait!” Bruce dropped a couple of bills to pay and ran after her. “Vivian! Is it something I said?”

“What do you think? Are you shitting with me right now? You don’t just say something like that!”

“Vivian, listen!” People were starting to watch, curious about the scene. “I know you have magic.”

“What?” She had a look of horror in her eyes. “You’re insane!”

“You have magic. Your mother was a witch, she was murdered by a serial killer who takes his victims’ eyes. You told me these!”

“You’re insane!” Vivian tried to get away but his hold on her was tight.

“Then answer me this one last question. Just one and I’ll leave!” Her struggle stopped. “How do you escape a waking dream? I’m in a dream. I realized it when I couldn’t read any of the words on the menu, on the papers. But I can’t get out, I don’t know how. Just answer me that–how do you escape a waking dream? Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Dreams are made by our hopes, desires, but it is also a way to warn us and keep us human. Understand what your dream is trying to tell you so you can get out of it.”

“Even if that dream is made by a dreamlord?”

“Yes,” Vivian answered. “The Endless are there to serve mortals. They are the embodiment of what we are.”

He needs to face this himself. He needs to face Batman.

“Thank you,” Bruce released her. He then did something that surprised her and everyone around them. He kissed her then left.

~ * ~

Bruce went back to Wayne Tower that day, he stayed there, locked behind closed doors. Ignoring the calls and knocks about his stunt earlier with Vivian—news spread fast. He could hear his parents, Alfred, Julia banging on the door telling him to open it. To tell them what was going on. Why did he do that? Why was he hurting their family? But reminded himself that this wasn't real. None of this is real. This was just a dream. A endless dream. A nightmare. He needed to wake up. But to do that he needed to understand why this was happening at all. So when night came, he went to the roof, right at the gargoyle he and Vivian liked so much, and waited for him to arrive. 

He came just as the winds started to pick up and the night got colder. Batman grappled up to the top of Wayne Tower and Bruce was waiting for him. 

“You,” Bruce greeted Batman.

The Batman before him had the same physique as him, the armor, the cape, the cowl. Everything. But who was it behind that cowl?

“I know now what you are,” Bruce continued.

“What am I?” Batman asked.

“The consequence of all that has happened that night. A vow I took. But you’re more than just a vow that a ten-year-old boy made to avenge his parents. You are me and I am you—”

Batman chuckled. “I am---as you said---the consequence of that tragic day. Look at this life, Bruce. This is the life you would have had if I was never there.”

“This is all wrong,” Bruce walked up to him but Batman was fast. Batman grabbed Bruce by his collar and headbutted him down. 

“You can't have everything, Bruce. You can only choose---this happy and ideal life you have been looking for or the one that has the cowl? Your parents or Vivian Pryor.”

“It doesn't have to be a choice!” Bruce tackled him down and started punching Batman, but Batman was him, and he was Batman, so every punch, ever kick, every dodge, both anticipated and it was just an exchange of blows.

“Batman is a result of what happened in Crime Alley!” Batman kneed him in his gut. “It was Batman who brought a new age of criminals in Gotham---”

“--Gotham was already what it is now before Batman came!”

“--From organized crime you brought a new age of them---costumed criminals! Batman is the result of all of the chaos!” Batman punched him down. “And Batman is the reason why she is there. He came to save her that day. Without Batman, Deacon Blackfire wouldn't have been inspired to raise his cult. Without Batman, Vivian Pryor would have been dead in that alleyway, raped and killed by those muggers, or she would have been killed right before your eyes on that fateful day. Without Batman, you would never have met her at all. She is one of the results of Batman. Not of Bruce Wayne.”

“You're wrong,” Bruce shook his head. “Y-You're wrong…” but there was hesitation.

Batman has a point. Everything in his life in Gotham was because of Batman… but he refuse to believe that's the case. 

Batman grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “If your parents have lived, Vivian Pryor wouldn't have come to Gotham. The Martha Wayne Foundation wouldn't exist them, and efforts to help students seeking educational aid would never have come.”

But she did. In this dream, Vivian came to Gotham because she found an opportunity to do so. She and him still met that day, despite the sad ending to their acquaintance. Vivian was and has always been fated to go to Gotham and meet him too. 

Bruce grabbed Batman's wrists and said, “Viv believed, if there's a Bruce Wayne and a Vivian Pryor in any universe, they are always bound to meet, no matter what circumstance. And I want to believe that too!” Bruce flipped Batman over his shoulder and then ran to the top of the gargoyle. 

The words of their last conversation rang in his mind. He's faced the dream's purpose, he knew why he's trapped, and he knew who did all this too. The answers were just right there, he was just distracted all this time. He'll hand it to him, Jarvis Tetch was smart. Now, he needed to get out. The drop won’t kill him, but it will give his body the jolt it needs to wake up—

~ * ~

Bruce woke on a metal table with wires strapped on him and a device around his head. Just as he woke, he heard the voice of Jarvis Tetch, also known as the Mad Hatter, cursing him for breaking the device and for ruining the trap. Getting out of his restraints, not that there were any but for the things latched on him, Bruce walked up to Tetch and grabbed the Mad Hatter by the coat and slammed him to the wall.

“YOU!” Tetch screeched. “I HAD YOU! I HAD YOU IN THAT DREAM! I WAS GIVING YOU WHAT YOU WANTED! I WAS LETTING YOU LIVE WHAT YOUR MIND HAS BEEN SUBCONSCIOUSLY WANTING!”

“You never removed the cowl,” Batman thought out loud.

“I don't care about that fucking cowl!” 

“There was a flaw in your design… my mind is mostly plagued by nightmares. I rarely dream at all, Tetch. And what you gave me was a nightmare, just like the rest!” He punched Tetch across the face and man fell, unconscious, on the ground. 

Gordon and the GCPD appeared at the factory that Tetch kept him right after Batman made the call. He made sure to hand over the man to the GCPD himself.

“Long night?” Gordon said in greeting. 

“How long has it been since our last meeting?” Batman asked.

Gordon raised a brow in confusion. “Four-five hours? Give or take. Why?”

“It felt longer in there.”

“Well, best you get some rest now. We got it from here, Batman.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

~ * ~

Bruce arrived back to the cave just before sunrise. Alfred was frantic when he hasn't responded to his calls but Bruce reassured him that he was alright and asked the Butler to get the day off to rest. climbing back to the manor, out of his armor, Bruce first went to Dick's room. The boy was asleep then, making use of the mandated night off that Vivian told him to give Dick. He was a teenager afterall and teenagers need a lot of sleep. Once he was sure Dick was there, he went straight to the master bedroom. 

Vivian laid in their bed with her hair sprawled around behind her as she slept. Bruce sat right next to her---the dipping of the bed woke her instantly, and she smiled at the sight of him.

“Done with patrol?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“It was a long night.”

At that, Vivian sat up, fully awake, and asked him, “What happened, Bruce?”

“I'm ready now… to talk about it.” He took her silence as an invitation to continue, so he did. He told her about the dream he had, the one that Tetch put him in to capture Batman, and he also told her what's been plaguing his mind for so long. Whatever he and Batman argued in his dream was what has been plaguing his mind. Was Batman really the cause of all the chaos in Gotham now? Was it better if Batman never existed at all? Without Batman will he still have Vivian? Vivian listened the entire time until he ended his story and waited for his response. 

“First, damn Tetch for putting you through all that. I'll put him in a fucking waking dream myself if I ever see him in the streets again,” Vivian held his hand. “Second, I think you're wrong. Yes, Batman is the consequence of the death of your parents, but it's not just because of him that brought Gotham to its current state now. Bruce, do you really think Joker or Penguin just sprung out one night after seeing the Bat? They have been brewing their plans for so long, it just so happens it all came out when Batman came too. There are some truths to it too, but I want to believe that Batman is still a symbol of hope for Gotham too. Fear and hope.

“And third, I do not believe you'd be some jackass who was handed everything to him from the moment he was born and just take it. You told me who your parents are, and Alfred told me who Thomas and Martha were, I don’t think they'd ever raise a self-centered man. You have a good heart, Bruce. Your mother raised a good and kind man; and your father raised a man who takes action and takes pride on what he does. Even if they were alive, you would still be a good man.”

Bruce held her hands, held them tight and kissed her knuckles. “And what about you? Do I really need to choose between you and them?”

“My love, love is a choice, you choose who you want to be with you –”

“But would we have met if Batman wasn't here at all?”

“It would have taken a while, given our status then, but I believe we would have. Gotham isn't as big as we all think it to be, so I'm sure we'd still find our way bump into each other. And I'm sure I'd find my way here too. My mother was a Gothamite, after all, and I'd still be curious to know about this city and about her.”

Bruce brought her to an embrace and held her tight. “I'd choose you---when it comes to it---I'd choose you.”

“Bruce,” Vivian wiped his tears.

“I love my parents, and I would do almost anything to have them here and see all of this, but if it came to it Viv, I'd choose to be with you. They would understand.”

She didn't realize that tears were falling down her cheeks until a tear dropped on her hands, Vivian wiped them away quickly and leaned in to kiss the man she loved. “Yes, they would. I'd choose you too, Bruce.”

As they laid in bed that morning, Bruce held Vivian in his arm and let her sleep while he stared in the darkness thinking of the velvet box he kept with him at all times, waiting for the right moment to finally ask her.

Soon, he thought. He'll ask her soon.

[cherry-coffees]

The Hey mister Todd song with Caitlyn kiramman x fem!reader. Where the reader tries to pull Caitlyn to bed😻🙏

YES. THAT'S A BIG YES FROM ME.

Because IMAGINEEE Caitlyn's been working super late the past few nights. You know her job is stressful, know that she has to sign off on so many important decisions and has so much paperwork in order to keep Piltover running smoothly. But it's late and you're tired — tired of falling asleep without being wrapped in your girlfriend's arms.

So you stand in the doorway of her office, leaning against the frame in the silken nightgown she bought you last week, until Caitlyn finally looks up from the papers on her desk. "Darling?" she questions, setting her pen down. "Everything okay?"

"Come to bed," you give her your best pleading eyes. Round and wide, Caitlyn almost gives in. Almost.

"I'll be there in a few minutes," she pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing. "You know I'd rather be with you instead of working. But if I don't finish these papers-"

"Please," you bite the inside of your cheek, no longer able to disguise your pout. "I need you, Cait. Just come for a few minutes...please?"

Ah, she really can't resist you.

You see her professional facade crumble as her eyes go soft, and you know you've worn her down. Caitlyn stands from her chair, crossing over to you in a few strides and laying a hand on your back. "Alright, just until you fall asleep, then."

When you're comfortably settled in Caitlyn's bed a few minutes later, your head on her shoulder as you scroll through your phone. She nudges you lightly when she spots you opening your social media. "Darling, you should sleep. It's not good for you to scroll this late."

You ignore her, sitting up to meet her eyes. "Please, Cait? If you let me show you one video, I'll let you go back to work. Promise."

Caitlyn tilts her head, navy hair falling over her shoulders before she sighs again in compliance. "Okay. You've convinced me."

"Good," you smile, tapping your phone a few times until you find the video you want. It's a trend you've seen recently, the video showing a girl with a cat in her arms, the girl kissing the cat in between every word of the audio.

Caitlyn smiles at the video. "That's cute."

"It is," your smile widens almost mischievously, turning back to her. "And now..."

Caitlyn's eyes widen in surprise as the video's audio plays again, only this time, you cup her face in your palms.

"Ooh, Mr. Todd," kiss on her left cheek.

"I'm so happy," kiss on her right cheek.

"I could-" kiss on her forehead.

"-eat you up I really could! You know what I'd like to do, Mr. Todd?" kiss on her nose.

"What I dream?" You place a final kiss on her lips, pulling back to smile sweetly at her as the audio plays out.

Caitlyn, meanwhile, blinks dazedly up at you from where she's leaning against the bed's headboard. "Oh," she murmurs, voice husky. "That's- That's what you wanted to-"

"Mhm" you gently knock your nose against hers. "You're just too cute. I had to give you all the kisses."

"I'm not cute," she mumbles, though her icy eyes are still hazy, like she can't think straight. And, Caitlyn supposes, she really can't.

"You're the cutest" you decide, kissing her lips once more. "But that's what I wanted. You can go back now if you need, love."

Caitlyn sits up fully, but it's only to shrug off her jacket and throw it across the room without a second glance. "You're too sweet to me, darling," she whispers as she slides back down so her head rests against the pillows. Her arms wrap around you snugly. "I can't let you sleep alone after that."

"Mh," you hum, a pleased smile gracing your features as you tuck your head into her neck. Your legs tangle together under the sheets, and you swear that you've never been happier than when you're in your girlfriend's embrace. "If you insist."

|------» ~~~ «------|

A/N: ty for the request lovely, i hope i did you justice <3

a reminder that my requests and asks are open! so send me an ideas you'd like to see OR just drop in to say hi and give thoughts on my fics <3

[wendichester]

⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃⋆ 'til death do us part,

summary. you catch a pattern at a couple's retreat and have to go understand. cue in sam's new (fake) wife!

pairing. sam winchester x reader ; fake couple

wordcount. 694

"You ready?"

Sam’s voice is smooth, deep, warm like honey. You nearly roll your eyes, but instead, you lace your fingers with his and plaster on your best adoring-wife smile.

"Of course, darling," you purr, giving his hand a little squeeze for effect.

The ruse is simple enough: a small-town cult disguised as a religious retreat, luring in young married couples for “spiritual renewal.” The catch? None of them ever leave.

So here you are, hand-in-hand with Sam Winchester, wearing a simple gold band on your finger that’s heavier than it should be.

The woman at the check-in table beams at you both, her gaze flicking to your joined hands. "Such a beautiful couple," she says. "How long have you been married?"

Sam barely hesitates. "Three years," he says easily. "Met in college. Love at first sight."

You feel your cheeks warm. You hadn’t rehearsed that part.

The woman sighs dreamily. "How wonderful. Well, we’ll get you both settled in. We encourage closeness, so no separate rooms here. Just you, your spouse, and the universe binding your souls together."

Oh, fantastic.

Sam keeps up the act flawlessly, rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand with his thumb as you follow her down a candlelit hall. Your fake honeymoon suite is small but cozy, with soft lighting and a single bed in the center.

The door shuts behind you, leaving you alone with Sam and the inescapable tension crackling in the air.

"Three years, huh?" you tease, slipping off your shoes.

He shrugs, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "Seemed believable."

"You got a whole love story planned out?"

Sam smirks. "I could come up with one if you want."

You roll your eyes and flop onto the bed, feeling the mattress dip slightly under your weight. "Nah. I think I like this arranged marriage thing we’ve got going on."

Sam chuckles, running a hand through his hair. He’s too comfortable, too good at this. You should be focusing on the case, not on how right his last name looks on your fake I.D.

You clear your throat. "So, what’s the plan?"

"Figure out what they’re really doing here, take down the bad guys, save the day," Sam says. "Same as always."

"With a side of marital bliss," you add dryly.

Sam tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like calling me your husband."

You smirk. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like it."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you, something unreadable behind those sharp hazel eyes.

For a second, the whole act slips into something dangerously real.

"Maybe I do," he finally says, voice quieter now.

Your stomach flips.

You should say something snarky, make a joke, something, but your mouth is suddenly dry, and Sam is still looking at you like that.

Like maybe pretending doesn’t feel so much like such a burden.

The case should be your first priority. The weird chanting you heard earlier, the way the other couples here seem too happy, the fact that you might be in real danger if you don’t figure out what’s going on.

But all you can focus on is the way Sam’s fingers brush against yours when he leans down, resting his weight on his hands beside you.

"Maybe we should get some sleep," he murmurs, his voice softer now, heavier.

You nod, pulse thrumming in your throat.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The space between you crackles with something unsaid, something waiting.

But Sam pulls back first, shaking his head like he’s clearing a thought from his mind. "Big day tomorrow."

"Right," you say quickly, swinging your legs onto the bed and yanking the covers up.

A beat of silence.

Then Sam reaches over and turns off the light.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every breath he takes beside you. Of the warmth of his body inches away.

Of the fact that you’re still wearing his last name.

And that maybe he was right and you like calling him your husband. That you wouldn’t mind keeping his last name.

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[badendfriendstournament]

Hi! I have this alternative bad ending for Wirt, where instead of becoming the Beast, he became a woodsman! But since he knows where ellewoods comes from The Beast manipulated Wirt enough for him to become a serial killer of the woods, now known as the Hunter

The idea is simple, Wirt becoming the new woodsman instead of the new beast. In this bad ending Wirt didn't learn how to stand up for himself, and as a result, the Beast managed to use his worse traits to put them into the extreme until he turns into this guy you see here in order to have a more useful woodsman

Wirt not only feeds the lantern with ellewoods, he also contributes in its making, by misguiding new souls so they get lost or even cuts them down with his own axe, all in order to keep Greg's soul alive, he basically lives only for Greg now. Of course, Wirt feels guilty about it and so he develops a huge self hatred that makes him stop taking care of himself at all, his mental health has been decaying too, since he barely sleeps and suffer from loneliness Wirt started to hear voices and so he talks to the lantern as if it was Greg, and the Rock Fact as well. The Beast does influence him, as the only company he is allowed to have, by time and using feelings like hatred and jealousy, The Beast managed to mold Wirt's point of view into a more similar to his, seeing people as nothing but ellewoods to feed the lantern with

Wirt becomes more lost than the woodsman ever was, not only is he literally lost in life but also he is losing himself too.

Why all of this bad ending?

The Beast wanted to survive, it never implies that he wanted a successor, in that case he should have done it with the woodsman already, or tried to convince people to become The New Beast Instead of tricking them to take care of his literal soul

When the Beast was defeated you can see the unknown is practically the same, or better, so the Beast wasn't that important for the Unknown to need a replacement

When Wirt and Greg are leaving, the Beast tries to manipulate the woodsman to cut them down with his axe, revealing that it is not necessary to lose hope to become an ellewood, The Beast literally said that everyone who perished in the forest would become a ellewood, so it's canon that murder is also a option for The Beast

People usually say that Wirt would become the Beast if he was the one who turned off the lantern, but again, if that was true, then in canon it would have happen to the woodsman instead

Something you can notice about the Beast is that he not only likes to make children surrender but he also likes to corrupt people. He did it with Adelei and succeeded, remember when she said this "I do what he asked me to, the beast of eternal darkness..." and was about to do it with the woodsman as well, that's why he showed him Greg becoming a ellewood, he wasn't moking at The Woodsman, that wouldn't make senses, The Beast was actually looking for him to agree with it, which The Woodsman did not of course

The Woodsman lost his wife, he thought he lost his daughter as well too, he was willing to keep his daughter alive BUT as long he didn't hurt anyone. The woodsman is a full grown man, and in the comics it is revealed that HE WAS A LAWYER, of course he knows what's right and wrong, of course he has his morals already established and will stand by them. But you know who doesn't have that? Wirt

Wirt was clearly a loner because he thinks everyone at home didn't like him, he had a twisted view of his own reality (example: THE WHOLE JASON FUNDERBERKER THING), he is insecure of himself, which makes a more easy target for The Beast. Wirt is literally the first one that falls for him, if it wasn't for Greg, Wirt would have turned into a ellewood tree

In the chapter 3 it seems that Wirt is always doing what he is told, it's a recurrent thing in the comics as well too, he says he does that to avoid conflicts, being submissive and a pushover is part of his character, a characteristic that it was finally defeated by confronting the Beast face to face, which in this bad ending didn't happened

THIS IS A MAIN POINT: in one of the comics that takes place during their journey in the unknown, Wirt accidentally fell over the garden of some sisters, in favor to fix it he now has to do her tasks and he does them as they told him, the thing is that the sisters are taking advantage of him and using wrong words on purpose in order to Wirt destroy things: burning clothes and breaking every single egg of their chickens. Wirt does this because he didn't want them to call their papa and get into trouble, until in one point the sisters asked him to DROWN THEIR DOG, so he refused, then papa woke up and the sister blamed Wirt for everything. The papa cries so much that he accidentally fills all the place with his tears, so in order to stop him, Wirt ask him if Papa wanted him to drown his dog... WIRT WAS WILLING TO DROWN A LIVING BEING WITH HIS OWN HANDS IN ORDER TO STOP THE INUNDATION, THIS BOY WAS ABOUT TO KILL IF HE NEED IT TO, OR AT LEAST ACTUALLY CONSIDER IT LIKE--- LOOK????

10. Even after the events on the main series, in the comics that takes place after the events of otgw you can see that Wirt has still issues to stand up by himself. In one of them he was tricked by a fake ghost and he built a huge construct in order to get to the moon (And it was REALLY well built) if he didn't want to be curse, it was only when Greg came that he dare to go down and realize that the ghost was just a disguise of a really lazy animal. THIS shows how he can be EASILY controlled by fear and how determined he is in order to avoid bad things, dude was about to do the impossible, reached the moon with a giant tower, HOW DID HE THINK HE WOULD BREATH ON SPACE HUH??? And all because he didn't wanted to be curse by a ghost

That's why I think he WOULD kill people if that keeps Greg alive. Wirt is determined to even hurt people in favor of SOMEHOW made up for his mistakes, the good brother he should have been before. Tho, even if his own reason talks to him, Wirt can't just stop now, because if he stops he would have to accept that Greg was never in the lantern, that he hurt HUNDREDS of innocents, and that he wasted his entire life, all for NOTHING

there is no going back, what else could he do after all of that? Wirt's been far away for too long, if he ever came back home he has no idea what to expect, but even if everything was right where he left it, how could he live on his life knowing all the things he has done? How could he be able to sleep at night? That even around friends and family NO ONE could ever know what he has done or understand what he has been through, because if they knew, all of them would want him dead. And so, he sees no other choice than keeping forward it, giving in into the lovely lie until it consumed his entire self, until his mind is completely gone with it

Until he lost himself forever.

Now, despite all my points and explanation I know is kinda edgy why Woodsman Wirt would be a serial killer of the woods BUT---

This idea is actually mentioned in the first chapter of the series! When Wirt and Greg first saw the woodsman, the first impression Wirt had from him was to say:

"Do you think it's some kind of deranged lunatic with an axe waiting out there in the darkness for innocent victims?"

So I thought... What if in the bad ending HE turns into that deranged lunatic? Which is such an ironic turn if you think about it ✨ because even after that, Wirt sees the Woodsman as a crazy or even DANGEROUS man to run away from in the rest of the series until the final.

I read a little about the information you have in the blog, and I think he would be in the category of "Fanon Bad Endings" but you guys are the experts

And so that's all, sorry if it was TOO MUCH text ;; I just love this concept and I wanna know if my boy can be classified as a Bad End Friend too, it would be so cool to see him being included in the different dynamics you guys usually do, like I made this a AU but is around a bad ending so I think it still counts

Anyways, I hope you guys like it, or at least respond me, have a nice day!

Hello there.

Yeah we already knew about this AU and theres also a few more request for this wort version to be in so yeah, he can get in