#just for it to be suffocated in the cradle

[lightsoutmatthews]

jo you have been cooking with these fics girl i literally can’t get enough!!!! can i request auston x reader are having their first baby together and how auston is supportive during labor even tho reader is so scared? thanks :)

This one got long, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it all out

Warning!!! Literal description of giving birth, labor and all, mentions of needles and hospitals

Our Little Miracle – Auston Matthews

It was the middle of July in Toronto, technically the off-season, but Auston had decided in the light of things you would pass on spending it in Arizona this year.

You both agreed no travel, no vacation, no weekend getaways.

You were due any day now, and Auston wanted to be nowhere but here, with you.

The condo was clean, cleaner than it had probably ever been. Auston had let it be deep-cleaned last week, before he tried to install a car seat with YouTube instructions and a ton of muttered swearing under his breath. Turns out, Lamborghinis and Porsches weren’t really made for this.

The nursery was finished. Soft greys and whites, colorful splashes on the wall, a mobile that still needed batteries. Auston painted the walls himself, twice actually, because you changed your mind after seeing the first color in daylight. Then hired a friend to make it more colorful. You didn’t want to be one of those beige parents.

You were 39 weeks and three days. Every part of your body felt heavy. Walking had become waddling. Sleeping had become a challenge and the nesting instinct? Out of control. You reorganized the baby´s dresser drawers three times that day alone.

Auston walked in from the living room, holding two popsicles. “Pick a flavor,” he said, holding them out like a magician. “Cherry or mystery.”

You gave him a tired smile, taking the cherry. “Thanks.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“An hour maybe,” you admitted, plopping onto the couch. “The baby was doing full-on somersaults again. I swear they´re going to be a goalie with how much they kick.”

Auston laughed and sat beside you. “Then we´re doomed.”

The two of you sat in silence for a bit, the fan buzzing quietly in the background, your belly rising and falling beneath your stretched shirt.

Auston reached out and gently placed his hand there, feeling for a movement. “Hard to believe we´re here,” he mumbled.

You looked at him. “I know.”

There was still part of you that couldn’t quite believe it. You had the baby shower, the doctor´s appointments, the ultrasounds, but the idea of actually delivering a human being into the world felt too big to wrap your head around.

“Are you nervous?” you asked, your voice soft.

Auston blinked, the nodded. “Terrified.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He gave you a look. “Of course. Are you kidding? I´ve been googling “what not to say during labor” for weeks. Pretty sure I already broke three rules just today.”

You laughed for real this time, then winced slightly when your stomach tightened in a now familiar way.

“Was that another one?” he asked, instantly alert. “Yeah,” you breathed. “But it faded. Just Braxton Hicks.”

Still, he didn’t take his eyes off you. Ever since your last appointment, where the OB said the baby had dropped and your cervix was softening, Auston had been on full alert.

At first it was sweet, adorable even. Now? A little suffocating.

“Babe, I love you,” you said, looking over at him. “but if you don’t stop asking me if I´m sure it´s not labor, I´m going to induce myself just to get some quiet.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Can´t help it. Every time you blink, I think it´s go-time.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the moment settle. You weren’t ready but you were. Both things were true.

----------

That night Auston made dinner – sort of.

He reheated frozen pasta and poured you a ginger ale in your favorite glass.

You sat at the table slowly, one hand always cradling your belly, feeling heavy and tired but weirdly content.

“You know,” Auston said between bites. “I was thinking of something.”

“Oh boy.”

He ignored that. “What if the baby looks nothing like either of us?”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“Like, what if they come out with red hair and green eyes and we´re both just standing there like who are you?”

You smirked. “Freddie would love that.” You laughed, referring to your close friend and know redhead Frederik Andersen.

“Bet he would,” Auston laughed.

“Well, we´ll cross that bridge if our baby is a ginger. I´ll buy SPF 100.”

He chuckled, but then his smile softened. “I don’t really care who they look like. As long as they´re okay.”

There it was again. The fear underneath all the joking. Auston was calm on the surface, but you had seen it in his eyes these past few weeks.

You were both first-time parents. No amount of planning could prepare you for the unknown.

That night, you climbed into bed carefully and stretched out with a long groan. Auston brushed your hair back as you sighed into your pillow.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah. Just tired and kind of scared.”

“Me too,” he admitted, lying down behind you. His hand resting on your side. “But you´re doing so good, babe. We got this.”

You didn’t know if that was true but hearing him say it made you feel a little better.

2:12 am

You shot awake with a sharp intake of breath. A tight pain, low, deep, and way more intense than any of the Braxton Hicks you had before, wrapped around your abdomen.

You sat up slowly, confused and breathless. Then you felt it.

A warm tickle, then a gush.

You pushed off the covers, heart pounding. It soaked through your underwear and started pooling under you. There was no denying it now.

You turned and smacked Auston´s arm hard. “Auston! Wake up, my water just broke.”

His eyes flew open. “Wait, what?”

“My water broke.”

He blinked, scrambling upright. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, frozen.

He flung the blankets back, took one look, and his eyes went wide. “Holy sh- I mean okay! Okay. We got this. Stay calm.”

“I am calm,” you said, panicked.

Auston jumped out of bed, already dialing the hospital on his phone. “I´m calling now. Don’t move. I´ll get the bag.”

“I have to move, Auston. It´s dripping on the bed.”

“Okay, but slowly.”

You started breathing heavier as another contraction slammed into you, sharper than the last. Auston paused mid step.

“That one hurt?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You nodded, already tearing up.

He dropped the phone on the bed and came to your side immediately, crouching down. “Hey, you´re okay. We´re going to the hospital now. We´re good. I got you.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed hard. “I´m scared.”

“I know. Me too,” he said honestly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “But we´ve waited months for this. We´re finally going to meet them.”

You nodded slowly. “Let´s go meet our baby.”

-----------

The ride to the hospital was somehow both fast and endless.

Auston drove carefully, but you could feel the energy pulsing off him like static. Nervous, focused, rattled beneath the surface.

Every few minutes he glanced at you and asked “Okay?” and you would give him a tight nod or a pained “yeah,” even though each contraction had your breath hitching in your throat.

The car smelled like lemon hand sanitizer and air conditioning. Your hospital bag was in the back seat, bouncing lightly against the headrest, and your water bottle had already rolled somewhere out of reach.

You were trying to time your contractions in your head but kept losing track.

Auston parked in the underground garage, and before you could even unbuckle, he was already outside, opening your door, his hand there to steady you. “Let´s go slow, okay?”

You nodded, gripping his arm tightly as another wave of pressure surged through you.

3:10 am

The admitting nurse greeted you with a smile that made you want to cry. “How far apart are the contractions?”

“About every four minutes,” Auston answered quickly, standing at your side with one hand resting protectively on your lower back.

You were clenching your teeth, trying to breathe through another one, fingers digging into the railing of the wheelchair they had brough you. “They´re…getting worse.”

---------

You were brought into a private room where they hooked you up to a monitor, checked your vitals and examined you.

“You´re at five centimeters,” the nurse said. “You´re in active labor.”

That made your stomach turn.

Auston crouched down beside you. “Halfway there,” he muttered softly. “You´re doing so good.”

You looked at him with damp eyes. “This is really happening, huh?”

He gave a tiny, nervous laugh. “Yeah. I think we´re doing this.”

4:20 am

You were moved into a delivery suite. Bigger, quieter, filled with soft beeping from machines and a couch in the corner that Auston would absolutely not be using.

He refused to sit. Instead, he helped you change into the hospital gown, held your hand as the nurse inserted your IV and asked the same question over and over: “Do you need anything?”

“I need this baby out of me,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

“Working on that,” he said, brushing your hair back. “I can´t speed it up, but I can hold your hand through it. Deal?”

You nodded as another contraction rolled in, this one stronger, pulling a sharp breath from you.

Auston instantly shifted beside the bed, gripping your hand, his free palm rubbing slow circles over your back.

“You´re doing great,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” you hissed.

“I know. You´re doing it perfectly.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Stop being so calm.”

He smiled. “If I panic, you will kill me.”

5:15 am

By hour two in the labor room, you were done. The pain had moved from manageable to all-consuming. Your back was on fire, your legs shook between contractions and no breathing technique was doing the trick anymore.

You looked at the nurse between gritted teeth. “I want the epidural. Please.”

Auston didn’t even blink. “Okay. Let´s do it.”

He helped you sit up as the anesthesiologist came in.

You buried your face into his chest as the doctor prepped your back. Your arms trembled, part fear, part exhaustion and you hated the sound of plastic wrappers and alcohol swabs behind you.

“You´re okay,” Auston whispered into your hair. “I´m right here. Just breathe. You´re doing so well.”

The needle pricked and you flinched, but he never let go of you. When it was over, the relief – oh, the relief – washed over you like a warm bath.

You collapsed against the pillows, nearly crying from the absence of pain. “Better?” Auston asked, brushing your cheek.

You nodded, breathless. “So much better. Thank God.”

He kissed your forehead. “You´re amazing.”

“Don’t make me cry,” you mumbled. “I´ll get dehydrated.”

7:45 am

Time started to blur. Nurses came and went. The monitors beeped quietly. The sun was starting to rise outside, casting a soft yellow light into the room.

You were lying comfortably now, epidural taking the edge off everything, but the fear was building in your chest again. The realness of it all.

You looked over at Auston, who was sitting at your bedside, scrolling on his phone updating everyone on what was happening with one hand and holding yours with the other one. He looked up the moment he felt your grip tighten.

“What´s wrong?”

You swallowed hard. “What if I can´t do this?”

He set the phone down immediately. “You are doing it.”

“No, I mean…what if something goes wrong? What if the baby is not okay? What if I can´t push? What if they have to do a C-section? What if-“

Auston stood and leaned over the bed, cupping your face gently. “Stop,” he said softly but firm. “Listen to me.”

You blinked away tears.

“You´ve done everything right,” he said. “You´ve cared this baby for nine months. You´ve eaten all the weird snacks. You´ve dealt with all the back pain and the nausea, and the kicks to the ribs. And now you´re here. Doing the hardest part.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I´m so scared, Aus.”

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

His honesty broke something in you. You reached for him and he kissed your knuckles, resting you’re his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what´s going to happen next,” he continued. “But I know I´ll be right here next to you when it does. Always.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank you.”

He pulled back and smiled. “Also, I just talked to the nurse, she said you´re almost 9 centimeters.”

Your heart jumped. “What?!”

“She also said the baby´s head is low. Probably soon.”

8:50 am

The doctor entered the room after one more check. “You´re at ten centimeters. Let´s give it a few more minutes for the baby to descend a bit more, and then we´ll start pushing.”

You stared at her like she had just said something in a language you didn’t understand. “That´s it? We just start?”

Auston stood beside you again, rubbing your arm. “We start.”

Panic swelled again in your chest. Auston noticed immediately.

He moved in closer and kissed the side of your head.

“Listen,” he said gently. “You don’t have to be brave right now. You just have to be you and I´ll be right here.”

You but your lip, eyes swimming. “What if I mess up?”

“There´s no messing up,” he whispered. “You´ve already done the impossible. This? This is just the last stretch.”

You leaned into him, closing your eyes as a few tears finally slipped out.

He didn’t wipe them away. He just held your hand tighter.

“Alright,” the nurse said calmly, rolling a small cart into the room. “We´re going to start with some practice pushes first, okay?”

You nodded stiffly, hands gripping the sides of the bed.

Auston was right next to you, standing tall, a towel slung over his shoulder for no reason other than to look useful, eyes locked on yours like he was ready to go to war for you.

He had put a hat on to keep his hair out of his face, looking half-tired, half-terrified but steady.

“I´m not ready,” you whispered to him, your throat tight.

“I know,” he whispered back. “But you don’t have to be perfect right now.”

9:05 am

The doctor got into position, gloves on, coaching you through each step. “Take a deep breath in,” the nurse instructed, her tone form but encouraging. “And push, hard, for ten seconds.”

You did. You bore down and pushed with everything you had, squeezing Auston´s hand like a lifeline.

He counted quietly, voice in your ear. By seven your arms were shaking. “Ten. Breathe.”

You collapsed against the pillows, chest heaving. “Holy shit.”

“You´re doing amazing,” Auston mumbled, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

“No, I´m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

You glared weakly. “If you say that again, I will punch you.”

He grinned. “Totally fair. You´re still doing amazing, though.”

--------

The next hour passed in a haze. You pushed through waves of exhaustion. You cried through some of them. sometimes from fear, sometimes from frustration, sometimes just because you felt like your body was doing something bigger than it was ever meant to do.

You swore. You groaned. At one point, you shouted “I CAN´T” in the middle of a contraction and Auston was there immediately, gripping both your hands in his.

“Yes you can,” he said. “You are. Just one more. Come on, babe. You´ve got this.”

Your face crumpled as you looked at him. “What if I break?”

“You won´t,” he promised. “But if you do, I´ll hold you together.”

That made you cry again, but you nodded. And pushed.

10:20 am

“You´re almost there,” the doctor said. “I can see the head."

Auston´s eyes went wide. “You can?!”

“Do you want to see?” the nurse offered.

He looked at your first. You hesitated…then nodded.

He stood, peeked around the doctor, then immediately sat back down, eyes glassy, like he couldn’t quite believe what he just saw.

“She´s right,” he whispered. “They´re right there. We´re so close.”

That gave you a second wind. You clutched his hand again, chin down, and gave it everything you had.

“Push-“

You did. Everything blurred. The room dimmed and brightened at once.

“Deep breath…one more…”

You roared with effort. You felt the shift. The pressure. The release.

“Shoulders – okay, here we go…”

And then a cry.

A sharp, perfect wail.

It was like the world stopped for a second.

The doctor lifted the baby, holding them up in the light. “It´s a…” the nurse started.

“No!” you and Auston both cut in at the same time. “We wanted to look first.”

Laughter rippled through the room. The doctor gently placed the baby on your chest.

You looked down.

Tiny, red, crying. Arms flailing. So real.

And unmistakably….

“A girl,” Auston whispered, voice cracking. “We have a little girl.”

“Congratulations Mrs. and Mr. Matthews,” the doctor smiled.

You stared in awe, your arms instinctively wrapping around the tiny, slippery bundle now resting against your chest. Her face was scrunched, her fists curled.

“She´s perfect.”

10:35 am

The nurses worked quietly around you, cleaning her, checking her vitals, wiping you down.

You didn’t even notice the rest of it. All you could do was stare at her, at the warm weight of her tiny body against yours, at the way her cry faded the moment your hand cupped the back of her head.

Auston stood frozen beside you for a long moment, eyes locked on your daughter. “She´s so small,” he whispered. “Oh my god. She´s tiny.”

“She´s perfect,” you whispered.

His voice broke. “Yeah.”

You looked up, there were tears picking at the corner of his eyes.

“Babe,” you said softly.

He gave you a watery smile and crouched beside the bed, brushing his thumb over the baby´s back.

“I didn’t know I could love someone this fast,” he murmured. “It´s like… I don’t even know her yes, and I´d already die for her.”

You smiled through your own tears. “Same.”

He kissed your temple, then your shoulder, then your daughter´s tiny forehead.

“She looks like you,” he laughed.

“She has your mouth.”

“She has your nose.”

You paused. “Do you think she´ll have your shot.”

He laughed quietly. “God, I hope not. She´d break all my records.”

You joined in with laughter. “As if you would be mad about that.”

11:15 am

Eventually, the room was cleaned. The doctor left. The nurses dimmed the lights, and it was just the three of you.

Auston sitting shirtless in the reclined with your daughter curled against his chest, swaddled like a burrito, eyes closed.

“She fell asleep on me,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You smiled from the bed, still exhausted, still sore, still floating somewhere outside yourself. “She knows who her dad is.”

He looked down at her with a mix of reverence and disbelief. “I can´t believe she was inside you. Like…that´s who we were talking to all those months.”

“She heard your Leafs rants,” you giggled. “She´s probably already a fan.”

He gave a tired chuckle. “I will buy her all the merch in the world. She´ll look so adorable in a tiny Matthews jersey.”

The room was quiet except for the gently hum of the AC and your daughter´s faint breathing.

“She´s real,” Auston repeated, like he had to say it out loud to make it true.

“She´s ours,” you added softly.

He looked at you, eyes filled with awe. “You were incredible.”

You snorted. “I was a mess.”

“Exactly,” he said. “You were scared, and you still did it like a pro. I´ve never been so proud of you.”

Your eyes stung again.

He got up carefully, walking to the side of your bed. “Want do hold her again?”

You nodded.

He placed her in your arms gently, adjusting the blankets. Her lips smacked slightly in her sleep. You stared down at her for a long moment.

“Hey,” you whispered to her. “I´m your mom.”

Then you looked at Auston. “And that massive guy over there is your dad. He´s kind of obsessed with your already.”

“She´s going to be so spoiled,” he warned. “Not just by us but Uncle Mitchy and Uncle Willy are already debating who gets to bring her a present first.”

“She deserves to be.”

[forkshighschooler]

Can you do where the pack wakes up the reader from a nightmare and comfort the reader

Nightmares Don’t Stand a Chance

Pairing: Twilight Wolfpack x Reader (Comfort / Hurt-Comfort)

Summary: After a nightmare jolts you awake in the middle of the night, one—or all—of the wolves show up to soothe you, proving you’re never truly alone again.

Warnings: Mentions of nightmares, anxiety, and fear. Fluff & comfort.

⸻

Jacob Black

You woke up gasping, chest heaving, tears streaking your cheeks before you even realized what had happened. The blankets felt suffocating. You tried to push them away—

“Hey, hey—Y/N?” Jacob’s voice was gravel-soft as his arms reached for you in the dark. He was already awake, having felt your fear through the imprint bond.

You couldn’t answer. Just buried your face into his bare chest, trembling.

Jacob wrapped you up in his arms, strong and grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head as he whispered against your hair, “You’re safe. You’re here with me. It was just a dream.”

He rubbed soothing circles into your back until your breathing evened out.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “No one’s ever gonna hurt you while I’m around. Not even in your dreams.”

⸻

Paul Lahote

Paul jolted awake before you even did.

Your whimpers had started in your sleep, and his instincts kicked in like fire. “Y/N?” he asked urgently, shaking you gently. “Wake up, baby. It’s just a dream.”

You shot upright with a cry, heart hammering.

Paul immediately pulled you into his lap, pressing your forehead to his and holding you tightly. “Shhh… I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s over. You’re here. You’re with me.”

His voice, usually rough, was soft and full of worry.

After a moment, he kissed your temple and said, “Next time you’re gonna dream, you better dream about me or nothing at all.”

And despite everything, you laughed.

⸻

Embry Call

You woke up sobbing, tears soaking into your pillow. Embry was beside you in seconds, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?” His voice cracked with panic, hands cupping your face gently.

You could barely speak, but the way he looked at you—with all that love and patience—was enough.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, pulling you close. “It’s not real. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He stayed awake the rest of the night, brushing your hair back and humming little songs under his breath until you felt safe enough to sleep again.

⸻

Jared Cameron

You shot up, gasping. Jared was already turning on the lamp, blinking at you with bleary concern.

“Was it a nightmare?” he asked gently, rubbing your back.

You nodded shakily.

Jared didn’t ask for details. Instead, he pulled you into him, wrapping the blanket around you both like a cocoon.

“I wish I could fight dreams,” he muttered. “I’d beat the hell out of whatever scared you.”

You laughed into his chest, and he smiled, relieved.

“Just let me hold you, okay? You’re safe with me. Always.”

⸻

Quil Ateara

Quil wasn’t the best with words, but when he felt you start to cry in your sleep, he didn’t hesitate.

He gently shook you awake, whispering your name with worry in his voice.

The moment you opened your eyes, terrified and disoriented, Quil scooped you into his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, rocking slightly. “Shh… you’re not alone.”

Then he got you a glass of water, tucked you in again, and lay with his head next to yours. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

Sam Uley

Sam woke up immediately, your distress triggering his alpha instincts. He turned on the light, took your face in his hands, and spoke calmly but firmly.

“Y/N, look at me. You’re safe. You’re home.”

His deep voice was steadying. When you finally met his eyes, he gave you the smallest smile. “There you are.”

He brought you to his chest and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I know nightmares feel real. But I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you—not in this life or any other.”

You believed him.

⸻

Seth Clearwater

Seth woke up fast, panicked by the sudden jolt in your breathing.

“Y/N? Are you okay? Was it a dream?”

You clung to him, tears hot on your cheeks, and he hugged you without hesitation.

“Poor thing,” he mumbled, squeezing you like you were made of glass. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m here.”

He reached for your hand, threading your fingers together. “Let’s count breaths, okay? In and out. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

⸻

Leah Clearwater

Leah wasn’t the cuddliest, but the second she felt you twitch and cry out in your sleep, she was sitting up and waking you.

When your eyes flew open, wild and scared, she just said, “Breathe. Look at me. You’re okay.”

You threw your arms around her without thinking, and though she tensed at first, Leah slowly melted into the hug.

“Whatever it was, it’s gone. You’re not alone anymore.”

Then, quieter, she added, “I’ll stay up as long as you need.”

You knew she would.

Disclaimer:

I do now own Twilight or any of its characters. All rights belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is a work of fanfiction written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

[thewosocollective1]

Tired Hearts

Leah williamson x reader

It was 11:43 p.m., and the baby had been crying for what felt like hours.

Leah hadn’t returned from the match yet. 

Delays, post-game press, probably traffic

And it seemed like the cries were getting louder and louder 

 All logical things—but tonight logic had no power against the wave of raw emotion tearing through y/n.

Y/n paced the nursery in circles, arms aching, eyelids heavy with fatigue and frustration. Her body begged to collapse, but the wails only grew louder no matter how she bounced or whispered or sang through her cracked voice.

The room felt suffocating. Toys scattered everywhere, bottles half-clean on the counter downstairs, laundry forgotten in the hallway. .

She pressed the baby against her chest, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. “Please, please settle…” Her voice trembled. “I’m so tired.And if you don’t stop crying i’m going to cry with you, we are both tiered my love so please sleep”

The crying persisted—high-pitched, relentless. Every sound pierced through her like needles. Hormones flared, guilt twisted in her stomach. I’m not enough.

Just as the desperation reached its peak and y/n nearly sank to the floor in exhaustion, the front door creaked open.

“Y/n?” Leah called out gently.

Silence fell for the first time.

Y/n didn’t answer, too overwhelmed to respond. Leah climbed the stairs quickly, her boots barely kicked off, and stepped into the nursery, face flushed from the game, eyes scanning y/n and the red-faced baby.

Without hesitation, Leah crossed the room and reached for both of them, wrapping her arms around y/n and cradling the baby expertly.

“Give her to me,” Leah whispered. “You need to breathe.”

“She doesn't fall asleep, she just cries louder and louder, I don't know what to do with her anymore.”

Y/n hesitated, then released the baby into Leah’s arms like surrendering a piece of her soul. The moment she let go, her knees buckled. Leah caught her instantly.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “I’ve always got you.”

They sat together on the nursery floor, the baby finally calming in Leah’s arms, the gentle rise and fall of her breath syncing with theirs. Y/n clung to Leah’s shoulder, sobbing quietly.

“I didn’t mean to fall apart,” she said, voice muffled.

Leah kissed her hair. “You’re not falling apart. You’re surviving. And that’s brave.”

The baby yawned, finally asleep. 

“I’m scared… I feel so lost.” she snapped. “You don’t know. I’m exhausted. My body hurts. I’m drowning in responsibilities, training schedules, and hormones that make me want to scream and cry at the same time—and you just breeze through with your calm voice and your stupid herbal teas, and she cries all night when you’re not here and then suddenly you appear after hours trying to calm her down and she falls asleep as soon as she falls into your arms .”

Leah’s jaw clenched. “’I’m her mother also, it’s normal that she also calms down with me and if You think I’m breezing through this, I’m not. But I’m trying. Trying to hold the line so you don’t have to.”

“I don’t need you to hold the line. I need you to see me falling apart.”

The words hit hard. Leah stepped back as if physically struck, eyes wide, the hurt plain across her face. But then she came forward slowly, kneeling down beside y/n, placing a hand on her trembling knee.

“I see you,” Leah whispered. “Every version. The exhausted one. The angry one. The one who cried silently while holding our baby. I see all of her, and I love her more fiercely every time.But it's scary to have such a small human being to care for, educate and ensure safety, I'm also tired of all the sleepless nights and everything”

Tears flooded y/n’s eyes, her breathing shallow. “I feel like I’m losing myself…”

Leah didn’t flinch. “Then we find you again. Together. Even if it’s messy. Even if you hate my voice sometimes.”

The air felt lighter, as if the storm had passed.

“ It irritates me that she looks so much like you and I was the one who carried her for nine months and had all the pain”

“ Oh come on she is beautiful look at her “ Leah said looking at the baby in her arms “At least she has your personality “

“ I don’t know if that’s a good think babe “

“It’s not, but she is just like you, just calm down and sleep with me rubbing her back”

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully

“I missed you so much tonight,” y/n whispered.

“I’m never really gone,” Leah replied softly, brushing the hair from her partner’s damp forehead. “You’re my home, no matter how loud or messy things get. And I’ll always come back to you.”

[knight-hiccup]

Conquering the Absence: A Memoir

In a world of decay, a single fruit clings to a dying vine, its vibrant flesh trembling against the creeping rot that threatens to claim it. Alone, it fights to survive, its heart pulsing with a quiet, desperate hope. But just as it summons the strength to endure, the vine betrays it. It falls — plummeting from an unknown height, the wind howling past, its fragile body bracing for obliteration.

The ground is merciless. The impact shatters its skin, a jagged wound bleeding sweet nectar into the unforgiving earth. It rolls, battered and broken, down a jagged path of stone and sorrow, each tumble a cry for salvation that goes unanswered. Soil clings to its wounds like a cruel embrace, sealing its pain within. When it finally comes to rest, it lies exposed under a merciless sun, a spotlight on a stage of despair. The world watches, hungry. Ants creep closer, their whispers a sinister chorus. A rat skitters by, its mocking laughter echoing as it circles the fallen fruit, delighting in its ruin. Birds soar overhead, their wings slicing the sky with effortless grace, a freedom the fruit can only dream of.

Frozen, it waits, its heartbeat slowing under the weight of inevitable doom. The ants arrive first, their tiny jaws tearing at its flesh, stripping away its beauty — bite by agonizing bite. The rat joins the feast, then vanishes into the shadows. The birds, satiated, turn away. The fruit, once radiant and full of life, is reduced to a hollow core — unwanted, discarded, left to sink into the cold, wet earth as rain falls like tears from the heavens.

Buried in darkness, it finds a fleeting moment of safety, hidden from the world’s cruelty. But the reprieve is brief. A pinch — sharp, insistent — stirs it from its slumber. Then another. And another. Deep within, something stirs — a spark of defiance, a whisper of life. It grows legs, frail but determined, clawing through the suffocating earth. It remembers the sun, its old friend, whose warmth once kissed its skin. With every ounce of will, it reaches upward, yearning for light, for hope, for redemption.

At last, it breaks free. The sun is there, waiting, its golden rays wrapping around the fruit like a long-lost embrace. But it’s not enough — not yet. It stretches, its roots growing stronger, its body unfurling into something new. Arms sprout, trembling as they reach for the heavens. Higher and higher it grows, its core blossoming into a radiant flower, its petals unfurling like a smile after an eternity of pain. For the first time, it feels whole, holding the sun in its fragile hands, basking in its promise of forever.

The sun whispers, “I will return.” And so, it waits, cradled by the moon’s gentle lullaby each night, dreaming of flight, of wings it will never have. It slumbers with a heart full of sorrow yet brimming with patience, trusting that one day, the sun will lift it from the earth, carry it skyward, and place it gently on a table of light where it will finally belong. Until then, it weeps softly, its petals trembling in the breeze, a silent prayer for the light to come.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Heart of the Matter—Chapter 9: Combustion

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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The air thickens with the smell of gas from the grill—hot and thick that makes it undeniable that summer has descended fully. 

Joe waits for the speakers to beep, a series of four until it stops and he knows the device is on, and his phone is connected. The grill clicks, with a soft rumble, behind him, with the heat and the promise of sizzling meat. Joe pulls up his Groovy playlist, sets it to the shuffle and then slips his phone into the pocket of his shorts. The bass is thick enough that it rattles the case. 

And when Joe turns, content now that even as the first few guests arrive they won’t be suffocated by the silence, he finds Marlowe already at work. His mother wasn’t able to occupy Marlowe for long. The moment Joe returned to the kitchen to get the food for the grill, Marlowe slipped next to him. He spotted the deep burgundy polish of her toes in his peripheral and turned to find her, still partially in the conversation with his mother, but with her hands out—waiting. 

Joe told Marlowe he could handle it, but she remained undeterred. So, Joe found his navy blue apron, handed it over to her and gave her just enough time to grab her shoes from the front of the house—he enjoyed knowing Marlowe wasn’t helping just to keep up appearances but meant it genuinely. His mother grinned the entire time Marlowe was gone, her knowing having come to fruition. The kind of intuition one should never fight against. 

Marlowe settled, with ease, behind the grill, where she still stands. “You really don’t have to do this.” Joe’s said it several times, and it’s not once changed her mind. 

“I help my dad with it all the time. I like it. What’s first? The corn on the cob?”

“Yeah, since it takes a minute, that sounds like a good idea.” 

They work together for a few minutes in a comfortable silence—placing items onto the hot steel. Joe takes her in again, the apron tied around her waist, hiding away the white halter top. The sun bouncing off her skin. “You look better in that than I do,” he whispers to Marlowe. 

It’s just her palm. The same palm that slid across his jaw, cradled his face when they kissed, even as it trembled just a little. His lips still tingle at the memory of her lips—soft and plush and warm. The metal of her lip piercing shared her body heat so it was warm too; the bar firm and just hardly noticeable in the kiss. A sensation Joe’s never had before but he finds slightly addicting. Wonders what it would be like to swipe his tongue into her mouth and trace the bottom of the jewelry too. This touch is more confident, pressed into his bicep—searing his flesh to the point that when she pulls away Joe’s positive he’s going to have a print left behind. 

“I’d have to see you in it before I agree or disagree,” Marlowe returns. “But I would have to disagree, I think.”

There’s something in the way that she says; voice low and playful. Joe’s not obsessed with his looks, but he is aware that the world perceives him as attractive. It just means more from Marlowe, makes him stand up a little straighter next to her. Marlowe thinks he’s attractive and that thought is nearly earth shattering, makes his stomach warm and his head a little fuzzy.

“I watched the dance lesson,” Joe offers after a few more moments of silence. 

He watched after he’d given his manager his quote—wanting a little piece of calm— and hoped the video could help. He grinned watching Marlowe dance—ten times better than he ever could—trying with all her might to keep a straight enough face as Korey rendered her own versions of the moves. The frustration that bubbled, the intense annoyance that Joe felt festering, cooled watching the two of them. Marlowe’s quiet and sweet, Nice try, bug is tattooed into the curvatures of Joe’s mind. A sound so gentle that Joe thinks he could ascend this plane, if at all possible. 

Marlowe snorts, as if already understanding what Joe’s saying underneath the sentence. “She’s got a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Yeah, Korey does for sure,” Joe snickers. “Is she a fan of the lessons?”

“Oh, she has a ball,” Marlowe returns. Her palm slides, knuckles pressing into Joe’s ribs, her fingers now wrapped around the meat of his bicep. And she only holds Joe, gently. Every so lightly around the bicep while the meat sizzles. 

“I still want a lesson. Whenever a guest spot opens up.”

“I will consult. I make no promises.”

Joe can take that, now that he has Marlowe. Now that she is his. The smell of the grill and the fire is sure to last in Joe’s nose for days at this point. Joe’s father returns through the backdoor, bags of ice in hand just as the first round of guests come peering in through the side yard. His mother follows behind, rolling the coolers. The work between Joe and Marlowe is a quiet clack of the tongs and the warmth of her gentle hold. 

“‘Sup, man?” Tee greets. Marlowe’s hand eases down, fingers tracing down to his elbow before she lets go just as Joe’s pulled into the side hug from Tee. 

Joe turns into the hug, briefly slipping an arm around Tee’s shoulders, careful of the spatula. “Glad to see you make it, brother.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now, who is this little lady on the grill?”

Tee’s grin is knowing and Joe glances to his side, Marlowe’s gaze intently watching over the hotdogs before she looks up. Her lips peel back with her smile. “Marlowe, formally.”

“Tee, Marlowe. Marlowe, this is Tee.” Joe’s positive he doesn’t need the introductions given Marlowe’s earlier confession that she was paying attention to the team. But it feels wrong not to do the introductions. 

Another word dances on Joe’s tongue for Marlowe in the midst of said introductions—girlfriend— as he watches her turn a row of hotdogs with ease. Though Joe wants to say it, this is all still too new, still in the fragile stages of infancy—not even days old, just minutes. 

“Wait a second,” Tee starts just as Joe drops the gentle press into Marlowe’s back. When had he done that? Why was it so easy to do? “Wait a cotton pickin’ second!” Tee laughs, slapping at Joe’s shoulder. Hard enough for the thump to echo up Joe's chest, but not hard enough to hurt. “I saw that. You can’t hide it from me, man. Are we official?” Tee whispers the last word, his finger dancing between Joe and Marlowe.

Joe nods and can’t get a word out before Tee lets out a yawp—his cheer echoing above the rattle of the speakers. “Finally, oh finally,” Tee laughs. 

“Did you have a bet too?” Marlowe teases but looks at Joe for a moment. “It makes me wonder if Robin coordinated with the entire team too.”

“I can confirm,” Tee answers, “Mama Burrow did not have a dating pool with us. But, I was this close,” Tee laughs, holding his thumb and forefingers together with just a sliver of space between them, “to asking you myself on his behalf. Because this man grinned like an idiot anytime he talked about you. Where is Ja’Marr? Has he popped up yet?”

Joe shakes his head. “Not yet. At least let me tell him.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Tee mutters. His fingers are working over the screen of his phone. Joe can already picture the message to Ja’Marr now, Hurry yo ass up. Joe’s phone shakes in his pocket. The seconds pass, but only a few, then another shake. Then another. 

Tee grins and looks beyond either one of Joe or Marlowe. “What’s this I heard about you, Joe?” Ja’Marr shouts from Joe’s right, from the side of the yard where the gate resides before it feeds into the backyard. “Someone put on their big boy drawls?”

Joe faces the burgers instead and flips them, his internal clock reminding him that no matter what he cannot burn these burgers. “Don’t start with the likes of that in front of my parents,” Joe returns in a shout, but he follows it up with a laugh. 

“You do realize your ears are red, right?” Marlowe’s voice holds the sound of her grin, carries it through the rattle and bass of the music.  

Joe turns to Marlowe just as her palm slips over his side, glides over the t-shirt to the small of his back, low enough down his spine that it makes his knees weak for just a second. But high enough that it’s not obscene. “You are not helping,” he hisses with a grin. But he winks at her—a secret between them. Marlowe only laughs, the pads of her fingers patting once, twice, and then a third time into his vertebrae.  

“I’ve said worse shit,” Ja’Marr quips. “And I could’ve said,” he adds on, slipping an arm around Joe’s shoulders, his voice quieter, “that your balls finally dropped, but I was being polite.”

“Alright, alright,” Joe huffs. But his laughter bubbles from him in the embrace, the hook of Ja’Marr’s elbow around his neck and the teasing shake. 

“I’m proud of you. I need the details later.”

The request is whispered and Joe nods, eyes cutting to see if Marlowe’s heard. If she has, she doesn’t let on, removing a row of finished hotdogs only to plop down a fresh row in its place. There’s not much to tell. It was all her, the way she grinned as she confessed it, But now, I have more reason to pay attention to all the rest of the seasons I’m around for.

And Joe knew. He knew it was her saying yes, giving him the chance he so desperately wanted. He does worry about August for Marlowe’s sake. Can only imagine how heavy it gets to have back to back losses. But he would be there for her—any and every way he could be. Because she deserved someone there for her and now that person can be Joe. Because he’s hers.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees with a tiny nod to Ja’Marr. “Marlowe, this is Ja’Marr.” 

“I remember you. From the restaurant.” Her answer is confident as she smiles. 

“Yeah? I remember you from all the times Joe talked about you.”

“Hopefully not all the time,” Marlowe grins. 

“Most of the time,” Tee and Ja’Marr answer simultaneously.

Marlowe’s laughter bubbles from her chest before she turns the ears of corn on her side of the grill. “Well, I certainly can’t fault him. My friends are probably sick of me too. How are the two of you feeling? Close to the preseason games.”

“Pretty good,” Tee responds. “Ready to work.”

“Feels pretty good to be back in the saddle,” Ja’Marr adds on.

Their conversation is an easy volley. Tee and Ja’Marr ask Marlowe about Korey and her family. Marlowe asks them both about their families. All the while, Joe and Marlowe work seamlessly. Soft interjections about passing the aluminum foil back and forth. The work is easy though. Neither one of them is too distracted by the conversation that floats around them. 

Most of the team that is coming has shown. A constant stream of Joe and Marlowe serving up freshly grilled foods. Time has left Joe behind. His mind fixated on getting the burgers done just right, listening to Marlowe’s laugh, her voice as she interacts with various teammates and friends. Time doesn’t matter here the same way it does elsewhere. All that matters is her, the two of them together in the quiet company of the other, flipping over foods, serving it up, brushing elbows, and exchanging smiles. 

“Fix a plate,” Marlowe encourages, reaching for the spatula in his hand. 

“I don’t want to leave you by yourself.”

“I’ve got it. Here.” Marlowe extends out a thick plastic plate. “At least one plate.”

“Who’s mac’n’cheese is this?” Tee asks, shuffling past with a heap on his plate. Joe’s pretty sure it’s Tee’s second helping.

“Mine,” Marlowe returns. 

“Goddam. Put yo whole foot and ankle in this.”

”Thank you.” Her gratitude bubbles with amusement at Tee’s remake. 

“At least we know our boy won’t be starving,” Ja’Marr tacks on. “I was informed you also made the cornbread.”

“She did,” Joe returns. “You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks over to Marlowe. 

”I’ve got about twenty minutes before I need to head out. This is the last bit. I’ll be okay while you eat.”

”Are there any more hotdogs?” The question swallows up Joe’s objection as Marlowe serves up a freshly finished batch.

There are only a few pieces left—the last six patties and last eight hotdogs. There was little in the way of reserves. Joe didn’t want anything getting cold. It seemed to work well. But this is getting down to the wire—she did warn that she could not stay long, and it does not feel nearly long enough now that it’s barreling towards the conclusion. Most people have seemingly loaded up with all they care to eat. There’s still plenty of sides, chips, and drinks left. 

He could eat fast. But still, Joe can’t stand to abandon her. Marlowe urges him again. “You have to eat, Joe.” 

“So do you.”

“And I will. Later today. Eat. Don’t make me say it again please.” 

It falls urgent and firm from her lips. A request he can’t really say no to. Joe settles in at one of the tables he and his dad put out earlier this morning—ensuring to put Marlowe’s side on first from the counter inside before reaching for his protein. At the table, he takes one last look over his shoulder to make sure she is okay. 

“I got Marlowe,” Jimmy laughs, watching Joe’s gaze. “Sit and eat.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Happy to,” is the easy reply before Jimmy slides in next to Marlowe at the grill. Her gaze cuts even across the yard to Joe and with one quick snap of the tongs at Joe—I told you I had it—she relents to Jimmy’s help, handing over the spatula Joe used. 

“So?” Ja’Marr grins, reclining into the chair next to Joe. “Details. Now.”

Joe takes a forkful of the mac’n’cheese first. The top still has a bit of the crust on it and the sound tells Joe before his bite that it’s going to be good. “Fuck,” he whispers around the bite. There’s several types of cheeses and it’s not sweet like desert—the savory amalgamation of the cheeses cuts through it—but there’s something about it, something different. But it’s really fucking good. 

As if Joe could fall any harder. She can cook too to top it all off.

“It’s good, ain’t it?” Tee laughs. “Told you—whole foot with the ankle.” 

“It is good. But let’s not cum our pants just yet,” Ja’Marr teases. “I still need details.” 

“She came over earlier,” Joe starts, delving into the news about Paige, Marlowe’s reaction, her meeting his parents briefly as it was, Marlowe agreeing to date him, all the way up to—“and then I kissed her.” He does not need to recount in graphic detail the way she tasted, how her perfume and hair products wafted into his nose so deliciously that he fought back the groan as it beat at his chest. No, Joe keeps that to himself.

“Wait—so all that happened today?” 

Joe nods at Tee’s question. “Today.”

“Hell of a day, if you ask me. And damn, I gave you too much credit. Told Ja’Marr you finally made the move.”

The ball was always in Marlowe’s court. He wouldn’t move until she moved. That much he had promised and that much he would see through. “I mean after what she told me I knew I couldn’t move faster than her,” Joe clarifies. 

“So—what’s the move now? First official date?” The signature teasing grin is evident across Ja’Marr’s face. 

“Ice cream. My treat.” It’s Marlowe who answers in that gravelly voice Joe’s chased after in his dreams. 

Joe looks over his shoulder—catches briefly the same color from her toes on her nails dotted this time with navy blue designs as she settles her palm against his shoulder. “I’m not a cheap ice cream date,” Joe teases up at her. 

“I can keep up. I’ve got to head out.”  

Where had the twenty minutes gone? He’d just sat down. Though his plate is picked clean; admittedly Joe hadn’t quite realized how ravenous he’d gotten. Joe nods all the same though, easing his chair back from the table. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I would say you don’t have to. But that won’t stop you.” It’s more of an observation than anything. A statement of fact. Joe only stands in return as she takes a step back to let him. 

“Go? You just got here? Party’s just started,” Ja’Marr pouts. “I have so much dirt to tell you about Joe. Starting with his locker. It’s a mess.”

“My family’s starting their cookout at 3.”

“Y’all gon have more mac’n’cheese over there?” Tee questions. “Because I’ll hop in the passenger seat with a quickness.”

“I got keys and gas,” Marlowe answers, pulling them from her front pocket. “And I’ll have words with Joe about his locker.”

“My locker isn’t that messy,” Joe defends. 

“Your mother would be disappointed if she saw it,” Ja’Marr huffs. That part is true and not even Joe can deny it. “But it’s nice to meet you officially, Marlowe. We’ll have to catch up without Burrow here.”

“Nice to meet you both too. I look forward to more. Now, you coming or not Tee?” 

His laughter is bright and he shakes his head. “I am tempted, next time though. Next time I’m getting a whole separate dish.”

“Joe has the address in case you change your mind. I’m happy to feed anyone who needs or wants.”

Marlowe and Joe weave their way to the gate—with one singular pitstop to his parents for her departure.

“No, you can’t leave,” Robin laughs, winding her arms around Marlowe’s shoulders. 

“I can always come back.” The response makes Joe’s throat spasm, heart ramming into his ribs. Marlowe would come back. She could. She has a reason now. She always has the option to come back. Joe ensured to leave that door open. But it would always be her choice. 

“Maybe we can grab lunch? Come up or something. A girls day?”

“I would be happy to.”

“I’ll get your number from Joe. My phone is somewhere in the house. God only knows where I set it down.” 

“Dining room table,” Jimmy answers. “Next to mine.” He eases in—one arm slung over Marlowe’s shoulder. “We’re happy to meet you. Drive safe back home.” 

“I will.”

Joe’s not sure how he missed the tattoo on Marlowe’s back earlier. But he traces it with his eyes down her spine as they slip through the gate. The leaves are dark, and the lines thick. There’s dot work too, spots of a softer grey wash over her skin. Joe can’t place the plant but it feels right for her. Like it’s grown with her. 

The music and chatter don’t fade once they’re through the gate, only feels quieter now on the other side. “I’m glad you came today,” Joe confesses, fingers threading through hers again. 

“I am too. Thank you—for being patient with me.”

He’d be patient a thousand times over if that’s that Marlowe needed from him. “Thank you for giving me a shot. I can’t imagine it’s easy. But it’s not taken for granted.”

“I want to say don’t thank me yet. But that wouldn’t go well.”

“No, absolutely not.” 

The pair walk hand in hand around to the front. The surge of electricity up his arm never dulls. Like being struck with lightning with full intensity over and over again. If the feeling never dulls, Joe would be happy to bear the wait. The street in front of his house is littered with cars. He worries she won’t be able to get out but she stops in front of a dark gray SUV and the end of the street, a several feet back from the stop sign. An easy in and out for her. 

“Text me when you get home.” It’s a simple request—him just wanting to know she got home safely. 

Yet it feels sizable when Marlowe looks up, face softening at the words. Disbelief and wonder painting her features. Then it shifts, a soft smile settles onto her face. Her free hand cups his jaw. The inches are swallowed until her lips are on his. Marlowe’s press is confident and assured this time. Kisses him like she’s done it a thousand times. Like she already knows how to slot her lips around his. Like she already knows how to hold him just so to make him melt. 

The kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough. Joe thinks he could kiss Marlowe for hours and it would only feel like seconds. But Joe’s not going to get ahead of himself. Not ahead of her. Instead he squeezes at her palm, a quick two pumps as he exhales. Knows his lips are probably now glistening with her gloss. He’d wear every gloss and lipstick stain as a badge of honor though. 

“I will,” Marlowe agrees. 

Joe watches Marlowe take off, her brake lights flashing twice at him before she rolls to the stop. Her right turn takes her away, towards the gates and onwards. But he watches, waits just a few moments to let the last bits of her presence stay with him. Lets himself grin at the memory of her lips on his until he turns back to the house. 

When Joe’s phone buzzes again, in the midst of a round of black jack, he knows it’s Marlowe before he reads it. His stomach settles knowing that she’s safely back home, the message short after his holds his hand this round, Home. 

2PM tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

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Joe’s up later than he means to be after the festivities. His parents helped him clean up— dragging the bags of trash to the bins and returning the kitchen to its normal state. The grill cooled down enough to clean and cover it. They’re settled now a few doors down the hallway. His nearly daily call to Marlowe after his shower was brief due to Marlowe still hosting— a quick hi and bye situation. By all accounts, Joe should be settled, under the sheets, halfway asleep.  

And yet the glow of this laptop illuminates his otherwise dark room. Burrow Speaks, reads the headline—the exclusive article Frank mentioned was being worked on. 

Earlier this week, a scandalous tell-all was released about the Cincinnati Bengals quarterback. Joe Burrow, 28, and Paige McAllister, 25, a social media influencer and model, made waves on the internet after McAllister spoke out about their 8 month long arrangement. 

She mentioned in her original statements that Burrow ‘was hiding her’ and insinuated the franchise golden boy isn’t all that he appears to be with late night texts and secret rendezvous.  

However, just 24 hours after the piece hit the web, McAllister issued an apology on Instagram: “I was deeply hurt by the way our arrangement ended and by some of the actions done throughout those 8 months. Rather than dealing with these feelings and concerns with the person directly, I ran to the press in the hopes of hurting and harming them. An eye for an eye is not the way I want to operate in this world. My concerns are better handled by those directly involved. I sincerely apologize for retaliating rather than trying to communicate and heal.” 

Burrow—known for his intense dedication to privacy—remained silent on social media. However, we did reach out directly for a response. 

Burrow provided an answer to our inquiry with the following: “I am more than willing to admit my faults and shortcomings. This is one of those times where my actions caused harm and heartache to someone. I do not wish to undermine the feelings of anyone. Nor will I do so now. My actions have consequences—direct and indirect. It is my goal to handle these matters privately and to learn from my mistakes, so I do not hurt anyone else in the same manner.” 

We hope that the pair are able to work through things as needed. 

Joe pages back to his original search. There are more articles—a few that talk about his comments on Marlowe’s page and their connection. He doesn’t read them fully, takes in the headline and the byline. But most of the noise is about him and Paige. Regret’s not an emotion Joe likes to carry. He rather enjoys morphing it, channeling it into something more productive. But part of him does regret commenting on Marlowe’s page. Wishes he’d waited, that he had some kind of sign of what Paige has planned to do just so it was only him in the depths of the rocky waters. Joe’s going to do what he can. He’s going to make sure Marlowe is safe though in all this.

Something tells me you might still be awake. 

The text from Marlowe pops up on the side of this screen. He clicks onto it, watching the message app bounce before it loads. His fingers work over the keys. That something might be correct. 

I really didn’t think you’d be awake; you’ve shocked me. Can’t sleep? I’ll talk you to sleep if you need. 

He dials without hesitation his earbuds already connected to the laptop. The call connects, the lines bounce with the crackle of Marlowe’s voice. “I’d ask if you missed me but the answers seem obvious.”

“Maybe a little bit.” Joe’s not even ashamed to admit that. There’s a brief crackle again, the sound of air blown out from pursed lips. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s the last drag here. Sorry.”

“Didn’t know you smoked.” She’s never smelt like cigarettes. Not that it would change much for Joe. It’s just not something he pegged her for.

“Social smoker; used to smoke more often before Korey was born but Malia said she didn’t want ash in her baby’s head. So I gave it up—mostly. If I drink, I’m more inclined to want one. And I’ve definitely had more than my fair share of shots tonight. I’m in people’s space too much to smoke regularly.”

“How often do you drink?”

“God, that’s rare. Maybe one drink every couple of months. I need at least two drinks to want a smoke.”

“Do you not like drinking?”

“Not really. Not anymore.”

“Because of Malia?” Joe’s cautious about using her name. Knows that August is hanging for Marlowe like a death sentence. He is curious to know how she died. Marlowe mentioned that pregnancy was not safe for Malia, so he doubts it’s actually alcohol. Joe’s just trying to fill in the blanks; put together the full picture that is Marlowe. 

“Because of Korey,” Marlowe answers. “I don’t want to miss time with her because I was too fucked up. I’m gone half the damn year as it is. No need to take away any more time.” 

“Korey, I’m sure will appreciate it.” Joe slips down into his bed, resting his head against the pillows and turns to face the laptop screen. “Did you have fun?”

“A lot of fun. Most was my mom’s family. Some was my dad’s that came in to visit. Some cousins I haven’t seen in a while. And I got a boyfriend. So it’s a major win today. How was it after I left?”

Joe grins at the sound of boyfriend, tries to imagine how Marlowe’s mouth circles around the word. “I got dogged hard because of the lip gloss stain.” 

“Be careful. I wouldn’t give me any ideas. The stain can and may be much worse next time.”

“I’ve said too much as is. It’s time for me to be quiet. I’ll listen to you talk about anything.” It’s a gentle prompt, the work to get Marlow back on track with the texted promise. 

“I’m never doing shots of Henny again. I’m outside right now to sober up.”

“You don’t sound that far gone to me.”

“I can hold my liquor now,” she laughs. “I don’t know what to say to your mother. She texted me earlier and I’m terrified to reply.”

“Well, not right now. Wait until you’re sober.”

“Didn’t you just say that you were going to be quiet.”

“That might be true,” he laughs—though it’s really a giggle—at her huffed annoyance. “Okay, I’m listening. I’m listening.”

Marlowe meanders, rattling off the text his mother sent, the spare plate she intends to stow away for Tee with the leftover mac’n’cheese. Her voice is a soft rumble in Joe’s ears. A melodic cadence that he follows as she talks about Miami—again though Marlowe told Joe about it in pieces the first time—all the way into sleep. The slow slip sleep, the kind of sleep that Joe doesn’t even realize he’s fallen into until the clinking of pans wakes him up—the strong waft of bacon just behind it. It shocks Joe, at first, to see the streak of sunlight, to hear voices deep in the belly of his house—he so distinctly remembers how late it was, how he’d been listening to Marlowe talk about the first thing she did before getting the boat for Q’s birthday was get the shells that Korey asked for. 

His laptop is dead when he presses at the spacebar. The charger warning blinks at him before the screen goes dark again. In his sleep, he hadn’t moved, so Joe reaches behind himself and finds his phone. It lights up at him with a litter of text messages and notifications about recurrent charges to his card, emails that have come through on a battery close to death too. But there’s one text thread that he checks first, her name simple in the contact list, but makes his chest flutter. 

I hope you sleep well. Save space for a sundae. 

I will. 

___________________________________

Malowe’s early. Which is not a new thing for her. She prides herself on being punctual. But she is earlier than usual. 

A byproduct of the teasing anxiety at the back of her brain. She crawled into bed just after 1 AM. The world no longer wobbly to her and with hopefully enough air outside to dissipate the smell of the cigarettes she and her cousins smoked in the backyard.  She doesn’t keep a pack on her, not even a lighter knowing that it’s only inviting temptation in. Though she slept late and hard—a rare combination as Marlowe’s used to sleeping hard but not late or sleeping in late but never super deeply— she felt an undercurrent buzzing in her belly. 

She’d bet money that it’s just the day, a surge of electricity under her skin at the knowledge that when Marlowe pulls up to Joe’s place, she’s not just a friend, not just someone teasing on the edge of something more, but that is she is more. It makes her head dizzy and her chest warm. So she’s early, hoping the extra few minutes is enough to bring her a sense of calm. The doorbell chimes again. There’s no SUV in the driveway, just text messages she’s finally responded to and the slight eek of the door’s hinges as it opens.

Joe’s big smile greets her. “Hi, Marlowe.”

“Hi, Joe.” 

He waves her in; the house still feels big, unsettled but not eerie. For a moment, it’s just them, and the echoing of their breathing. His smile beaming down; hers beaming up. It feels silly, feels like a teenager again. Giddy at the promise, knowing it’s all different but still being awkward and unsure. 

He slides his arm around her shoulders, tucks her into his chest and she inhales. The t-shirt is soft against her cheek. The fabric holds his faded cologne and the scent of the detergent—fresh and a little musky, heavy without being overpowering. Marlowe’s careful of the plate in her hand, but she tightens the free arm around his waist, lets herself revel in the feeling of him solid and strong beneath her skin. 

“You smell good.”

Marlowe hums at the rumble of his voice, turns her head and her nose brushes at Joe’s throat. “The trick is a little oil roller right behind the ears. You smell better.”

“Deodorant—wish it was more exciting.”

Marlowe snorts at the shy honesty, brushes her nose at his jaw. The stubble is only a couple days old she’d guess, not enough to hurt but enough to be felt. “That’s still pretty exciting. Just please tell me you use two separate bottles of shampoo and conditioner.”

“I used to be in need of saving but thankfully, not anymore. Shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner are all separated out.”

“Thank God for that.”

Both of them peel out of the embrace at the same time—slowly but not fully out of the other’s arms— Joe’s icy blue gaze dancing with amusement. “Would that plate be for Tee?”

“I meant what I said about feeding people.”

“He’ll be charmed. Not that I think he needs it. C’mon. This last load of laundry is almost done and then I just need to get my shoes on. Someone decided to show up early.”

“It’s fifteen minutes.” It’s important to be punctual. Though she tries not to show up obscenely early to most things. Fifteen minutes isn’t her standard—ten usually is. Yet both are still more than enough time. Enough to help in case she ever managed to get lost—that’s only happened once to her— and short of enough that she never feels like she’s intruding if she’s early. 

“Did you talk to Korey about an additional dance class member?”

“She was stolen from me today by Dad. But I will.”

“Stolen? From you?” 

“I know; it shocked me too. She found me this morning and after breakfast, poof, gone. Only wanted PopPop.” It’s not exactly theft. It just makes Marlowe feel better if she calls it that. Whenever Marlowe leaves, she worries more and more that Korey will feel like Marlowe doesn’t care. When the truth is the exact opposite. She wants every second she can get with Korey, but Marlowe’s still filled to the brim with work—avoidance. A tactic that hasn’t really worked for the last two years. Marlowe doubts the third one will be the charm but working means she doesn’t have to think really. 

Joe tugs at the door of the fridge. It hisses with its release. “I hate to tell you Marlowe, it sounds like Korey chose her granddad.”

“No—stolen.” It’s silly. Terribly fucking silly, but stolen hurts less than choice.

Joe nods, lips curled as he takes the plate and places it inside the fridge. “Alright, if you say so, stolen.” His agreement is soft, filled with the laughter he doesn’t spill. But he watches. Marlowe sees the second look, the darted gaze over her face as if trying to make sure even in the jest that there’s not more. Even if Joe sees that there is, he doesn’t not speak on it. 

Marlowe’s grateful for it as the room settles again, Joe’s fretting now with the last few bottles to ensure the door to the fridge will close. She takes him in—slow, now that she has time for it. Joe’s much too handsome for his own good. A fact Marlowe’s known since they met back in January. Out of his pads, and helmet, he still stands tall, but his face opens up more. His eyes always dazzle but the cut of jaw, the tiny quirk of lips stand out more. His nose slopes and perks so perfectly in the center of his face.

Joe’s just, “So fucking handsome.” 

The flush is immediate—his cheeks turning a faint faint pink. The tips of his ears glow too. “Thank you.”

Marlowe sees the shy little kid he might’ve been in the duck of his head—the younger him that was dubbed Joey makes a lot more sense. “You’re blushing, you know?”

“You are most certainly not helping my case.” 

“Joey makes sense as a nickname, seeing you like this.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, turning towards the fridge door. 

Marlowe laughs at the sight, easing closer to him. “A good oh my god?” The kitchen is quiet for a moment, a soft exhale of the ice maker settling new pieces of ice into the bin. 

“Yes,” he nods and then shivers just as Marlowe’s hand slides across his back. The ‘s’ sound falters but only for a second. “Hearing you say that nickname is…it just sounds right. I don’t know how to explain it. Just sounds so right.”

Marlowe’s heart thunders at the confession. His words are goey, fall from his lips and chest slowly and all exhaled. The words don’t clatter to the ground—instead they hang and float all the way down. Marlowe could melt in them, because of them, melt with them into the crevices of the flooring. 

The dryer honks, a softer sound than the old dryer at Marlowe’s place but a honk all the same. Joe exhales at the sound, lifting his head from the steel door. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Do you need help?” She doesn’t want Joe to go, even if it’s just to the laundry room. It reminds her of when her new toy at Christmas would need batteries and she’d follow her parents into the kitchen to watch them. Joe’s no new shiny toy, but this is new—and she does not want to fracture such a new and fragile thing. Wants to cradle it in her palms and nurture it. 

“If I don’t come back in ten minutes,” Joe starts at pressing a kiss to her temple, “assume I was eaten by the dryer. Dial 911 and start a rescue party.”

“Can do.”

He pulls away slowly, slipping from around Marlowe. Then she’s alone, the only sound is the shuffle of Joe from deeper in the house. Marlowe takes in the kitchen. It’s white too, like the living room. She’s careful in her inspection—white countertops, white cabinets, stainless steel appliances, a trimming and accent that looks like it’s been professionally staged in the house—unsure now if she cares to disturb anything. The kitchen exhales the kind of feeling of someone young wanting desperately to look older, more mature. There’s clear signs of life—the few dishes still lingering in the sink, the smell of coffee grounds still lingering in the air. 

Yet, Marlowe still finds herself looking for Joe in all of it. Perhaps, it’s unfair to wonder where he is in his own home. If he didn’t like something, surely he could change it, find the thing that he does like. And maybe it matters less to him, but the house feels like an inhale, a waiting, waiting, and more waiting. 

“Dryer put up a fight, but I survived.”

Marlowe smiles as she turns to face Joe again, her attention previously caught on the soft silver handles on the cabinet doors. He stands now at the threshold, in sneakers, sunglasses pushed up into his hair so it holds back the front few curls, watch dazzling on his wrist. A few streaks of blonde hold onto the bottom ends of his strands, clinging with spite. 

“Glad you survived. Ready?”

”Yeah. I am.” 

Marlowe pushes up from the counter and crosses the few feet to him. “There’s a lot of white.” Her finger circles the air around her for emphasis on the decor. 

His eyes dart, taking in the kitchen and then the living room. “I paid someone to do the decor because the thought terrified me. I guess I’m just used to it now.”

”I guess I keep waiting to see Stars Wars posters.”

Joe huffs, taking her hand. It’s a smooth movement, his hand stretched out behind him as Marlowe closes the gap—her hand stretching out in front of her—and pressing. Palm to palm before Joe slips his fingers through hers. “You’re ridiculous. Those would clearly only be in the bedroom.”

 “Hopefully not. I could stomach it if you have them in your office.” The banter is easy, carries them with no strain across the hardwood floors to the front doors. 

“Has the marathon started yet? I could spare you.”

“Not yet. It’s not time.” That too is saved for the fall, for the part of the year that it all goes quiet. But it’s not August. It’s not and Marlowe’s not going to focus on that until it comes for her. Perhaps all she could at this point is prepare for the inevitable wave. 

“Oh, wait,” Joe returns, pausing them at the front door. “That was a stupid question. Considering what you mentioned before. I’m sorry.”

“Not stupid, Joe. I’m not going to hold it against you. Did you save space?” August is already going to be rough; there’s no reason to pretend it won’t be. There’s certainly no need to make Joe feel bad either. Marlowe wants to at least enjoy as much as she can of July. 

“Yeah, tons of space. But I want you to know I am paying attention. I care about you.”

Four little words. Joe cared about the Marlowe in front of him. Not the Marlowe she once was; not the one she kept trying to get back to. That assumption is not going to have legs if Joe continues on this way. “You’re good at that,” Marlowe returns her own throat squeezing tight. 

“Oh, my angel, no. I don’t like making you upset.”

My angel. Marlowe’s no saint. She knows that. She’s not an angel but the nickname makes her stomach jump—quiver with promise and want. Marlowe shakes her head to center herself and to refute Joe’s statement. It’s not upset. It’s unraveling. It’s the legs of all her assumptions wobbling again. He keeps finding the hole in her armor. Joe knows how to slip in between the cracks.

Joe’s closing in, cups her jaw. His gaze is earnest and sad. He looks more distraught than he did yesterday—yesterday looked like he was carrying something that was heavy, strained with the weight of the truth. This distraught is frantic, like something slipping through his fingers, it’s like he’s losing control. 

Marlowe’s exhaling before she realizes, rushing to clarify so he doesn’t have to be worried. “It’s not a bad thing. You just keep hitting the right spot. You just know what to say.” 

“I’m just being honest. I do care about you. And I do hate making you upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re crying,” Joe counters, stating it like Marlowe’s truly lost all her marbles. It’s a fact from his lips. Sounds like he wants Marlowe to refute him.  

She knows she is—the sting is evident enough. “Good tears,” Marlowe returns, refuting him. 

“Marlowe.” Her name is a warning—be honest says the arch of his brow. 

“Joe.” It’s just as firm, equally of a warning—I am. Because these are good tears. These are tears that could mean more and more of the armor comes off. The pads of his thumbs are warm over her cheeks, a steady brush back and forth. 

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“If that ever changes, if they’re no longer good tears, you let me know.” 

“I will.” A promise Marlowe knows she can keep. 

“Come here.” The plea is just two words, words that don’t really need to be uttered. Marlowe’s already gripping his sides, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline. But she shuffles forward, takes those three little steps closer to him.

Only three little steps before Joe’s cradling her face, head dipping down. Sweet—such a sweet and slow kiss, shaky around the edges because she keeps pressing up closer and Joe’s trying not to press too hard. But such a tender exchange that echoes down to Marlowe’s toes. There is just ache by the time the kiss is over. Not a throbbing, just a low grade realization as Marlowe follows Joe to her car—she’s had her first taste of something that didn’t feel like it could float away. Like she could actually hold it in her hands. And she’s praying August doesn’t fuck it up. 

The ice cream parlour is cold—a harsh bite once the glass doors swing open. Joe lets her through first, sunshades pulled down over his eyes now—slipping them down before Marlowe settled into her parking space. It was a long drive, Marlowe took into consideration that anything in town would most certainly mean attention would fall onto Joe. Attention she isn’t sure he wants, but given the way he talked about fame in California, Marlowe hedged her bets and opted to find a shop further out of the city, secluded, hoping the odds of a crowd would slim down. 

“Welcome!” A cheery but shaky voice calls from the depths. The counter is glassed away, a chalkboard decorated in various colors with specials and combinations. 

The tandem, “Hi” is soft in return to the voice as Joe and Marlow ease in closer to the counter. Marlowe spies the banana sundae in a soft brown on the board and grins before turning to Joe.

“You see it too?”

It’s the question that let’s Marlowe know he’s been looking at her the whole time—the black of the lenses clouding his eyeline. “Still game for it?” Marlowe inquires with a nod up towards the sign.

“Absolutely, I am.”

“What can I do for y’all today?” The older woman asks. Her smile stretches across her whole face, the collection of lines around her eyes and mouth illuminates the years she’s been on the earth—a soul full of joy as she looks up at them. 

“The classic sundae please. Two spoons. And a root beer float,” Joe answers.

“A sweet tooth, huh?” The woman laughs. Her fingers peck at the keys of the register. 

“A tiny one,” Marlowe tacks on. “Anything else, Joe?” The parlour is quiet—only a young family with a double seater stroller at the end of their table. The hum of the A/C is the loudest noise around them. 

“No, nothing else. Anything you want?” 

“Can I get a waffle cone—just the cone?”

The woman nods. “I reckon we can fork over a naked cone.” It comes out with a laugh—the lines etched back across her face. 

Before Joe can pull his hand out from the depths of his pocket, Marlowe slips the cash across the counter. A planned tactic. After breakfast but before fixing the extra plate for Tee, Marlowe made a trip to the local branch, knew Joe would try to beat her to the punch. She would need to be faster. He’s not the only one that will do what they said they’d do. 

“At least let me cover my float.” 

“I meant what I said about this being my treat.”

“Feel free to sit wherever and we’ll be right out with it. And if I were you,” the older woman grins, a gentle tap to Joe’s arm, “quit while you’re behind. She has cash. In the year using the cellphone to pay, she went to a bank. Thinking several steps ahead.”

“I have a feeling you’re right.” It’s a jested return, but Marlowe catches the cut of his gaze towards her. “I’m planning the next date. Just so you know. Leave all cards, cash, and plans at home when I do, okay?” 

There’s a finality to his tone—not a dare for her to object, but confirmation. She takes hold of the counter, tries to play it off like she’s pressing her hip into it—casually. But her knees are a little wobbly at the determined edge around his words.

Marlowe nods, her voice softer than usual as she returns, “Okay. I look forward to it.”

Joe leads them from the counter to a table—tucked in at the back, away from the windows. Her legs still feel unsteady but his hold around her hand is firm—a sure and quiet confidence. Someone that knows exactly what they want, exactly want they will do. A reassurance Marlowe’s not sure she deserves but is grateful to have.

“Any more travel for you?” The question comes after they’ve settled—Joe across from Marlowe, his back facing the rest of the parlour. 

“Not much in August, no. It’s kind of quiet right now but will pick up again in September and October a little.” 

“So not a lot booked on your schedule or is it all local?” he questions, pushing the shades up and into his hair.

Marlowe inhales. Joe’s really fucking good at that, teasing out the quiet part, unearthing like excavators. It never feels like he’s digging. It’s like he’s already anticipating the answer. He’s only seeking to know he’s right. “Busy, just all local,” she returns.

“It’s okay to do it scared.”

“I don’t think scared’s a word in your vocabulary.” She’s sure he might get scared but Marlowe imagines it does not last long. 

Joe shrugs, fingers drumming over the white table top. A tap, tap, tap, in succession one finger after the other. “Steel nerves still shake sometimes.” 

“When’s the last time you were scared?” It’s maybe too much to ask, too far to go but she is curious. Joe’s not unreadable, not here at least to her. It just takes time. A careful assessment really get all the details together. 

“Yesterday.” His answer is swift, the rap of his fingers ceases. His eyes are direct—blue flames as they settle onto her. “Not that you wouldn’t listen to what I had to say but because there was still a chance that I’d ruined my opportunity.” 

“I’m not that much of a scaredy cat,” Marlowe laughs. She has her moments for sure. 

“No, because you’re always paying attention. Even when I don’t think you are.” The lines of her brow deepen, the confusion etched into her face. “You took us almost an hour outside the city for ice cream. When there’s like 5 different places within a ten minute drive.”

“It was an educated inference.”

Joe snorts but nods, his tuft of laughter disintegrating around his words. “Hell of an inference.”

“I like you best when you’re comfortable. At ease. I don’t mind it if it’s a little extra to do it. That’s easy.” People who cared about each other would go the extra mile—that’s the way it works. 

“And you say I’m good at that. But goddamn, Marlowe, you’re good at that.” The ‘T’ falls off his tongue with a bit of a hiss, his hand gesturing over towards her. 

The question burns the tip of her tongue but Marlowe waits, noticing the slightly stiff waddle of the worker, approaching with the tray.  “We got the classic sundae, two spoons, a root beer float, and a naked waffle cone. Enjoy, you lovebirds.”

Once the coast is clear, the float pushed over to Joe and Marlowe’s cracked a piece of the cone apart to get her first scoop, she looks up at Joe. His gaze is sharp, even with the purse of his lips over the straw. “What do you mean I’m good at that? Good at what?”

“Good at making it sound so simple. Like you’re not exposing every nerve.”

“I’m just being honest. That’s what you said, right?” It’s not Marlowe doing anything. Not her consciously thinking about how Joe will react. She just wants him to feel cared for, listened to thoroughly. She’d do that over and over again.

Joe’s tut of laughter is short and fast. “I guess I did say that. Care to hand me a piece of that cone? Looks like you’re onto something with the crunch aspect.”

“Happily, Joe.” 

[mxtxfanatic]

Mxtx, creating a beautiful and well-rounded female character that appears only briefly: Hey, isn’t it fucked up that this character who is so important in the world of this story and to the people that knew her can only be known to you, reader, through flashback memories because the people in power were willing and able to sacrifice her in their never-ending quest for ultimate dominance? Do you feel the constant grief over what could have been had her potential not been killed in its infancy? Do you understand that you as a reader are mourning in the same way that her loved ones she’s left behind are, knowing that the world has been changed for the worse by her premature death? Doesn’t it suck?

(English-speaking) Mdzs fandom the bane of her existence (probably): Killing women in stories can have no other meaning than that you hate women, so this was a misogynistic choice, actually.

[wyverwithy]

martin that is. a fish

[dmitriene]

cw: hybrids, breeding, glimpses of consented somnophilia.

bear hybrid john price gets you to hibernate with him, it's not that there's much choice, of course, you wouldn't be wandering around the house and outside much when your spouse is sleeping away, tucked in the warm bed with all the furs and copious pillows, all arranged around him with comfortable softness, yet, he misses the most important, you, and he won't be willing to start his hibernation until you join him.

sure, it's not an easy thing, to match his sleepiness while you're not used to go through such a thing as a human, but your bear spouse will get you all cozied against his side, cradled in a crushing, squishing embrace against the brawny, sculpted plains of his softened chest, dappled in curling, brown thick hairs, coating every ounce of john's skin, his huge pecs, bulky, meaty thighs, the roughened fingers, fluffy as fur, warming you like a furnace, mapping a trail to beneath his underbelly and down to the groin.

you keep the fridge and all the shelves stocked with a lots of food of all kinds, to freshly cooked to something quick to make, and even canned, meats, vegetables, fruits, john needs a good nourishment, and you're too, because he doesn't let's you leave the bed, not with how his heavy body brackets your's against the rumpled, cottony sheets, not a single cloth separating his scarred, supple skin from yours, kindled with suffocating, simmering warmth, holding you close tight, broad fingers sinking in the slopes and dips of your body.

john doesn't wakes up mid hibernation to eat, doesn't really needs it, just as the rest of his kind, no, he flutters his pretty blues groggily and rubs a calloused palm over his bearded, prickly face to get a taste of you, dozed in a light sleep beneath his draping hand, your face pillowed on his bicep, pretty lips pouty, cheeks warm and rounded, flattened against his arm, and your ripe, sweet body is all naked in it's glory, splayed along the linens beneath, relaxed and leaning in the closeness between you both, cunt hidden between the sacred gates of your supple thighs.

the hot, gummy insides of your cunt heavenly around the pulsing, restless girth of his fat cock, dragging in the engulfing tightness of your soppy hole, getting you stretched out and loose to accommodate the thickening length of him, filling you slow and deep, patient, almost lazily so, movements languid as he pushes his wide hips, body bowing and draping over your whole form, cozy and limbless, even though you moan out quiet and groggy when you feel it, the weight of his cock alongside your tender, inner walls.

kissing away each keen and breathy whimper, devouring them eagerly, leaving your lush, kissable lips to nip and suck over the tantalizing curve of your neck as your head tilts back, eyelashes fluttering with the heavy closing eyes, your nails scrabbling over the tensing, rippling lines of his back, seeking purchase, clawing and scratching with crescent dents, your trembling body chasing the withdrawing movements of his hips, the battering ram of his cock, coercing for more, feeling the delicious dizziness that comes from the burning feeling that swoops up the length of your bowing spine.

the curve of john's tip butting against your gummy spot, withdrawing, pressing back, relishing in the gripping clutch of your sloppy, loose hole, your sensitive skin a feverish garden of different marks and bruises, sharp teeth's that leave blood rushing indents up your neck and covering over the rapidly hammering pulse point, the rasp of his beard still tangible, making you shudder, whole body itchy from where he rubs over you, but you keep in place, singing pleasure honeyed sounds, coaxing john for more, so as to feel the way he'd breed you.

groping and pressing in every nook and cranny of your form, forcing you into the mattress, nails biting and almost tearing in your flesh, followed by each bestial, guttural groan and rasp he let's out, gravelly, seeming to shake the stuffy air around you both, your little sounds turning in the pitched, frequently repeating gasps, the saucers of john's pupils bewitching in their intensity, enraptured as they look at you with animalistic affection, right until he get's you full with spurt after spurt of his fertile seed.

john makes sure to keep you plugged full, sated just as he is, with his cum making your tummy feel bloated, pumped inside your gaping, still spasming pussy until his seed would stop gushing out in milky streaks around his softening cock, each drop cherished, oughting to see your belly grown round and full with little cubs by the end of the winter, and tucking you back to the side, where you both drown back beneath the veil of sleep, nuzzling in your forehead, he hopes it would take.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[circusclownproductions]

seeing a lot of videos that are like “I didn’t know babies couldn’t have water” so here’s an incomplete list of things you need to know before having a baby

- the obvious, they can’t have water bc milk is incredibly high in water already so excess water leads to over hydration

- babies cannot have honey until 1

- if ur breastfeeding your kid and saving excess milk, make sure you label what you pumped in the morning vs at night bc your body produces different melatonin levels throughout the day and giving your baby daytime milk at night can make them more alert and fuck up their sleep schedule

- idk why ppl keep saying this but swaddling your babies or getting them those baby straight jacket things is not abuse. It chills them out cuz it reminds them of the womb

- babies have a dandruff like buildup on their head called cradle cap, and it’s very easy to deal with and remove with just some baby shampoo, a gentle scrub brush (MADE FOR BABIES!!) and a comb. It does need to be removed tho cuz it can be very painful after a while. This can also continue to happen late into toddlerhood it’s normal

- you have to clean out the creases of your baby’s skin and hands and feet they WILL collect dust😭😭

- you cannot bathe your baby until their umbilical cord naturally falls off. Use a warm damp rag until then

- tummy time is actually very important

- your baby might have a misshapen head at first (not all the time but sometimes) this will either sort itself out or they’ll need a corrective helmet ask your doctor

- I wouldn’t recommend having your baby leave the house very much until they’re at least 6 months old, especially if they’re born near cold and flu season cuz the common cold can kill a newborn

- you’re not an awful horrible person for having postpartum depression and it’s always a million times better to let your baby cry a few minutes longer than normal while you regain your composure than to freak out and give ur kid shaken baby syndrome

- you’re not an awful horrible person for giving your baby formula milk either

- don’t put shoes on your baby it’ll compromise their toe box and balance

- babies put every single thing in their mouths

- the easiest way to burp a baby is to hold them straight up (spine straight) and hold their head a bit higher

- always support their head they barely have necks

- if your baby fights away food, fights tummy time, vomits every single time you burp them, is gaining or losing an unreasonable amount of weight at a time, wheezes after eating, or goes red after eating, chances are they’re probably allergic to the type of milk they’re eating (again ask a doctor but these are just some signs it’s not just colic)

- they will wobble a lot when learning to do things but you gotta fight the urge to help them every single time cuz they gotta learn

- they’re not always spitting out baby food cuz they don’t like it they just don’t know how to eat. Like they don’t know how to push food down they only know how to stick their tongue out so be patient

- babies craniums are broken up into three parts at first that later fuse together, this is to help make birthing easier but it results in a small EXTREMELY sensitive spot in the top of their head that has no protection. This puts their brain at a high risk. Always protect their soft spot

- read to your baby!! Get cute bright colorful sensory books with sight words and read them to your baby it makes such a huge difference in their educational growth and will help them acquire a love for reading early on. And talk to them never shut up just say whatever comes to mind all the time this will strengthen their vocabulary growth also.

- babies poop like a lot. A lot. an unreasonable amount. Bring back up clothes and more diapers than you think

- no pillows or stuffies in the crib and only use a muslin blanket unless it’s especially cold to prevent suffocation

- babies kick reflexively until they’re out of their newborn scrunch (they stay womb shaped for a while) and if your baby is crying and pushing at the swaddle try letting them flail around for a minute

- consoling your baby is not spoiling them ! They need comfort and they will learn to self soothe on their own

- singing lullabies actually works, they can recognize your voice a consistent place of comfort from the womb and the cadence of lullabies is literally engineered to create a calm headspace

- for the love of god do not get boring ass beige toys. Colors are important for their neurological development

- babies are very responsive to praise from a young age so be as supportive of them as you can

- babies get constipated a lot and you have to do like tummy massages to help ease their pain the easiest way is to lay them on their backs and hold one foot in each hand, kick their feet like bicycles, scrunch up, and then stretch their legs out

- holding them on your hip too much will not cause bow legged-ness if your baby is bow legged that was always gonna happen

- they drool so so much and you have to get bibs for them so they don’t get chest eczema

- don’t use scented products on their skin cuz their skin is sooo much thinner than ours

- when your baby first starts sitting on their own never walk away from them without setting up a nest of pillows and blankets around them. Even minor head trauma can mess them up sometimes

- this one is kinda morbid and scary but sometimes babies just die out of nowhere and it’s no one’s fault or anything it’s called sudden infantile death syndrome(SIDS) and it’s about 1.3k deaths on average per year in America so not super common but still very real. 90% of these deaths happen during the first four months however edit: apparently it’s bc of an enzyme deficiency which at the very least you can take steps to try and prevent

- smoking and drinking during pregnancy WILL affect your baby and your breast milk and also might contribute to SIDS cases

- babies sometimes have a big red mark on them somewhere called a stork bite immediately after birth but typically it goes away

- babies can’t see very well for a while after birth and they’re VERY wobbly so they’ll typically bonk their head into your chest and face a lot while trying to support themselves

- female babies might have smth similar to a period the first few days after birth, this is because of the hormone transfer that happens during the birthing process and the days leading up to it

- male babies get random erections for the first few days after birth(hormone transfer again) literally do not be weird about this it’s a baby

- things like weaning your baby onto solid foods, potty training, weaning off pacifiers etc, can actually be directed by the baby and will happen naturally will minimal guidance from the parent(some guidance is still necessary) although I would do individual research into baby led weaning for food to prevent choking

- get those chewy feeding pouches to help with weaning

- the most random things will scare the hell out of your baby don’t take it personal 😭

- baby carriers are life savers (tulas are one of my favorites)

- once babies hit toddlerhood they’re tougher than you think, and a lot of their reaction is based on YOURS. they’re always going to be looking to you for how to react to a situation. Remain calm and if they’re ok they’ll calm down but if they’re genuinely hurt they’ll keep crying

- babies will most likely get ridiculously attached to an inanimate object and you have to keep this thing intact at all costs until they’re old enough to abandon it or they will throw a FIT. I got a lemur plushie from a zoo once and every single one of the kids has bonded their soul with it until about 6 years old and once a month I have to stitch him back up

- don’t compare yourself to other parents. Maybe your kid isnt getting grass fed wild caught north Atlantic cheerios but at least they’re fed. If your kid is alive and healthy and happy you’re doing a good job

- you will need 3 car seats, an infant seat, a grow with me toddler seat, and a booster seat

- getting a good diaper bag is a MUST

- the hair a baby is born with will most likely all fall out or they’ll get a bald spot on the back of their head where they sleep cuz their hair is so fragile and thin but once it grows back it grows back thick

- get like 20 muslin blankets so you always have a backup when the main ones are covered in spit up

- the babies grip IS stronger than yours (keep your hair up and keep pets away best you can)

- your best bet for your teething baby is a pacifier you can put your finger in so you can massage their gums and some chewing toys numbing cream can be dangerous and should be used sparingly

- go ahead and come to terms with the fact you’re gonna have to use a Frida Baby to manually remove snot

- babies can get hair and thread wrapped around their toes and fingers that can cut off their circulation try to make a habit of checking

- don’t hit your kid please it’s nothing but trauma and fucked up coping mechanisms from there pls empathize with your child they’re a person too

- be careful not to pull too hard on their arms and legs(like during play or holding their hand while they walk) and NEVER pick them up by their hands this will very easily cause dislocation

- they might have a little tooth like callous on their lip from their pacifier. This does not hurt them and it will go away but it may hurt during breastfeeding

- breastfeeding will make your boobs different sizes

Yeag that’s all I can think of rn but yk i Will add as I remember stuff ppl are also adding things I forgot in the tags in case you’d like to look thru that as well <3

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air. 

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you. 

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm. 

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed. 

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[beloveds-embrace]

Fae au thought

One of them storming into her chambers only for her to be in the middle of a bubble bath. Completely bare of all things fae. So utterly human, so utterly vulnerable.

yes || masterlist || trying my hand at actually writing johnny’s accent

It was Johnny.

Of course it was Johnny.

The door slammed open with the force of a man too furious to remember propriety, the wood crashing against the stone with a bang that echoed like thunder down the gilded corridor and scattering the softly glowing wisps that floated lazily in your chambers like fireflies caught in honeyed light. The very walls groaned in protest, ancient ivy carved into the pillars flinching at the fury that surged in behind him. His voice followed, sharp, brimming with a fire he rarely let show in court.

"Where the fuck were you- ?!"

Every faelight in the room flickered, dimming in tandem with his rage. Then, silence; a heavy, suffocating silence.

You turned in the tub, water sloshing gently against porcelain as your hand rose to clutch at the side. Bubbles clung lazily to your shoulders, slipping down soft skin untouched by glamour or adornment. No jewelry curved your ears to points. No talon-shaped rings or flower-laced braids. No velvet. No corset. No thorns. Bare as a whisper, as a prayer. Soaked in steam and solitude, skin flushed from heat.

Only you.

Bare, human, and blinking at him like a deer startled mid-step in a clearing.

The fury drained from him in an instant.

Johnny’s lips parted, then closed. His eyes flicked- once, only once- before they dropped to the floor, jaw tightening with restraint. The fire had not gone out, but it was merely stifled now, banked beneath something deeper and rougher.

“Dinnae mean to…” he muttered, voice cracking low, throat bobbing.

You remained quiet, shoulders curling ever so slightly inward. The room, warm and fragrant with oils and rose petals, suddenly felt too still, too quiet, even though distant flutes played, music still drifting in from the spring festival below. One of the glass windows glowed a faint blue, letting in the moon’s touch. You reached for a towel, slow and deliberate, never taking your eyes off him.

And you- so achingly human- were the only thing in the room that didn’t shimmer. It made you seem all the more delicate.

“… You could knock next time.” You said, softly, not with anger, but with a tiredness that had settled deep into your bones. The kind that no glamour could mask. The kind even Thrain’s company barely eased. The kind that had nothing to do with being fae or queen or wife, and everything to do with simply being alone for too long. With being human in a place that did not welcome it.

Johnny didn’t leave, though, even if he should have.

Instead, he stepped back once- just once- and turned his head, gaze fixed on a tapestry like it had offended him personally.

“I thought somethin’’d happened,” he said, voice low and rough, accent thick. “Ye weren’t in yer chambers, or at the table. No one had a fuckin’ clue where ye’d gone. Court’s been crawlin’ all day- bastards won’t stop askin’ for more time wi’ ye. Price is snappin’. Gaz nearly stuck a blade in some prissy noble’s gut when he asked too sweetly where’d you gone. I dinnae even know where Si’s at an’ I’m almost too afraid to ask.”

You sank back into the water, letting the warmth cradle your frame.

“I just wanted a bath,” you whispered, sinking back into the bath, water lapping gently at your collarbone. The petals shifted around you, soft and luminous. “Not a title. Not another favor asked of me. Just…” Your fingers trailed across the surface, drawing circles. “To be myself. For a little while.”

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t heavy this time, and neither was it angry. Quiet.

After a moment, you heard the sound of boots stepping away. Not leaving- just moving. Then the faint scrape of wood against stone that had been etched with centuries’ worth of wards to keep wicked things at bay.

He was sitting, less like an advisor and more a knight keeping watch outside a princess’s door. But even closer than that.

“I’ll stay,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms as though daring anyone to argue with him- even you. “Not lookin’. Just… watchin’ the door.”

A pause. Then, in a voice so quiet you’d never think he was even capable of, Johnny sighed. “… Take yer time, queenie. Dinnae let me take this away from ye.”

You had no answer for that.

But when you rose, wrapped in soft linen and smelling of dusk-flowers and magic, your bare feet kissed the glowing floor, and your eyes met his- he didn’t look away this time.

Not even once.

(You told yourself it was not hunger that colored his eyes; you doubted he’d find a human attractive.)

[yanderedrabbles]

I desperately need Yandere! Military Contractor fun facts/headcanons or anything else really. Like how tall is he? How old is he? When did he actually saw us/started stalking us? What made him stalk us even? Just anything about him

I think a big part of what makes him so menacing is how mysterious he is. But here are some things you've pieced together from watching him.

Yandere! Military Contractor who kisses your forehead every night before he falls asleep. Who holds you against his chest no matter how warm the weather is. How can he be so tender in the dark, but so awful in the light of day? You've yet to figure it out.

Yandere! Military Contractor who spends every Sunday taking care of his guns. Disassembling them, greasing, cleaning, the whole nine yards. A cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he takes apart an M16 like it's nothing.

You aren't sure why he let's you watch him. If anything, you assume he would want you far away from any weapons. Eventually you get brave enough to try your luck. Grab a rifle when his back is turned and pull the trigger.

Nothing. Just an empty click in the suffocating silence.

Yandere! Military Contractor who just scoffs. Doesn't even bother to turn and look at you.

"Safety's on," he says simply. Like you didn't just point a gun at the back of his head and pull the trigger.

You expect him to punish you. He doesn't. If anything, he looks pleased. Glad to see you still have some fight left in you.

Yandere! Military Contractor with tattoos all across his arm. Names. Dates. Places. A list of comrades or victims? You're too scared to ask.

Yandere! Military Contractor who cooks surprisingly well. Doesn't really eat with you though. Just dumps the plate on the table in front of you and stands with his arms crossed, watching. For a while at the beginning, you tried to stop eating. Hoped that by wasting away he'd maybe lose interest in you. It was a terrible idea.

He got irritable. Angry. Grabbed your thigh so hard it bruised and snarled that if you wanted to eat all your meals through a fucking straw, he could make that happen. You never finished a plate so fast in your life.

Yandere! Military Contractor who keeps his hair short. Not really buzzed, or military cut, but still pretty short. You think maybe it's a habit, but one day when you try and pull him off you by the hair, you realise it's entirely practically. You can't grab it and yank like you would with longer hair. It's just one more way to take some leverage away from you. One more way to stack the cards in his favour.

Yandere! Military Contractor who doesn't soften, no matter what you try. Begging doesn't work. Swearing and fighting and trying to claw his eyes out seems to just amuse him. Crying...well crying just fucking turns him on.

You try being affectionate towards him at some point. Kissing his cheek, hugging him, cradling his face in your palms. Either you're a terrible actor or he's an overly suspicious bastard, because all it does is make him double check the locks every night.

Eventually you give up that approach. You think he doesn't care, but not being nice to him must really hit a nerve. He fucks you extra hard until you realise what he wants.

"I love you," you say through gritted teeth, your palm against his cheek. "I love you."

He slows his pace then. Doesn't keep ramming into you like the goal is more to hurt you than to satisfy himself.

He doesn't say it back. He just drops his head to your ear and snarls.

"Mine. My girl to kiss, my girl to fuck. Mine."

Yandere! Military Contractor who finds you crying in the shower. Head between your knees, sobbing like you're dying. You flinch when he squats down next to you.

He doesn't comfort you. Just looks at you with those flat, empty eyes.

"Get tough."

You want to laugh. Get tough. Like getting held down and fucked is just some kind of training.

Yandere! Military Contractor who takes you out for walks a few times a week. His property is remote, thick with trees and circled with electric fencing. You didn't find out about the last bit until the day you tried to make a run for it and sprinted straight into the wires.

He found you heaving on your hands and knees. Shaking with the aftershock.

"Voltage was any higher you'd be dead."

He grabbed your collar and dragged you behind him, your shoes leaving furrows in the dirt.

"Thought you'd try somethin' stupid, so I put it lower today. Gonna hurt a whole lot more in the future."

You don't try running away on your walks after that.

You think he gives you a bit of freedom because he likes seeing you fail to escape. A cat with its prey. After the first week, he stops keeping you cuffed. You try to escape the first opportunity you get, hanging out of a second story window when he walks up right underneath you. Leans against the wall and lights up a cigarette, eyes on you the whole time.

When you pull yourself back into the bathroom you climbed out of, he just grins in that mocking, lazy way of his. As if to say, what did you think would happen?

Yandere! Military Contractor who keeps his mouth shut tight when you ask him about himself. And it's even worse when you ask him about you.

"How long were you watching me?"

"Why did you choose me?"

"Are my family looking for me?"

"Am I the first girl you've done this to?"

That one he answers. Sort of. He scoffs and squishes your cheeks between his fingers.

"Only ever gonna be you." The way he growls it, it feels more threat than promise.

Yandere! Military Contractor who says he loves you, but never in a language you can understand. He must've picked up a dozen different tidbits from three dozen different countries. Arabic, Swahilli, German, Afrikaans. Always the same. Always I love you. But you never figure it out.

Yandere! Military Contractor who tells himself he deserves you. He's done such awful things. Committed crimes the ICC would happily try him for. But in his mind, it's all justified. All just justification.

He's done awful things. Doesn't he deserve something sweet to cleanse his palette?

Yandere! Military Contractor who entertains the idea of teaching you to fight. You've managed to give him quite a collection of cuts and scars. How much more of a spitfire would you be if you knew how to really throw a punch?

It's counter productive. It's self sabotage. It's making things harder for himself in the long run. But oh, it's so much more fun to wrestle you to the ground. His prize tastes all the sweeter when he has to work for it.

Yandere! Military Contractor who's an irredeemable bastard. He's going to rot in hell for what he's done, going to dance with the devil himself.

But even knowing that, he wouldn't change a single damn thing. He has what he wants - a pretty girl who fucks and fights and cries just how he likes it. And he ain't letting you go.

No matter what.

[jaythes1mp]

Here, Kitty.

Yan batfam x cat hybrid reader -> CH1

12609 words, 71519 characters, 719 sentences, 224 paragraphs, 50.4 pages Next chapter

You can't recall exactly when or how you first came into contact with the billionaire and his sons, but if you could, you would go back in time and prevent that meeting from ever taking place. In a heartbeat.

Sitting obediently on a glass table tucked in the center of a crowded Wayne Enterprises boardroom, you find yourself ensnared as Bruce Wayne diligently delivers a familiar presentation, each sentence having been painstakingly practiced during the car ride over. Having overheard his repeated rehearsal with Alfred, you find yourself unconsciously mouthing along to every word. The tight black and green collar around your neck only worsening your discomfort, its stiffness constricting your movements and snagging on your freshly groomed fur.

The man continues on with his presentation, his polished demeanour and authoritative tone captivating the attention of the surrounding investors and executives. However, you find it difficult to focus on his words, the ridiculous knitted Nightwing sweater pressing against your back causing an uncomfortable itch. You shift slightly, wincing as your freshly combed coat brushes against the stiff fabric.

The weight of Bruce's unwavering gaze lands on you like a furnace, and you can almost picture that infuriatingly fond smile plastering his face. Just the thought of it made your stomach churn with disgust. Your tail swishing side to side in distaste.

He continues to drone on and on; and you find yourself struggling to stay still, the uncomfortable position, itchy sweater, and the heavy weight of Bruce's stare making it increasingly difficult to focus on anything he's saying. The only thing you want to do is scratch the infuriating itch, but the tight collar around your neck and Bruce's looming presence ensure that you remain obediently still. You know better than to cross them. How willing they are to punish you, so you stay still.

Your thoughts drift to a time when you were still unburdened by this enforced domestication. A pang of longing and bitterness settles in your chest as memories of your previous life come flooding back. You remember the simple freedom of being able to move about unmonitored, the comfort of lounging in the sun, unbothered by the Wayne families suffocating grasps.

Your paws effortlessly propel you across the icy rooftops, leaping and bounding with a careless grace. The cool night air brushes through your untamed, unhindered fur, the wind whistling past your ears. A bag is clenched between your sharp teeth, the fabric muffling your breathing slightly as you scale each building with purpose.

The city's neon glow stretches out beneath your paws, the distant lights casting a soft, surreal hue on the urban canvas. Free to go wherever you please. You could spend minutes, hours or even days just wandering under Gotham’s starry sky, with no one to tell you what to do or where to be.

You pause your journey and arrive at the edge of a dark alley, peering down at the scene below. A woman holds two teens hostage, a pistol pressed against their shivering frames. Your tail involuntarily fluffs up, matching the tension in your body as your slitted eyes dart to each potential escape route. A hiss escapes past your teeth, and you set the package down at your side before delicately pawing at a loose brick in the wall. You slide it from its position just enough to create a domino effect, the brick falling directly onto the woman's gun-holding hand.

A small, satisfied mewl leaves your throat as the woman wails in pain, her broken wrist cradled protectively in her grip. The two teens immediately seize the opportunity to make their escape, scrambling out of the alleyway. The gun slips from the woman's grasp, and she drops to her knees clutching her wounded hand. Your ears fold back and a low hiss escapes your lips at the sight, but you remain perched on the roof-top, unmoving. You slowly lower back down to take your package, then turn away. Your paws hitting the nearest rooftop with a small thump.

Your paws carry you further and further away from the robbery, the events replaying in your mind like a vivid, disjointed dream. You launch yourself from roof-to-roof in a series of quick dashes and leaps, your body seemingly on autopilot as you weave through the city's darkened backstreets. The silence of the rooftops envelops you like a comforting blanket, the city below finally at rest. A cool night breeze caresses your untamed fur, rustling its unkempt strands. Balancing the package carefully in your mouth, you bound toward your home’s familiarly cluttered balcony.

Your eyes scan over the cluttered balcony, taking in the random assortment of books, clothes, and trinkets strewn across the small space. Your padded paws land quietly on the rough wood, a subtle thump breaking the silence. Your muscles relax ever so slightly as the familiar surroundings wash over you. Without a second thought, you make your way to the edge of the balcony, lowering the package with your paws before curling up beside it, your ears folding back in an almost contented manner.

Your eyes had just shuttered closed as you basked in the soothing midnight breeze, when the sudden crash of metal yanks you from your reverie. Your ears perking up and pivoting towards the source of the disturbance. A low, frustrated huff escapes your snout. You stretch out your limbs, your tail flicking in annoyance as you lower yourself from the edge of the balcony and peer over the side.

Peering down from your perch on the balcony, your eyes widen in surprise. It’s...a boy? Wearing a skin-tight red and black bodysuit with a vibrant yellow cape. A flicker of familiarity sparks in your brain; you’ve seen this one before. Red Robin.

You observe him silently from your vantage point, tilting your head to the side as your eyes rove over his frame. He lets out an exaggerated groan, grappling awkwardly with an unfamiliar piece of gadgetry. A low, scoffing hum leaves your throat and your tail lightly thwaps against the wood, twitching in amusement. You had only seen him in pictures before, but damn, they didn’t lie. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

You lower yourself with a single, fluid motion onto the metal stairwell, feeling the rough surface scraping against your little paws. A small hiss of displeasure escapes your throat, but you brush it off and continue. You approach him curiously, taking a moment to inspect him. Your nose twitches as you sniff at his cape before finding a comfortable spot to sit and look up at him expectantly.

He doesn’t immediately notice your approach, his mind seemingly occupied by the malfunctioning gadget in his hands. You watch as he fiddles with the device for a few moments before his attention finally snaps to you. He visibly jumps, startled by your sudden proximity. He lets out a startled breath, eyes widening. You had gone to him.

You let out a snort of derision. Him, a vigilante? A detective? Unlikely. The thought of him trying to solve a case or outwit a criminal is absolutely absurd. You let your gaze wander over his costume once more, imagining how differently he would react if you were in your human form right now.

He slowly lowers the gadget, his eyes fixed upon you as you recline before him, behaving like an awaiting house cat. He observes you with quiet, analytical interest, his gaze roaming over your small form, taking in your twitching tail and reasonably-groomed fur. He seems to ponder the sight of you, weighing in on your not-quite stray, yet not-quite pampered appearance.

You gingerly shift closer, standing on your hind legs before pawing at his pants. A small indignant huff of disappointment escapes your lips as the material refuses to tear, the tightly-woven fabric holding firmly against your claws, unable to even tear the slightest thread, but you mask it with a small, almost cute "mew". Nevertheless, you are determined to make the most out of this situation. Planning on coaxing all the pets you possibly can out of this man.

He shoots you a curious look, tilting his head to the side. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. He then slowly reaches out a gloved hand, hovering it over your head hesitantly, waiting for your response.

The end of your tail gives a happy flick, betraying your eagerness for his touch. You press your cheek against his knuckles, enjoying the sensation of his fingers against your fur. Instinctively, your ears fold back, granting him better access to run his fingers further through your soft fur. Sucker.

A soft, delighted purring sound fills the air as your eyes flutter closed, your purrs becoming a constant, steady low rumble in your chest as he continues to gently stroke your head and down your neck. Oh, this is heavenly. Your tail swishes contentedly, and you lean into his touch, almost shamelessly seeking out more.

His gloved hand is much bigger than your entire head, the soft fabric of his suit brushing against your fur. Yet, his touch was gentle and deliberate, slowly tracing the outline of your ears and down your spine, causing a blissful shiver to run through your small body. Your eyelids droop further, nearly closing completely, your purring becoming louder as you relax into his touch. You don’t notice the pleased knowing grin that crosses his face.

The weight and warmth of his gloved hand was almost soothing, his fingers weaving between your fur with a sort of rhythmic motion. You let your body go limp, your head rolling back to further expose the underside of your chin, silently begging for more of those slow, careful caresses. Your eyes are almost completely closed now, a small rumble in your chest the only sound you remember how to make. God, you haven’t been pet in weeks.

His hand moves from your spine to the base of your tail, and a low sigh of pure contentment leaves your mouth. He seems to sense your delight and focuses his attention there, running his fingers through the base of your tail, causing you to involuntarily arch your body towards him, purring in approval.

He seems to know exactly what to do, his touch deliberate yet tender. A little too well. It's as if he's somehow mapped out each and every spot that you secretly adore and is now exploiting it to great effect. The constant caresses, pets, and scrabbles have worked you into a sort of euphoric, almost trancelike state, your mind becoming blissfully devoid of conscious thought. All you can focus on is the warm, firm touch of his gloved hand.

The moment is shattered, however, as deep voice from his comms shatters the sweet, blissful moment. Your little pointed ears perk up, instinctively responding to the sudden intrusion of sound. “Tim? Why does it say you’ve stood still?”

You pull yourself from your blissful state with a reluctant huff, the sound of the deep voice in his comm jarring you back to reality. Your ears flick back, annoyed at the interruption. Tim– Red Robin seems to tense up, his hand frozen in mid-pet. He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, looking down at you. "Sorry, I got…distracted."

Your tail lazily swishes against the stairwell, silently expressing your irritation at having been interrupted. You can practically hear his sheepish, nervous chuckle, can practically sense the tension in his frame. "Distracted?" The voice in the comm questions, but you huff, tuning out the conversation.

You let out a small, frustrated huff before turning your focus back onto Tim's still form. Ignoring the man's comm conversation, you push your little, fluffy face against his leg, letting out a needy demanding mewl to regain his attention. You're not done yet, damn it.

His eyes flick back over to you, a mix of apology and amusement evident in his gaze. He resumes his prior motions, sliding his hand down your spine with a soft, comforting caress, tracing the same path he'd followed before. All the while, his other hand is fiddling with the comms device, probably replying to the man on the other end. Good. As long as his hands are still touching you, you don't particularly care what he's doing. “You found them?”

You sigh and let yourself relax once again, the soothing motions of his fingers against your fur quickly working you back into blissful indifference. You let your eyelids flutter closed, sinking back into the soothing rhythm of his touch. The only sounds you can focus on are his breathing, the soothing rasp of his glove against your fur, and the low hum of the comm conversation. This is nice.

He continues this motion for what feels like an eternity, the blissful sensation of being pet taking over your senses and dulling your brain into a euphoric, mindless state. You find yourself leaning heavily against his leg, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his voice against the comms acting as an oddly soothing background noise. Damn, you could get used to this....

Gradually, you become aware of him shifting, his hand leaving your spine. A low whine escapes your throat, your eyes opening to look up at him with a mixture of annoyance and pleading. Come back. You meow, demanding.

You let out a low grumble of complaint as he stands and picks up the device once more. Irritated at the interruption of your moment, you bat at his leg with your small paw, then quickly scamper away, leaping back onto the balcony from before. Now alone, you let out a sigh and circle the small space multiple times. The wood scraping against your claws sharply.

With a quick shift, you transform back into your human form, the small package clutched delicately in your hands. Turning, you slide open the door to the balcony and step through, the cool night air rustling against your clothes.

Tossing the small package onto the countertop, you drag yourself over to the couch. Your limbs ache with exhaustion as you collapse into the cushions with a thud. You bring the well worn blanket with you, wrapping your tired body in its familiar comfort. Your muscles are screaming out for rest. Which you happily oblige.

You're wrenched out of a fitful sleep, eyes fluttering open as the familiar, infuriating sound of construction greets you. Fuck. A loud, frustrated groan escapes your chapped lips. You pull a nearby couch pillow over your head, desperately trying to muffle the noise. With bleary eyes, you squint at the digital clock reading 5:42. You want to die.

The relentless hammering, banging, and drilling outside the thin walls of the apartment pierce your eardrums. You swear you can feel each blow of the hammer, every screech of the drill, deep in your bones. Make it stop. You press the pillow more firmly against your ears, trying in vain to block out the incessant din. You silently promise yourself that if you ever meet the city planner responsible for approving this construction, you'll kick him square in the nuts... Or right in the vagina– whatever. Now is not the time to debate over this.

With a groan of irritation and an abundance of hissing, you force your tired body into a sitting position as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. You take a moment to rub your temples for some relief from the dull ache forming behind your eyes.

You open your red rimmed eyes and swing your legs over the side of the couch. The exhaustion from last night feels ten times worse now after being woken up prematurely by the construction racket. You mentally curse whoever’s in charge here, and their entire bloodline. Silently wishing for the noise to stop. Maybe you can sleep in the bathtub later...

You brace one hand against the side of the couch as you use it as support to rise to your feet. A series of satisfying cracks and pops resonate down your spine. By the sound of it you’re a chiropractors wet dream.

You let out a low sigh of relief as you straighten, your back now less taut than it was a few moments ago. Small mercies, right?

With your hands clamped tightly over your tender, sensitive ears, you stumble into the kitchen. You begin searching through each cabinet with a desperation that borders on violent. Your mission? Find the strongest headache pills you have.

After hastily flinging open each cupboard and shelf, you finally find what you’re looking for. A small, white bottle filled half way with little white tabs. With a quick twist, you pop the lid open and pour two pills out into your palm, before downing them dry.

You lean against the kitchen counter, eyes squeezed shut as you press the heels of your hands firmly into your temples. Come on. Work already..

You wait in silence, only the buzzing of the refrigerator and occasional hammering outside filling the air. You press your palms against your temples, as if physically willing the pills to work faster. The tension between your shoulders tight as piano wire.

You let out a frustrated groan, turning the tap on, lowering your head under the rushing water. You gulp down a few mouthfuls, letting the water run over, through, and past your lips. The noise of the tap muffling the sounds of the construction. The coolness of the water temporarily soothes the ache behind your eyes.

You let the water slide past your lips, closing them to savor the cool sensation. Your mind grows blank as you lose track of time, lost in tranquility despite the racket outside. Then, with a shaky hand, you turn off the tap, stepping back as you reach for a tea towel to dry your face and neck. The cloth rough against your tender skin, but the motion is calming, and your shoulders loosen the slightest bit.

You lean back against the counter, the cold marble seeping through your shirt, almost numbing any sensation on your skin. You take another moment to towel dry your hair, the rough material scraping against your scalp, and sending a pleasant shiver down your back. The small action temporarily distracting you from the pounding in your head.

You drop the towel, letting it fall onto the counter behind you. A long exhale escapes your mouth, your shoulders dropping as you relax. For a moment, the water seems to have worked. Unfortunately, the relief is short lived as the headache slowly creeps back in. A low growl escapes your lips. Ugh.

You scan over the bottle, reading the small print. Only twenty minutes before the damn things start to kick in. Shit. You shove the container back inside the cupboard, a frustrated huff leaving your lips. You drag your body over to your room, every step a tedious task.

You stumble into the room and collapse onto your bed, face first. You let out a low groan as your body lands on the soft, fluffy mattress. It welcomes you with open arms. You let yourself go limp, letting the comfort and softness of your bed lull you into a quiet state of half numbness. You can’t tell if it’s the lack of rest, or the pills finally starting to work, but you’re suddenly feeling incredibly woozy.

With a sluggish effort, you shift your head up, wincing at the sharp, persistent thrum in your skull. Despite the throbbing, you slowly extend your arm to reach for the pair of shorts laying on the edge of the bed.

With a weary sigh, you shuck off yesterday’s cargo pants and pull the new shorts up your legs. The simple motion feels like climbing a mountain. Deciding that the headache pounding through your mind was too much to change your shirt, you collapse back onto your bed. The sheets cool against your overheated skin.

You lay there for a moment, letting the comfort of your bed take hold. Despite the headache still pounding through your head, exhaustion slowly starts to take hold of you. Your eye lids flutter as sleep slowly creeps in. But just as you’re about to doze off, your stomach lets out an obnoxious gurgle, the sound piercing the silence. Great.

You let out a frustrated sigh as you shift up from the bed, grimacing as you do so. Your untamed hair sticking up in random directions. You rub your temple, as your stomach lets out another loud grumble. You let out an annoyed whine as the realisation sinks in. You’re out of groceries.

With a disgruntled huff, you haul yourself up for the second time. Reaching for your jacket as you quickly make your way towards the front door. This time choosing to forego the balcony and just walk like a normal person. You swing open the front door and step out into the hallway. The fluorescent lights buzz annoyingly overhead.

You step into the hallway, your shoes slapping softly against the tiled floor. The sound of the construction is no longer muffled, the endless banging and grinding now clear as day. You wince as the onslaught suddenly becomes unbearable. You quickly make your way to the staircase instead of the elevator. You can’t handle being jammed into that tiny space with the sounds of hell right now.

You take the steps of the staircase two at a time, just wanting to get out of this damn building as soon as possible. Each step echoes with a rhythmic thudding against the cold concrete as you make your way to the ground floor. The headache pills have finally started to work, but the pounding construction outside is slowly undoing their efforts.

You stride past the workers, shooting each of them a murderous glare. It’s not their fault they’re just doing their job. But goddamn it, the headache is worsening and it’s all you can do to not snap at them. Instead, you settle for shooting them a glare that could rival Batman himself.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the angry words building within you. Just keep walking. It’s fine. They’re not at fault here. It’s stupid to be angry at them. You repeat the mantra in your head like a broken record as your legs carry you further down the street. Further away from that blasted construction noise.

You keep walking, your shoes thumping against the concrete as you go. The further away you get from the construction, the more the headache starts to abate. You let out a quiet, shuddering breath of relief as you glance around at your surroundings. Barely anyone was out at this hour, the streets still mostly asleep.

After walking another ten minutes or so, you pause in the middle of the street and let out a string of quiet curses under your breath. The stores won’t be open for at least another four hours, and your stomach is starting to demand sustenance again.

Frustration builds inside of you, your teeth clenched tight together as you shuffle in place. You can’t go back to your apartment because of that goddamn noise, and all the stores that aren’t run by mobsters are closed.

You sigh, resting your tired body against the graffiti-filled wall behind you. There was another option you could try. But whether or not you were desperate enough to do it was something else.

You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation. You hadn't eaten much more than a small yogurt cup yesterday, and your stomach was protesting it's emptiness in a loud, gurgling complaint. You release a long sigh, doing a quick glance around to ensure no one was nearby before shifting into a cat.

The transformation is swift and graceful as you shift into the form of a sleek cat. Your body shrinks, limbs elongating and changing shape as soft multicoloured fur sprouts from your body. You stand on four paws, tail swaying languidly. You give yourself a quick shake, licking your little paws for good measure before looking around again.

You take a moment to get used to the new body you’ve assumed. Everything felt a tad bit more sensitive in this form. Your ears swivel around at minuscule sounds as you sniff the air with your sensitive nose, picking up on the various scents floating through the street.

You decide to try your hand at pity first, before resorting to thievery if your first plan fails. You slink down the street, your paws silent against the pavement beneath you as you search for some poor unsuspecting soul to assist you.

You stalk down the street, ears pricked and head tilted as you listen for the sounds of anyone making their way through the quiet street. You make yourself as adorable as possible: wide, begging eyes and sticking out your chest. A pitiful meow leaving your little cat mouth every so often, just for good measure.

You make your way through the city, heading towards the more upscale side of Gotham. You sway your tail idly behind you, the appendage brushing against the concrete and gathering the dirt that sticks to your fur. You make sure to rub up against some objects, gathering enough dirt and debris to make yourself appear slightly disheveled, but not enough to set off your instincts to want to groom yourself immediately.

You reach a neighbourhood of opulent high rises and well manicured lawns, plush houses and gated communities starting to become more frequent, a stark contrast to the graffiti-filled blocks you had passed before. Your fur is dusted with enough dirt to look untidy without feeling uncomfortable, and you let out a small meow as you glance down the street, scouting for a likely target.

You spot a man of considerable height, around 6 foot tall, with an intimidatingly built physique. His shirt clings just slightly too tightly against his chest, leaving little to the imagination. A scar mars the side of his face, making him look even more menacing. But you’ve seen far scarier looking men loitering at the end of your street. Saying that, doesn’t mean you’re any less scared of his imposing figure. So you quickly duck under the nearest parked car, attempting to conceal yourself beneath it.

You watch in trepidation as the man begins strutting towards the vehicle you’ve hidden yourself beneath. He kneels down in an unhurried, smooth motion, and peers right under the car. His gaze instantly locks onto you, your eyes widening in response to his intense stare. For the briefest of moments, you could have sworn there was a look of softness in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected to see you.

“A cat?” The man lets out a small huff, shaking his head in what seemed like disbelief. His gaze drifts to your disheveled appearance, taking in the dirt that clings to your fur. He lets out a low hum, continuing to watch you with a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. His muscles slowly relax. A smirk appearing on his face as he studies you closer.

Your tail sways behind you, your ears perking up at his relaxed gaze. A sly little grin of satisfaction threatens to rise to your face, but you hold it back, instead letting out a pitiful meow as you slowly shuffle closer to him. He doesn’t move away, watching your every movement with unwavering eyes.

You lower your head, slowly moving towards his boots. You let your body press against the soles of his shoes, a soft purring sound escaping your little feline mouth. The dirt from your fur slowly coats the previously clean material of his boots, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mess.

You continue to press your body against the hard leather of his boots, leaving behind a dusting of dirt. He crouches down, gently reaching out a big hand, careful not to scare you off. You can see the muscles in his arms flex with the action, the veins prominent on his knuckles. He gently runs a finger over your head, scratching just behind your ears.

The feel of his big hand against your head is gentle, his touch unexpectedly tender as he lightly scratches at the skin behind your ear. You let out a rumbling purr, unable to fight the comforting sensation that slowly starts to take over. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s surprisingly sweet towards you.

He’s a hard-looking man, his appearance disheveled and weathered, a white streak through his jet black hair. His wide physique is almost intimidating, but you can see his heart already start to soften after a few moments. It seems even he isn’t immune to the charm of a pitiful stray cat begging for food and affection.

"What are you doing all the way out here, kid?" The man's deep, slightly grating voice calls out as he continues to gently scratch behind your ear. He's staring down at your small form with an odd expression of concern on his face, his eyes drifting over your disheveled fur.

Your ears perk up at the sound of his voice. Something suddenly seems terribly familiar about it. You tilt your head, glancing up to get a clearer look at the man’s face as you try and place where exactly you’ve heard his voice before.

You look closer at the man, studying his features with a furrowed brow. There’s no mistaking it now, you’ve definitely seen this guy somewhere before. You’re sure of it. But there’s no way you’d ever know anyone this big and intimidating before… right?

The man stands, gently scooping you up into his arms. He gives you a light pat on the head before he starts to move. “Come along then, I don’t need that little shit on my ass for leaving their little obsession stranded so far from home,” he mumbles, as if he’s talking to himself and not you.

You’re left blinking in surprise as you’re lifted from the ground, cradled in the man’s arms. You look up at him as he starts walking down the street with you, a bewildered look on your face. Obsession? Stranded? What the hell is this dude on?

The man continues walking, his stride even and unhurried. He glances down at you and scoffs, as if he’s amused by the sight of you. He mutters something under his breath as he walks, something that sounds like “God dammit, B.” He brings his hand up to give you a gentle scratch under your chin, the gesture almost affectionate.

Your stomach chooses the perfect moment to let out a loud grumble, the sound amplified by being so close to the man’s hand. You can feel his hand twitch against your belly slightly, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Hungry, huh?” The man drawls out. He stops his stride for a moment, pulling out his phone as he keeps you cradled in one arm. You can’t see anything from this angle, but you can hear the sound of him making a phone call.

It’s only a few rings before someone picks up on the other end. You can faintly hear a voice chatting softly on the other line, even though you can’t make out what they’re saying. The man lets out a small huff of annoyance before holding the phone up to his ear, shifting you in his arms to keep you comfortably balanced against his chest.

“Hey,” he says into the speaker, his voice gruff but surprisingly soft. “Yeah, I’m out on the east side. I found something.” There’s a pause as the person on the other line responds, and you can faintly hear them say something, although it’s muffled and indistinct. The man snorts, his eyes drifting down to you for a moment before he continues.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing ‘em back. Relax,” The man responds to the person on the other side of the line, rolling his eyes. You watch the side of his face as he talks, your ears pricked, ears catching snippets of the conversation. Relax? What do they mean by that? Are they talking about me?

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” the man says, shifting you around again as he begins to resume walking. “I’ll be back in an hour.” The person on the other end says a few more words before there’s a beep signifying the call’s been cut. He shoves his phone back into his pocket before bringing his hand back to keep you cradled against his chest.

You huff softly, feeling a strange mix of irritation and intrigue swirling inside of you. In an attempt to distract yourself, you reach your small paw up, lightly tapping it against the man’s cheek.

It’s a small action, intended to be nothing more than a curious little jab. But against the rough, scarred skin of the man’s cheek, your tiny little paw seems almost affectionate. He glances down at you at the contact, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise.

He studies you for a moment, a look of almost curiosity on his face. It’s a far cry from the gruff, hardened exterior he had been portraying up until now. He stops his stride for a moment, lifting you closer to his face to look at you more closely.

He seems almost… fascinated by you. His eyes rove over your soft fur and little face, taking in every detail. He lets out a low hum, slowly reaching out a hand and gently stroking your back. “The kid’s is gonna kill me for letting you get all dirty.”

The hand stroking gently down your back is surprisingly soft, despite the callouses and ridges of his fingertips. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, probably trying to deduce what to do. “You’re a mess,” he mutters, his gaze drifting over your disheveled coat.

You can feel the urge to roll your eyes at the man’s words, the comment practically begging for a sarcastic reaction. But you hold it back, reminding yourself of the delicious meal you’re hoping to get out of him. Better hold back on the sass, for now.

Instead, you let your tail flick idly, trying to appear as innocent and pitiful as possible. Come on, man. Have a heart. Feed me.

The dude glances down as your tail continues to flick against his arm, almost as if you’re trying to lure him into doing something for you. A light snort escapes his mouth, his fingers trailing down to give you a little scratch on the head. “You’re a sly little bastard, ain’t ya?”

His statement is more of an off-handed comment rather than an actual critique. He continues to scratch behind your ear, seemingly unable to resist giving you a little affection. His gaze drifts over your disheveled form, taking in the dirt-matted fur and slight exhaustion in your eyes.

He lets out a soft grunt, his touch gentle as he runs his hands through your fur. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his head, his eyes never leaving your disheveled appearance. “How long you been out here all alone, huh?” he mutters, his voice gruff but strangely sympathetic.

The man lets out a low huff, glancing down at you with an almost sympathetic look on his face. “It’s earlier than we planned,” the man mutters, a hint of regret coating his words. His hand still softly stroking through your fur. “But the renovations are nearly ready,” his eyes taking in your exhausted form. It’s hard to say if he’s talking to you or to himself, a note of assurance in his voice. “So soon, kid.”

You look up at him with a bewildered expression on your face, your little mind still trying to make sense of his words. What is he talking about? Renovations? Who’s he talking to? Who are the people he keeps mentioning? What is even happening right now? But you quickly cover it up and let out a tired-sounding meow, hoping he won’t notice the hint of confusion in your little feline face. He glances down at you, his hand slowly rubbing a soothing circle on your back.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he murmurs, his voice still gruff but the tone softer this time. “You’ll be safe soon enough.” He gives you a gentle pat on the head before resuming his stride. You can feel his arms cradling you against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat almost lulling you into a sense of security.

Even as your mind races with unanswered questions, the beat of the man’s heartbeat seems to soothe you, acting as a strange form of comfort. His warm arms keep you tucked against him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest steady and unhurried. It’s an almost reassuring presence.

The man carries you down the street, the rhythmic sound of his footsteps and steady rhythm of his heart slowly lulling you into a trance-like state. The exhaustion from the past few days is finally catching up to you, a small yawn escaping your little mouth before you can try to fight it.

You can feel your eyelids growing heavy, exhaustion taking over your small body. The steady rhythm of the man’s heart combined with the gentle rocking of his arms as he walks send a wave of fatigue through you. You try to fight back the overwhelming tiredness, but another small, squeaky yawn escapes your little mouth.

With a soft contented sigh, you stretch out your little paws, making yourself comfortable in his arms. The man lets out a low chuckle as he watches your little legs extend, giving you a gentle pat on the back.

It’s strangely comforting, being held in the man’s strong arms. The sound of his laughter rumbles through his chest, and you can almost hear a hint of affection in the gesture. You feel the weight of your fatigue start to increase, your eyes slowly blinking shut against your will.

You blearily blink your eyes open, suddenly finding yourself lying on a soft cushion. The fabric feels luxurious against your fur, the plush material enveloping you in a comfortable embrace. You dazedly look around, trying to recall how you ended up on this soft surface.

Your little ears fold back as you look around, slowly taking in your surroundings. A brief moment of confusion washes over you as you realize that you had fallen asleep in the man’s arms. But seeing him still here, you let out a relieved sigh, your entire fluffy body moving up and down in the process. Thank everything that he didn’t leave me on the side of the road.

He glances over at you, noticing that you’re now awake. “You finally back with the living?” he says gruffly, his voice tinged with amusement. You can see a hint of a smile on the man’s face, betraying his hard exterior.

You lift your chin up in a defiant huff, letting your tail flick against the soft cushion as an additional statement of irritation. The man lets out a snort, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter at your small act of feigned irritation.

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he mutters, his voice taking on a slightly amused tone. He reaches a hand out to give you a small pat on the head, his rough fingers gently stroking your fur.

Your chest lets out a soft rumble, purring at the feeling of his hand stroking through your fur. Your gaze drifts around the room, your nose twitching as you pick up on a delicious scent. Food, your stomach rumbles. Please, be food.

The aroma is tantalizing, making your little stomach grumble loudly in response. You wonder if it's your imagination, or if the man actually has food nearby. The man lets out another amused huff as he notices your nose twitching and your stomach rumbling. “Impatient little thing, eh?” he mutters, lifting his hand from your head to look at you with a slightly entertained expression. Your little paws twitch slightly, as if you’re preparing to go searching for where the wonderful scent is coming from.

He chuckles at your eagerness, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Calm down, bud,” he says gruffly. “Food’s coming in a minute. Ain’t gonna starve ya.’” He gives you another gentle pat on the head, his hand large enough to practically cover your entire body.

You let out a dissatisfied huff, your gaze still darting around to try and find the source of the delicious scent. You want to rush out and find the food immediately, but the man's large hand keeps you pressed firmly on the soft cushion. You squirm a little impatiently, your tail flicking idly against the fabric. Your cat instincts taking over.

He lets out an amused laugh at your squirming, your restlessness making it hard for him to keep you in place. “Hold still,” he says gruffly. “You're making it hard to keep you in one place.” He reaches his hands out again and gently holds you down, preventing you from moving around any further.

You’re not a fan of this guy keeping you down, your instincts flaring up in defiance. Despite the delicious promise of food in the air, you’re tempted to lash out and scratch him just for holding you in one spot. Release me, your inner self growls.

You pause in your struggle, your little ears perking up and your whiskers twitching as the clink of dishes and the soft sound of footsteps approaching comes from nearby. Your nose twitches with anticipation, the delicious smells in the air becoming more concentrated. Food.

You crane your head to get a better look at the approaching figure, your little body shifting slightly on the cushion. The man holding you down also looks up, watching as someone walks into the room carrying a tray of food. Your little mouth starts to salivate, the enticing scents wafting over to you and making your stomach rumble loudly.

The guy releases his grip once you stop squirming, letting you move freely again. You can feel your instincts taking over your little body, your tail curling around your side as you focus your attention on the tray of food being presented in front of you. “Here you are, Master Jason.”

Your eyes are almost glued to the tray, filled with the most tantalizing smells that you've come across. The man– Jason watches you quietly, amused by your little display. The person holding the tray sets the food down in front of you, the various dishes arranged in an almost tempting manner.

You want to purr in delight as you look at the food laid before you. Thank god there’s none of that dreadful cat food in sight. You've had your fair share of people trying to feed you that horrible kibble in the past, and you're definitely not a fan. This food smells a million times better than anything that ever came out of a can. Meat.

You shoot him a glance of appreciation before hopping onto the table, greedily pouncing on the food in front of you. You dive right in, devouring the food with gusto, your little tongue lapping at the meat hungrily.

You pay no mind to him as you feast on the delicious meal laid out in front of you. The smells, the texture, the taste; it’s all absolutely heavenly. You eat like you've never eaten before, your little body almost shaking with contentment. This might just be the best meal you’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.

Meanwhile, Jason watches your little display with a slight smirk on his face. He doesn’t say anything, just watching as you devour the food on the plate in front of you with relish. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, quickly taking a picture of you digging into the food to send to the family in case they ask how you're doing. He lets out a soft huff of amusement at your behavior, a hint of fondness in his eyes.

You're so lost in the food, you don't even notice the older man taking a picture of you. All your focus is singular, eating as much as you can before it’s taken away. The man watches you with a mix of amusement and something else that you can’t quite place. Too absorbed in your meal to notice his reaction.

Once you’ve practically licked the plate clean, you finally feel a sense of fullness, your little belly pleasantly satisfying. You give yourself a little shake, a little bit of food still stuck to your whiskers. Jason chuckles slightly, watching your little satisfied display. He breaks the silence as you finish cleaning yourself off.

“Had enough?” he asks in a gruff voice. His words are gruff and blunt, but you can sense the touch of amusement within them. You let out a little huff, feeling satisfied but also a little bit embarrassed at how fast you had eaten. Too much food, you think, your little stomach feeling a bit bloated.

The next thirty minutes pass by in a blur, your mind fuzzy and filled with the sensation of being inside Jason’s leather jacket as he mounts his bike. He doesn't have a bag or carrier to keep you secure, so you cling onto his shirt for dear life, your little claws digging tightly into the fabric. The wind whips through your fur as the bike roars to life, the force of the breeze making you instinctively cling even harder.

You had assumed that Jason was simply taking you back to the spot where he had found you under the car. After all, there was no chance in hell that you were going to poke your head out of the top of his jacket to check yourself. However, as he stops the bike and unzips the jacket, revealing your familiar surroundings, your tail begins to fluff up in surprise. Your eyes widen as you realize you’re at home, as in, right outside your apartment. The fur on your back bristles, ears folding back. You’re quick to jump off of the vehicle, backing away. What the fuck?

You scramble off Jason's lap and onto the sidewalk, your little paws almost slipping in your haste. The moment you land on the pavement, you take a few stumbling steps back, your tail puffed up and your fur standing on end. How could he possibly know where you live? You hadn’t given away any indication that you lived here, or anywhere for that matter. You had been so careful to stay out of sight, blending into the shadows. There was no way he could have known. And yet… here you are, outside your home. You take a tentative step back, your little feet moving instinctively. Your instincts are screaming at you to run, to get away from this guy who seemingly knew too much about you.

Your eyes dart from the man to the building behind you, your mind racing. Everything inside you is telling you to run, to flee and go hide. You were supposed to be so careful, so cautious about keeping your identity a secret. And now this man standing in front of you, this guy you barely knew, had just pulled up right outside your home. How the hell did he know where you lived? Run, your instincts yell. Run, run, run.

You take another jerky step back, your little paws almost slipping on the rough pavement. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You almost trip over your own feet, your mind flooded with a mix of fear and confusion. How does he know? How the fuck does he know!? You’ve been so careful, covering your tracks, making sure no one followed you home. But here he is, standing in front of you, looking all too calm and collected. You don’t know what’s worse, the fact that he knows where you live or how calm he seems about it.

You don't waste another second, your little feet moving as fast as they can. Your instincts are screaming at you to run and get away as fast as possible. So that's what you do. You take off like a shot, darting away from the bike, from the man, from everything. Your focus is on nothing except getting away, getting somewhere safe, somewhere away from this guy who apparently knew more than he should. You dart upstairs faster than you thought physically possible, breath coming out laboured as you panic, not bothering to check if anyone’s nearby as you shift back to human, unlocking your door and slamming it closed behind you.

Jason let out a heavy sigh, running his fingers through his hair in frustration as he watches you scamper off. "Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, watching as your small form quickly disappears from sight. "I didn’t think that through." He scowls, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected you to panic quite that much.

Your knees suddenly give way, and you collapse to the floor with a thump. Your hand instinctively moves to press against your chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. Your mind is racing, your body shaking from the adrenaline and panic of the situation. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of your own breathing, your chest heaving as you gasp in sharp breaths.

You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, the adrenaline pumping through your veins making it feel like it’s about to explode. You can barely breathe, your gasps for air coming in quick, sharp pants. Your head is swimming, the world around you seeming to spin and tilt with each jerky movement. You can’t think straight, your mind filled with a swirling mix of panic and confusion. It feels like everything is closing in on you, the walls of your apartment suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

You try to focus on taking deep, calming breaths, but your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Your breaths come out ragged and uneven, each one feeling like a struggle. Your chest is heaving, your heart pounding against your ribcage so hard you’re starting to wonder if it’ll burst. You drop your head down, resting your forehead against your knees, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, thoughts and questions and doubts swirling in a confusing mess.

You desperately try to calm down, to ease the frantic beating of your heart. But nothing seems to work, the panic and confusion making it nearly impossible to think straight. Your head spins as you struggle to take deep breaths, each one catching in your throat like a lump. You can feel your body trembling, your muscles tense and coiled like a spring about to snap. The thought of the man outside your door, the man that knew where you lived, makes your stomach twist in knots.

It feels like your privacy has been invaded, your safe sanctuary no longer feeling so safe. You feel exposed, vulnerable, like a small, trapped animal. Your mind races, trying to come up with some kind of plan, some kind of solution to this messed up situation. But you’re too lost in your own head, too focused on calming your panicked breathing to come up with anything coherent.

You feel like you’re drowning, your body overwhelmed by the flood of emotions and the physical response. You need to get yourself under control, to get your thoughts sorted out and figure out what the hell to do. But it feels like your mind and your body are in a constant tug-of-war with each other, neither one willing to give in. It’s like being stuck in a nightmare that you can’t wake up from.

You’re suddenly aware of the silence in your apartment. It’s an eerie stillness that seems to echo the chaos in your mind. The only sound is the soft rush of your own breathing, the beat of your heart a steady drum in your ears. It’s too quiet, and yet it’s almost deafening at the same time. You stay slumped on the floor, your head still against your knees, too overwhelmed to even think about getting up. You can’t breathe.

Your lungs feel like they’re on fire, each breath a struggle against the tight feeling in your chest. Your body is shaking, the adrenaline and panic having physical effects that you’re powerless to stop. You try to focus on calming yourself down, to get your breathing under control, but it’s like trying to hold onto water. Your lungs seizing up with each gasping breath. You try to focus on your breathing, trying to steady the erratic rhythm. But it’s like your body won’t obey, each inhale sharp and uneven, each exhale ragged. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your temples, echoing the desperate rhythm of your heart. You need to get yourself together, to calm down. You need to calm down.

You try to mentally force yourself to calm, to slow down your breathing, but it’s like every part of your body is working against you. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, swirling around in your head like a storm. Your heart is still racing, the panic and fear making it almost impossible to concentrate. You try to focus on something, anything to try and control the chaotic mess that is your mind. But your thoughts keep slipping away, dancing just out of reach every time you try to grasp them. You can't think, you can't breathe, you can't move.

You’re trapped in your own mind, your own body. You feel so small, so helpless, so utterly alone. The silence in your apartment is deafening, adding to the feeling of isolation. You try to will yourself to move, but you’re stuck, paralyzed by your own fear and panic. Your heart is still thundering in your chest, the erratic beats echoing in your ears as you try to force your lungs to take slow, steady breaths. You need to calm down. You need to.

You force your shoulders to relax, your eyes fluttering open. Okay, okay… You can do this. You try to remember the steps you learned for managing panic attacks. Breathe in for four, hold for… You can’t think. Your brain is fuzzy, filled with a jumbled mess of thoughts and memories. You try to remember the proper way to do it but your mind refuses to cooperate. Four or seven? Or was it nine? Exhale for eight. Fuck, I can’t think.

Your mind is a blur, your thoughts chaotic and tangled. You can’t remember the step-by-step process. Something about breathing in for a certain number of seconds, holding it, and exhaling for another number of seconds. But the details are a hazy mess, your panic making it impossible to remember clearly. You try your best, sucking in a shaky breath and holding it for what you think is the right amount of time. But your heart is still racing, your hands still trembling. It’s not working. Why isn’t it working? Why the fuck isn’t it working?

Jason stands against his bike, his gaze fixed on the window of your apartment. He's on the phone with Bruce, his voice low and filled with frustration. "I know, I know…" he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "I fucked up," he admits, grimacing at his own carelessness.

He listens as Bruce responds, his eyes never leaving the window. He can feel the weight of his mistake sitting heavily on his shoulders. He should have known that you'd react the way you did, and he should have stuck to the plan. But he didn’t. He just acted, without thinking. Just like always, his conscience needles him.

Jason sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as Bruce continues to speak. He knows Bruce is right, he always is. He’s good at saying the things that are hard to hear but desperately needed to be said. It’s part of what makes him great, but it also makes him irritating sometimes. Like right now.

"I know," Jason replies, his voice slightly sharp. "I get it. But what am I supposed to do now?"

There’s a pause as Bruce replies, his voice muffled over the phone. Jason’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as he listens. Yeah, yeah. Be patient. Easy for you to say.

"I know,” he repeats, his voice strained. "But the kid bolted before I could even get a word in. Now they’re probably scared shitless in there."

There's another pause. Jason can hear the steady timbre of Bruce’s voice on the other end, his words blending in a stream of low, soothing murmurs. He rolls his eyes, bristling at the older man's calm, steady tone. It always makes him feel like a kid being lectured, even though a part of him knows it’s not entirely untrue.

He lets out another sigh, his body sagging against his bike. "I’m trying," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know I messed up, alright? I’ll give ‘em time to cool off." He glances back at your apartment, a pang of something he can’t quite identify tugging at his chest.

He nods along to whatever Bruce is saying, his eyes flickering back to your apartment window. He wonders if you're watching him from behind those blinds, if you’re scared, angry, confused. Probably all three, his mind supplies.

He winces at the thought, his hand tightening around his phone. He hates the thought that he might have screwed this up before it even really started. Bruce is probably right, he should give you space. But the thought of just leaving you alone and confused chafes at him, makes him want to just go in there and fix things already. He knows Bruce can feel his tension, can sense the turmoil roiling beneath his stoic exterior. Damn Batman and his stupid emotional intuition.

"Yeah, I get it," he mutters into the phone, his voice tight. "I’ll back off, give them space. But I don’t like it." There's another pause as Bruce responds, his voice low and steady.

It soothes something in him, a part of him that still yearns for guidance and approval, even though he knows he’ll never admit it. It’s a part of him that he usually denies, pushes down, but moments like these have a way of bringing it to the surface.

He's silent for a moment, letting Bruce speak. The older man's voice is steady, a low, grounding murmur that somehow manages to both soothe and irritate him at the same time. He's always been good at that, somehow finding the exact words needed to either calm him down or piss him off even more.

Jason clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth together in frustration. He’s torn. Part of him wants to just march up there, kick down the door and force you to talk to him. But he also knows that would just make things worse. He’s not good at the whole patience thing, but he knows that just charging in like a bull in a china shop is only going to make things more difficult. Damn it. He swings his leg over his bike, settling onto the seat. He takes one final look up at your window, his gaze lingering there for a moment. He can almost feel the weight of your fear and confusion from here, like a tangible thing. It makes his stomach twist into knots, his hands clenching on the grips.

But he knows he needs to let you be, to give you the space you clearly need. So, with a heavy sigh, he revs the engine and pulls away.

You wake up with a start, your body jerking out of a fitful sleep. Your body is covered in a cold sweat, your clothes sticking to your skin in an unpleasant way. You sit there in the darkness, your breathing heavy and your heart thumping hard in your chest.

Your room is still, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft sounds of the city outside your window.

Three long weeks have passed since you last saw Jason. The days have slipped by in a blur of routine and monotony. You go to work, come home, eat, sleep, repeat. It's like you're living your life on autopilot, your thoughts often drifting to the man who showed up at your door that night.

Since that night, you haven’t shifted. Something deep inside you, some instinctual feeling, tells you that it’s not safe to do so. So you stay human, your animal form buried deep within you, a constant low hum of unease. The feeling of something bad happening if you shift is a constant nagging in the back of your mind, a feeling you can’t shake despite your attempts to dismiss it as paranoia.

The longer you stay human, the stronger your instincts become. You catch yourself acting cat-like in subtle ways: tilting your head to the side when you're listening, twitching at sharp noises, even finding yourself kneading at your shirt when you’re frustrated. It’s a constant internal struggle, your instincts demanding to be let out while your rational mind tells you to keep them contained. You know it’s not healthy, not sustainable, but you can’t shake the feeling that shifting is just too risky right now.

You’re acutely aware of how unhealthy this is. You can feel the tension building within you, the constant battle between your human side and your animal side wearing you down mentally and emotionally. Your thoughts are constantly consumed with the need to shift, the need to be in your animal form, the need to let your instincts take over. But something inside you is holding you back, some primal fear that won’t let you let go. It’s a constant struggle you can’t escape, a constant mental strain that's slowly but surely eating away at your sanity.

You groggily stumble out of bed, the cool night air hitting your skin like a refreshing splash of water. It’s late, the digital clock on your bedside table reading 2:47 AM. You shiver slightly, your muscles tight and cramped from your restless sleep. Despite the chill in the air, you can’t help the feeling of relief as you step out onto your balcony. The city is quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of the day replaced with a soothing, almost eerie calm.

In a moment of clarity, you realize you’re being ridiculous. You’re tired, you’re frustrated, and damn it you’re tired of living in constant fear. You’ve been tormenting yourself for weeks over this, letting your instincts fester and your body ache from the strain. And for what? What's going to happen in the middle of the night on a Wednesday? Nothing, that’s what. And you’re not going to keep making yourself ill over some bastard stalker.

With a rush of determination, you finally give in. You let your instincts take over, your body shifting and contorting into your animal form. The relief is immediate, the tension in your body melting away as you shed your human skin. The cool night air is even more refreshing in this form, your senses heightened as you take in the night around you. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again, the weight of your human anxieties falling away like a heavy coat. You felt free.

The world looks different through your animal eyes, the details sharper and more defined. Your ears twitch, picking up sounds you'd never notice in your human form. Your muscles twitch as your animal instincts kick in, a low purring sound rumbling through your chest. It's been so long since you've let yourself be like this, since you've just been. It's exhilarating, freeing, like coming up for air after being stranded underwater for too long.

You pad over to the edge of the balcony, your paws making almost no sound on the wood. You look out at the city, the glittering lights and silent streets a stark contrast to the chaotic hum during the day. It’s quieter, calmer, a sense of peace that you haven’t felt in ages. You take a deep breath, the air filling your lungs and making your fur stand on end. You feel more alive here, more yourself, than you have in weeks.

Your muscles ripple under your fur as you stretch, arching your back and tilting your head back. A low, rumbling purr vibrates in your chest, the contentment filling you almost overwhelming. You close your eyes, letting the sounds and smells of the city wash over you. You’ll deal with everything else in the morning. For now, you’re going to stay like this and enjoy the freedom.

You sit there for a while, enjoying the cool night air and the sensation of being so deeply in tune with your instincts. The city sounds become a soothing background noise, a comforting hum in the air. You roll onto your back, stretching out your body and letting your limbs go limp. Your tail swishes lazily back and forth.

You roll onto your stomach, your muscles coiling as you prepare to spring. With a powerful leap, you propel yourself onto the nearby roof. Your paws touch down silently, the soft pads muting any sound. Your heart is racing now, the adrenaline rushing through your veins as you break into a run. Running as an animal is different than running as a human. It’s more instinctual, more right. You can feel the ground underneath your paws, the muscles in your legs bunching and releasing with every step. You tear across the rooftops, feeling more alive than you have in weeks. The night air whistles in your ears, the city passing by in a blur.

Your stride is effortless, muscles straining as you push yourself faster, the wind ruffling your fur and making your tail fan out behind you. You leap effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, your body a blur of motion. You’re not even thinking about where you’re going, your only focus is on the sensation of speed, the feeling of freedom. Gotham flashes past you in a dizzying array of lights and shadows, your world narrowing down to your heartbeat and the rhythm of your paws hitting the roof.

Time seems to blur together as you run, the hours flying by like seconds. The city blurs past you in a wash of colors and sounds, the lights of Gotham like stars in a night sky. You don’t focus on how long you’ve been running, or how far you’ve gone, or even where you’re going. For once, none of that matters. All that matters is the wind in your fur and the feeling of freedom coursing through your veins. Your body is sore and your heart is racing, but you feel alive.

You're so focused on the run that you don't notice the black boots in your path until you're upon them. You slam on the brakes, your body slipping and sliding as you come to an undignified halt in front of a pair of long, outstretched legs. You hiss in surprise and frustration, your heart racing from the sudden stop. You glare up at the figure towering above you, tail lashing.

Nightwing chuckles, a soft, amused sound that you can hear clearly even over the pounding of your heart. He lowers his eskrima sticks, holding them loosely by his side as he kneels down to your level. The hero's eyes are sparkling with mirth, his smile slightly crooked.

"Well, hello there." he says, his voice smooth and rich.

He tilts his head to the side, studying you with a curious gaze. You're still panting from your run, your body tense and braced for a fight. Nightwing's smile widens at your reaction, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

"You're pretty fast," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice. He extends his hand towards you, the black, latex covering his fingers gleaming in the low light. He stops just millimeters from your face, allowing you to sniff and inspect him for a moment. His scent is clean and crisp, a hint of something sweet mixed in.

After a few seconds, he starts gently petting you, his gloved hand scratching behind your ears in a soothing motion. “You’re even prettier in person, kitten.”

A wave of unexpected pleasure washes over you as he starts petting you. His touch is firm yet gentle, just the right amount of pressure to soothe the tension in your body. His hand moves from behind your ears to scratching behind your chin, the soft hiss of latex against your fur the only sound in the quiet night. The petting feels ten times better after not shifting after such a long time. You lean heavily into his palm.

“You’re a runner, huh?” Nightwing murmurs, his voice a soft rumble. “Bruce isn’t gonna like that.”

His words are casual, almost conversational, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness to them. He continues to pet you, his hand moving in a slow, soothing rhythm.

“Running around Gotham like this,” he continues, his tone dropping lower. “It’s dangerous. You should stick to the rooftops, little one. Makes it harder for the baddies to get to you.”

As your attention is occupied with looking up at Nightwing, you don’t recognise the second pair of boots that approach. You’re jolted out of your thoughts as another pair of warm hands suddenly scoop you up, grabbing your stomach and lifting you off the ground. The sensation is so sudden and unexpected that you don’t even have time to react. A startled yowl escapes you as you’re lifted off the roof and held against a broad chest.

Your body stiffens in surprise, a low hiss escaping your clenched teeth. Your instincts are screaming at you to flee, to lash out, to fight, but the hands have you in an unbreakable grip.

Nightwing straightens up, sliding his eskrima sticks into their holsters with a practiced flick of his wrists. He casts you a glance, his eyes softened with concern as he looks at your tense form in Robin’s arms.

"Careful, Little D," he says, a slight edge to his voice. "The kitty hasn’t been out in a long time."

Damian just scoffs in response, his grip on you tightening. His body is tense, his hands clenching in your fur, but there’s a gleam of curiosity in his eyes that betrays his indifference. His voice is as haughty as ever, a touch of impatience in his tone. "I know that, Grayson. I'm not a child."

Nightwing hums at Robin’s attitude, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against a nearby AC unit with a slight sigh.

"Sure you're not,” he responds back to Robin with a playful tone of annoyance.

Damian just huffs, tightening his grip on you, causing you to let out a surprised, muffled meow in response. His eyes dart down to you, a slight flicker of fascination in his cold, calculated gaze. He loosens his hold subconsciously. Petting your head in a silent apology.

The younger boy doesn’t respond to Dick’s remark, motioning for him to hurry up already.

With a grin, Dick holds his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. He reaches into his utility belt and procures a small, emerald green and black collar. A symbol you can’t recognise embroidered onto the back where the latch is.

This isn't any average collar that you can find at a pet store. This is high-tech, bordering extravagant. There's a small, golden bell hanging from the front, jingling softly with every little movement made, and there’s a silver, gold-edged tag already attached with some information you can't see yet. But what catches your eye, and fills you with a sense of dread, is the blinking red light on the centre, where it latches onto your neck. With these hook-like latches all around the inside that look all too much like they’ll pierce into you.

Before you can even think to react, Nightwing's already moving. He's faster than you can even register, the collar snatching around your neck in the blink of an eye. It tightens automatically, locking into place with a soft click. You can feel the hooks pierce into your fur and you let out a strangled whine.

As the collar locks into place, the bell on the front gleams in the low light, a soft jingle sounding as you jerk your head back in surprise.

Nightwing steps back, taking in the sight of you in the collar with a critical eye. He reaches forward and gives the bell a couple of light taps, the sound chiming softly in the night air.

"Looks good," he comments, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Tim did good."

Damian hums in agreeance with a slight nod, his grip on you still firm and unrelenting. He casts a scrutinising glance over your form, his eyes lingering on the collar for a moment before moving back to you. He brings his thumb to the latch, pushing into the embroidered symbol. “What was the cast?”

As Damian brings his thumb to the latch, pressing into the embroidered symbol, you hear a soft click, followed by a low chime. You feel the collar loosen around your neck, but it still stays in place. For a moment, you consider trying to tear it off, but a warning tug from the collar's hooks and a glare from Damian stop you short.

Dick grins. “It’s our kittens name, D.”

Damian scowls, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his eyes studying your form intently. It's almost unnerving, the intensity of his gaze.

He presses his thumb against the seal harder, his voice a murmur as he utters your name. When you feel the collar tighten around your neck, you try to jerk your head back out of the way, but the collar holds fast, the hooks attaching themselves deeper into your fur. You try to resist, but the more you struggle, the more your mind grows fuzzy. An intense drowsiness rushes over you, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy. Your vision starts to swim, the world around you growing dark at the edges. As the collar locks into place, the hooks latching more snugly into you, you suddenly feel trapped. Your legs buckle underneath you, sending you sprawling into Damian's arms. The latch on the collar is gone, replaced by a solid, unbreakable ring. There is no way to take it off.

The collar appears deceptively normal, made of a thick dark green leather-like material with a simple golden buckle to secure it. The only thing that gives away its high-tech design is the absence of a latch to clip it open. Most people would overlook it, mistaking it for a regular, ordinary collar.

As you black out and lay heavily in Damian's arms, Dick coos softly, bringing a hand out to rub along your fur. His touch is gentle, his tone affectionate.

"Aren't they so cute asleep?" he whispers, his gaze softening as he looks at your unconscious form.

Damian nods silently in response, his embrace around you tightening just slightly, tugging you closer against his chest. He brings his face down, gently nuzzling his chin into your soft, multicoloured fur, hiding the hint of a smile on his lips.

Dick steps forward, a smile on his face as he watches his younger brother hold you close. He reaches out to ruffle Damian's hair affectionately, before speaking up.

"Let's go home."

Guess who spent three days working on this

Anyway, it’s finally out! Send a comment or msg if you would like to be @ in chapter two and for any anon answers that I do for the fic

I had milk and warm cookies while making this, like a child.

[excusemyobsessions]

You're safe.

Sylus x MC/Reader/You

Genre:  One shot, angst but comfort?, fluff, gender neutral reader Word count: 1200 words Scenario: Sylus comforts you after a nightmare about your past lives as per request of a lovely anon.

Warnings: mild gore?, blood, description of a nightmare, use of pet names (honey), teeth-rotting fluff

(Also posted on AO3)

Suffocating.

The air was suffocating.

Heavy smoke clouded your vision and made your eyes sting, tears forming in them.

Your hands were covered in blood, it dripped from your fingers heavily, pitter pattering on the scorched ground beneath your knees.

You could hear choking sounds inches away from you.

Through your tears you caught a glimpse of white hair, black iridescent scales.

“Sylus!” you whimpered.

Your dragon wheezed, choked, gurgling sounds echoing from his throat. There was a large sword sticking out of his ribcage. It was impaled all the way through.

It was you who had forced it through.

“No, no, no, no, Sylus,” you sobbed.

Trembling hands captured his cheeks, cradling his face with so much care. Blood smeared on his skin and you frantically tried to wipe it off, only making it worse.

Long claws circled your wrist.

“Shhh, it’s alright,” he whispered weakly.

Tears fell heavily down your cheeks, streaming down like a river, dripping onto his peaceful features.

“Please, please don’t leave me,” you begged of him.

“I will always be here,” he told you. “Always.”

The bright crimson in his eyes faded to a soulless maroon.

You screamed.

You were awakened by gentle but firm fingers, shaking your shoulders.

“Honey, hey.”

Sylus leaned over you, ruby eyes startled, widened with concern, little droplets of water dripping from his wet snowy hair. He'd turned on the lamp on the bedside table and its soft, yellow light outlined his sharp features. Images of your dream, of your shared past life, overlapped with the present, man and dragon flashing before your eyes before finally settling on the man inches away from you.

“Shhh, I'm right here,” he told you steadily.

Mind hazy with sleep, you reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down onto you.

Sylus let out a little surprised groan. He caught himself just in time not to crush you under his weight, forearms coming to rest next to your head, on each side of the pillow. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling his scent, nuzzling your nose against the exposed skin. The scent of his expensive body wash contrasted with the smoke that still burned your throat.

“I came out of the shower and you were crying,” he explained. “It was just a nightmare, it’s okay.”

You gripped onto him so tight you were scared you’d choke him but you were shaking. Desperate to hold him now, like you couldn't do in your dream.

“There was so much smoke, my hands were covered in blood… It was your blood,” you began to tell him, tears welling up in your bleary eyes.

You felt your vocal chords tie themselves into a knot, the salt of your tears going down your throat.

“I pushed a sword into your chest,” you whimpered.

You heard him inhale sharply against your hair.

“I didn't-... I don't-... Sy…” you hiccuped into his neck.

His arms circled your frame and he rolled the two of you over onto your sides. His motion shifted you a bit lower, low enough to bury your face in his chest.

“I know, honey, I know,” he whispered against the top of your head.

Your hands came down to sprawl themselves over his chest, feeling the unscathed skin, the muscles, the tendons. He was warm under your fingers, soft, whole. There was no sword, no blood. You sobbed against his heart.

“Sy, it was awful,” you told him.

You felt the rumbling of a hum within his chest when that was all he could offer you in response.

Your arms circled his waist and you laid your head against his chest, ear pressed to his heart, to listen to its steady beat. And you wept, for him, for you, for a past long gone which you felt so deeply engraved in your chest.

Sylus held you close, long fingers cradling your head against his chest, his other hand on the small of your back.

“It's over now,” he told you, “We're safe and sound.”

Your grip tightened around him and so did his around you.

His hand traced over your shaking shoulders, massaging the tensed muscles, slid down your back soothingly. You held onto him like your life depended on it.

Encased within his embrace was where you wanted, no, needed to be.

He moved his hand away and shifted a little, and you held on to him tighter, afraid he'd slip between your fingers. Another sob ripped through your chest.

“Shh, I'm not going anywhere,” he told you reassuringly.

You realized then he was just tucking the covers over the both of you, cocooning you in warm silk sheets and his arms. When he dragged you even closer, you were able to slip your legs in between his. The sigh that escaped your lips was interrupted by little sobs but it was one of relief.

Sylus seemed to relax in your embrace. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and began to run his long fingers through your hair carefully. Occasionally, they would get caught up in a knot but he gently detangled it.

Slowly but surely, your sobs began to quiet down.

“You know, I'm glad you're no longer a sorceress,” he told you quietly, fingers slipping into your hair to massage your scalp.

Your head slowly leaned back into his hand and he supported the weight, shifting his position so he could look down at you now that your face was finally away from his chest.

“In this life, I can keep you here, just like this, safe and sound. And I’m no longer afraid you'll be taken away.”

His deep voice was mellow but serious, it resonated with your heart as if the sole sound of it could wrap it up in a tender hold.

The tears hadn't stopped yet. They blurred your vision but you could see his eyes gaze back at you steadily, so attentive.

“What if you're the one who's taken away from me?” you whispered up at him.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

His other hand lifted to catch the tears falling endlessly from your eyes with the knots of his fingers.

“Who would even dare?” he responded, confidence so palpable you found yourself agreeing with him.

You kissed the palm of his hand.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss against your forehead, resting his lips there for a long while. You let your eyes close, sinking into him.

So utterly tangled with him, you could feel the steady beat of his heart against yours, the rise and fall of his chest when he breathed, his warm breath against your skin.

Slowly but surely, the tears dried. He cleaned any remains with tender fingers, kissed each one of your swollen eyelids.

“You're safe,” he promised and you believed him.

“I'm tired,” you told him, snuggling further into him.

He wrapped his long arms around you again.

“You can sleep. I'm not going anywhere.”

And you knew he really wasn't because there was no purer love in this world than his.

[barnacles34]

Mutually Assured Destruction

Chaewon x Male Reader

Tags: Angst, Smut

9k words

The world is, simply put, against you.

You love Chaewon.

But you can't tell her. Not yet.

New York. Day twenty-one. The hotel hallway stretches before you, each step toward her room heavier than the last.

Your tie feels too tight, your collar suffocating—the uniform of an executive becoming the noose of a condemned man.

Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of seeing her across rooms, of catching her scent in empty elevators, of watching her perform while pretending she was nothing more than a company asset.

Three weeks of dying slowly.

You knock. The sound echoes in the empty corridor. One heartbeat. Two. The door opens.

Chaewon stands there, barefoot, in simple shorts and an oversized t-shirt. No makeup. No stage presence. Just her.

The most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

‘You came,’ she whispers, like she still can't believe it.

You step inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click. The sound of the outside world being shut away.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Three feet of carpet between you might as well be an ocean.

Then she breaks, a dam of tears giving way after holding back too long. She crosses the distance, collides with you, arms wrapping around your waist, face buried in your chest.

‘I haven't seen you for 3 weeks,’ she mumbles against your jacket, her voice cracking, fighting tears that are already falling.

You want to speak, but your throat closes. Her name forms in your mind—a prayer, a plea.

Chaewon.

Her fingers clutch at your jacket, desperate, like you might disappear if she loosens her grip.

‘I am so unhappy,’ she whispers, the words muffled against the fabric.

Your hand moves of its own accord, finding the back of her head, cradling it gently. Her hair is soft between your fingers, just as you'd dreamed during those endless nights alone.

Chaewon!

‘I am so stupid,’ she continues, her whole body trembling. ‘Dear, I cannot live without you. You know this.’

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her face tear-streaked, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. She's so close now, her cheek just an inch from yours, her breath warm against your skin.

You dare not look directly at her—afraid that if you do, all your carefully constructed walls will crumble.

Instead, your gaze falls to her shoulder, exposed where the sweater has slipped. Her skin is like milk, almost translucent in the soft hotel light, with that hint of pink beneath that makes her seem both fragile and impossibly alive.

Oh, you want her so badly.

The weight of the past bears down on you. When you were younger, life felt limitless—an odyssey of possibility stretching endlessly before you.

But youth is a loan that must be repaid. Each choice carries consequences. Each victory seemingly increasing the magnitude of future defeat.

How strange to realize you can barely remember the person you were before all this. Before her.

It's as if you've been playing a role for so long—the ambitious executive, the company man—that you've forgotten who you really are.

Her hands move to your face, fingertips gentle against your jaw, tilting your gaze to meet hers.

‘Look at me,’ she whispers. ‘Please.’

You do, and it undoes you. The nakedness of her emotion. The love written so plainly across her features.

‘I love you,’ she says, the words hanging in the air between you. ‘I've always loved you.’

Everything in you wants to say it back. To cross that final line.

To throw away everything—your career, your reputation, your carefully constructed life—just to hold her without fear.

But you can't. Not because you don't love her, but because loving her means protecting her. And right now, loving her means waiting.

‘Not yet,’ you whisper, the words catching in your throat as you brush away a tear from her cheek with your thumb. ‘Not yet.’

The pain in her eyes is unbearable. But there's understanding there too, buried beneath the hurt.

She leans forward, resting her forehead against your chest.

‘How much longer?’ she asks, her voice small.

You have no answer. Only the weight of what stands between you—the company, the threats, the world that has decided your love is forbidden.

Your mouth feels clamped shut, your vocal cords frozen, your eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

In the end, you say nothing more.

You hold her for one more moment, committing to memory the weight of her in your arms, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against yours.

Then you let go. Turn away. Walk to the door.

And leave.

—

Chaewon's Diary - May 15, 2025

I cannot remember feeling this way before. The emotions are too new, too raw to categorize.

Rejection should feel bitter. Should taste like failure. Instead, it tasted like promise.

I stood before him, heart exposed, only to hear those two impossible words: ‘Not yet.’

Not never. Not no. Not goodbye.

Not yet.

I should have been humiliated. Should have been angry. Instead, when he brushed the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, I felt known. Truly seen, perhaps for the first time.

When he uttered

‘Not yet’

I felt warm. Happy.

How am I so happy for rejection?

I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch, memorizing the feeling of his hands on my face, his breath mingling with mine.

Before him, I had never felt the touch of someone who could see past my surface, past the idol, past the carefully crafted image.

I want him.

I know with absolute certainty: No other man will touch my heart for as long as I live.

I will wait, forever and longer.

Not yet.

—

3 Weeks Ago - April 25, 2025

You were staring at a spreadsheet when Chaewon walked in without knocking.

'Hey,' she said.

You kept typing. 'Hey.'

She stood there for a second too long before sitting down across from you. Put her coffee on your desk. The ice shifted.

'So.'

'So,' you echoed, still not looking up.

'You eat yet?'

'What?'

'Food. Have you had any?'

You glanced at your watch. It was almost 8. 'No.'

'Me neither,' she said. 'We should fix that.'

You finally looked at her. She was wearing the same clothes from the morning meeting, but her makeup had that slightly smudged quality of someone who'd been awake too long.

'I've got to finish this,' you said.

'No you don't.'

'I do, actually.'

She sighed. 'Will the company collapse if you don't do it right this second?'

'That's not the point.'

'That's exactly the point.' She tapped your desk with her fingernail. 'Come on. Food. A real restaurant. Thirty minutes.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Liar.'

You almost smiled. 'I have work.'

'Work will still be there.' She didn't blink. 'Food might not.'

'That makes no sense.'

'I know. Just come anyway.'

You looked at your laptop, then back at her. She had that expression, the one that said she wouldn't leave until she got her way.

'Thirty minutes.'

She grinned. 'Look at you, making healthy choices.'

'Don't push it.'

The elevator ride was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. You both watched the numbers change.

'Where are we going?' you asked.

'Place down the street.'

'What kind of place?'

'The kind with food.' She glanced at you. 'You allergic to anything?'

'No.'

'Good.' She seemed satisfied with that.

Outside, the air felt different. Heavier. Like it might rain again.

'So is this like, a work thing, or...' you trailed off.

'Or what?'

'I don't know. You asked me to dinner.'

'Yeah.'

'So I'm just trying to understand what this is.'

She almost laughed. 'It's food. That's all. Don't overthink it.'

'I'm not overthinking.'

'You overthink everything. It's your whole deal.'

'That's not fair.'

'Probably not—but hey, fair character assessment is a luxury these days.' she giggled.

You huffed under your breath.

You walked together, not quite in step. The city moved around you—people leaving work, heading home, living lives that had nothing to do with quarterly reports or dance practices.

The restaurant was small. Unassuming. No sign outside, just a door between two other businesses.

'Here?' you asked.

'Yeah. Problem?'

'No. Just not what I expected.'

'What did you expect?'

You shrugged. 'Something with a line outside. Trending on Instagram.'

'Wow.' She held the door for you. 'You really don't know me at all.'

Inside was dimly lit. Maybe fifteen tables. Half of them occupied. No one looked up when you entered.

You followed her to a table near the back. Sat down across from her. The menus were just single sheets of paper.

'I come here a lot,' she said. 'After practice sometimes. When I don't want to go back to the dorm.'

'They don't recognize you?'

'They do. They just don't care.' She looked at the menu even though she probably had it memorized. 'That's why I like it.'

The waiter came over. Older guy, maybe fifty. Nodded at Chaewon like he'd seen her yesterday.

'The usual?' he asked her.

'Yeah. Thanks.'

He looked at you.

'Uh,' you fumbled with the menu. 'What's good?'

'Steak,' Chaewon said. 'You like steak, right? You seem like a steak guy.'

'Sure.'

'Medium rare?'

'Medium.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Of course.'

The waiter left. You fidgeted with your napkin.

'You really come here a lot?' you asked.

'Couple times a month.'

'Alone?'

'Usually.'

'Why?'

She looked at you like she was deciding whether to give you a real answer or not. 'Because no one bothers me. Because the food's good. Because sometimes I need to remember I'm still just a person.'

'And your members don't come?'

'They have their own places.' She took a sip of water. 'We don't actually do everything together, you know.'

'Right.'

'You sound surprised.'

'Not surprised. Just...' you couldn't find the right word.

'It's fine. People always think we're this perfect unit. Always together, always in sync.' She traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. 'It's not like that.'

'What's it like?'

'It's like any job. You work with people. You care about them. But you still need your own space sometimes.'

'That makes sense.'

'Does it? You seem like the type who'd live at the office if they'd let you.'

You almost denied it, then didn't. 'Fair point.'

The food came faster than you expected. Her pasta. Your steak. Simple stuff, but it smelled good.

'This isn't exactly what I pictured when you said dinner,' you admitted.

'What did you picture?'

'I don't know. Something more...'

'Fancy?'

'Maybe.'

She shrugged. 'I sit in enough fancy restaurants for work. This is better.'

You took a bite of steak. It was actually good. Really good.

'Not bad,' you said.

'High praise.'

'It is, from me.'

'I know.' She twirled pasta around her fork. 'So, can I ask you something?'

'You just did.'

'Ha ha.' She didn't look amused. 'Seriously though.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you actually like what you do? Your job?'

You considered bullshitting, then didn't. 'Sometimes.'

'Which parts?'

'The quiet ones. When I'm working on something complicated and it's just me and the problem.' You cut another piece of steak. 'You?'

'Performing. Being on stage. The three minutes where nothing else matters.' She didn't hesitate. 'Everything else is just... stuff I do so I can have those moments.'

'That's a lot of stuff for three minutes.'

'Yeah.' She looked down at her food, prodding with a dash of frustration. 'Yeah, it is.'

You ate in silence for a minute. Not awkward, just... thinking silence.

'Can I ask you something now?' you said.

'Sure.'

'Why'd you ask me to dinner? Really?'

She poked at her pasta. 'I don't know. You looked like you needed it.'

'That's it?'

'Does there have to be more?'

'Usually is.'

She sighed. 'Look, I've sat through enough meetings with you to know you skip lunch most days. And I saw your car in the parking garage at midnight last week when I was leaving the practice room. And then today, you looked...' she gestured vaguely at your face.

'I looked what?'

'Empty-tired, not the usual tiredness you wear on your face. You know?' 

You weren't sure what to say to that.

'Anyway,' she continued. 'It's just dinner. It's not that deep.'

'Right.'

'Right,' she echoed.

The silence that followed should have been uncomfortable. But it wasn't, really. Just quiet.

'It's good,' you finally said, gesturing to your plate. 'The food.'

'Told you.'

'You did.'

She smiled, just slightly. 'I'm right about a lot of things.'

'I'll reserve judgment on that.'

'Smart.' She took a sip of water. 'So... was this weird? Me asking you to dinner?'

You thought about it. 'A little.'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be. Weird isn't bad.'

She nodded. 'No, it's not.'

The rest of the meal was easier. You talked about nothing important. Work, a little. Music she was listening to. A book you'd been meaning to read but hadn't found time for. Normal stuff that normal people probably talked about all the time.

When the check came, you reached for it.

'I got it,' she said.

'You invited me.'

'Exactly.'

'That's not how it works.'

'Says who?' She grabbed the check before you could. 'Too slow, Mr. Executive.'

Outside, the air felt damp. Like it had rained while you were eating, or was about to.

'Which way you headed?' she asked.

You pointed vaguely east.

'I'm that way too. For a few blocks, anyway.'

You walked together. Not too close. Just two people who happened to be going the same direction.

'Thanks,' you said after a minute.

'For what?'

'Dinner.'

'Was it terrible?'

'No.'

'High praise,' she said again.

'I mean it. It was... nice.'

'Wow. Nice. I'm flattered.'

'Shut up.'

She laughed. Not her public laugh, the perfect one from interviews. A real one, slightly too loud.

'You know what?' she said.

'What?'

'You're not as scary as they say.'

'Who says I'm scary?'

'Everyone.' She kicked a small stone on the sidewalk. 'The whole office. The interns call you The Terminator.'

'They do not.'

'They absolutely do.' She grinned. 'But I'll keep your secret.'

'What secret?'

'That you're actually just a regular person who works too much.'

'I don't work too much.'

'Sureeee.' She stopped walking. 'This is me.'

You looked up at her building. Nice but not flashy. 'This is you.'

'Yeah.' She rocked back on her heels slightly. 'So.'

'So.'

'Thanks for coming.'

'Thanks for asking.'

She looked like she might say something else, then didn't. Just nodded. 'See you tomorrow.'

'See you tomorrow.'

She turned, walked toward her door. You should have left then. Just turned and walked away.

Instead, you watched her go. Watched as she paused at the entrance, like maybe she was going to look back.

She didn't.

And that was fine. Better, probably.

You turned and walked home, feeling something you couldn't quite name. Not happiness, exactly. But maybe something close to it. Something adjacent.

Like maybe for the first time in a long time, you'd been a person instead of a position. And maybe that was enough.

—

Chaewon's Diary - April 25, 2025

It's stupid to write this down. Dangerous, probably.

I love him.

I tried not to. Made lists of reasons why I shouldn't. His position. My career. The company. The members. The fans.

The lists didn't help.

I tried imagining my life without him in it. Moving companies. Going solo. Leaving the country. None of it worked because he'd still exist somewhere. I'd still know he was out there.

It's not that I need him. I was fine before him. I'll be fine after, I guess.

But I don't want to be.

I love the way he focuses when he reads reports. How he thinks no one notices when he's tired. How he pretends not to care about things but always remembers details about everyone.

I love how he never says more than he needs to. How he leaves room for silence.

I love that he came to dinner with me. That he let himself be normal for one night.

If he doesn't love me back, that's okay.

But I think sometimes… maybe he could.

—

Morning hit you like a truck.

Your phone was buzzing. Had been buzzing. You fumbled for it, eyes still closed.

Missed call. Another. Another. Another.

You squinted at the screen.

9 missed calls from your manager. 4 from some board member. 8 from numbers you didn't recognize.

The time was 7:12 AM.

More buzzing. Texts now. Emails.

You sat up, suddenly very awake.

First text: a link. You clicked it.

"COMPANY CEO AND IDOL MEMBER CAUGHT ON SECRET DATE"

There was a photo. You and Chaewon at the restaurant. Her laughing. You almost smiling. It looked... not innocent.

More links.

"SOURCE CONFIRMS: CEO AND KIM CHAEWON 'MORE THAN PROFESSIONAL'"

"INSIDER: 'THEY'VE BEEN HIDING IT FOR MONTHS'"

You felt sick. Scrolled back through your notifications, mind racing.

Then you saw it. Late-night texts from Chaewon.

1:12 AM 

don't freak out when you wake up 

someone took pictures at the restaurant 

it's already online i'm sorry

1:14 AM 

my manager is losing it 

company PR called an emergency meeting 

they're saying we can't talk to each other

1:27 AM 

they want me to say it was just a work dinner 

that we barely know each other 

is that what you want me to say?

1:41 AM 

i can't sleep this is so stupid 

we didn't do anything wrong

1:55 AM 

maybe we did though 

maybe i did

1:56 AM 

i've never told you this 

never thought i would need to

1:58 AM 

i love you 

i think i have for a long time 

i just never saw the point in saying it 

it seemed impossible

2:01 AM 

i'm sorry you didn't need this 

not now not with everything else

2:03 AM

forget i said anything blame the dinner on me 

i'll fix this

Your phone started ringing again. Board chairman.

You let it ring.

Read the texts again. And again.

The world was imploding around you, your career possibly in flames, and all you could think about was that last message.

i love you

Your thumb hovered over the screen. What could you possibly say now? What was left to say when everything had already changed?

The phone kept ringing.

—

The boardroom was too bright. Fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished table where twelve men in identical suits sat judging you.

You'd always seen success as a game with simple rules. Work harder. Think faster. Never look back. That's how you climbed here—by treating everything as disposable.

Turns out you were wrong.

You weren't disposable. Chaewon wasn't disposable. Whatever had grown between you wasn't disposable.

But they were treating it like it was.

‘The optics are unacceptable,’ said the Vice Chairman, his voice clinical. ‘A senior executive and an idol? The media is already spinning narratives.’

You watched his mouth move but barely heard the words. Your phone weighed heavy in your pocket. Her message burned into your mind.

i love you i always have

‘Are you listening?’ Someone was addressing you directly now.

‘Yes,’ you lied.

The Chairman leaned forward. ‘We've spent a decade building this company's reputation. We won't let one indiscretion destroy it.’

Indiscretion. As if dinner between two people was a crime.

‘We've developed a containment strategy,’ said the PR director, sliding folders across the table. You didn't open yours. ‘First, no contact with Kim Chaewon. None. Effective immediately.’

Your jaw tightened.

‘Second, you'll accompany Le Sserafim to America. Three weeks of promotional activities. You'll be positioned as overseeing the company's international expansion. Professional distance will be maintained at all times.’

You looked around the table. Not a single sympathetic face.

‘What happens to Chaewon?’ you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

‘She'll be fine,’ said the Chairman dismissively. ‘As long as this situation is managed correctly.’ 

‘And if it isn't?’

The question hung in the air. Someone cleared their throat.

‘Then her position in the group becomes untenable,’ said the A&R director finally. ‘The other members shouldn't suffer for her... complications.’

Complications. That's what they called her now. Not their star performer. Not the artist who'd brought in millions. A complication.

‘So that's the deal,’ you said flatly. ‘I go to America. Stay away from her. Keep my job.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And if I refuse?’

The Chairman's smile didn't reach his eyes. ‘Then you both lose everything.’

Simple as that. A business decision.

Your mind flashed to Chaewon. How she looked at dinner. How easily she laughed. The way she really saw you when no one else bothered to look.

For two years, she'd been the one constant. The one person who grew on you.

‘Do we have an understanding?’ the Chairman pressed.

Someone was speaking. You realized it was you.

‘I understand perfectly.’

Everything felt unreal. As if you were a mirage of yourself, observing yourself in the most dire situation.

‘Good. Your flight leaves tomorrow night. The PR team has prepared statements for both of you. Stick to the script.’

They moved on. Budget projections. Q3 forecasts. As if they hadn't just hollowed you out completely.

You sat there, a model of composure. Inside, something was breaking, tearing along a fault line you hadn't known existed until Chaewon walked into your office and asked you to dinner.

The meeting ended. Men in suits filed out, crisis averted.

You remained seated, staring at your reflection in the polished table.

Tomorrow you'd fly to America. You'd watch Chaewon from across rooms, pretend she was nothing to you. You'd do it because the alternative would destroy her.

Your phone buzzed once. A text.

It wasn't from her. It couldn't be. They'd already gotten to her.

You checked anyway.

From your assistant: ‘Car is waiting whenever you're ready, sir.’

You stood up. Straightened your tie. Gathered the folder you never opened.

They thought they'd won. Thought they'd contained the problem.

They didn't understand.

They'd taken everything from you except the one thing that mattered—the knowledge that somewhere in this building was a woman who loved you. Had always loved you.

And for the first time, you were certain you loved her too.

—

You left the boardroom, a hollow shell of yourself.

America. No Chaewon. For three weeks.

They called it mercy. You called it execution.

The flight to Los Angeles stretched endlessly, your thoughts circling like vultures. You didn't sleep. Couldn't. The empty seat beside you an accusation.

Your phone vibrated as the plane touched down.

11:42 PM

landed safe?

Chaewon.

You stared at her message until the screen dimmed, then went black. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

They couldn't monitor texts, could they? Were they watching?

You couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk her.

No response.

The California sun felt wrong on your skin. Too bright, too insistent. Your hotel suite overlooked the Pacific. Endless blue that reminded you of nothing but distance.

Day Three.

8:17 AM

meetings are boring without you to glare at everyone

8:19 AM

the new intern asked where you went

8:22 AM

i told her you were saving the american branch from themselves

You almost smiled. Almost.

No response.

The American executives treated you like royalty. A king in exile. Their offices were too bright, their coffee too bitter, their laughter too loud. You moved through meetings like a ghost, present but never there.

Day Five.

3:04 AM

can't sleep

3:05 AM

is it the time difference or is it just

3:11 AM

never mind

What would you say if you could? That you lay awake too, staring at hotel ceilings, replaying her confession like a film you couldn't pause?

No response.

You worked eighteen-hour days. Not because the work required it, but because your empty room was unbearable. The silence that you once called home—incomplete.

Day Seven.

1:47 PM

there's a rumor you're never coming back

1:48 PM

tell me that's not true

1:52 PM

please

The last word felt like a knife between your ribs. Please. As if you had a choice. As if any of this was within your control.

No response.

The days blurred. You functioned on autopilot, your mind perpetually seventeen hours ahead, in Seoul, where she was.

Day Nine.

5:31 PM

they announced the showcase dates

5:32 PM

we're coming to LA next week

5:33 PM

will you be there?

Le Sserafim. Coming to Los Angeles. Of course. The universe's cruelest joke—to bring her so close, yet keep her untouchable.

No response.

You attended dinners. Networking events. Smiled when appropriate. Spoke when necessary. No one noticed how your eyes constantly swept rooms, searching for threats that weren't there.

Day Twelve.

10:17 AM

we leave tomorrow

10:18 AM

i know you can't answer

10:25 AM

but please, if you can

10:26 AM

be there

They must have warnings in place. Her messages carried the weight of someone being careful—someone who knew the stakes.

No response.

Le Sserafim arrived with the usual fanfare. Cameras flashing. Fans screaming. You watched from the periphery as she emerged from the airport terminal, perfect smile in place, waving to the crowd.

She didn't look for you. Knew better than that.

But you saw the tension in her shoulders. The way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes; not quite the smile she had when she swiped up some of your steak.

Day Fourteen.

No messages.

You checked your phone obsessively. Refreshed the screen until the battery drained to critical. Nothing.

The silence was worse than any words could have been.

The showcase venue was packed—a sea of lightsticks and expectant faces. You stood in the shadows of the VIP section, surrounded by American executives who had no idea you were breaking apart inside.

Le Sserafim performed flawlessly. Of course they did. Chaewon shone like a star brought to earth—her voice clear, her movements precise, her smile blinding.

Not once did her eyes search the crowd. Not once did she falter.

Professional to her core.

You left before the final song. Couldn't bear another moment of proximity without contact.

In your hotel room, you drank two fingers of whiskey and watched the city lights blur through the window.

Your phone remained silent.

Day Sixteen.

You were leaving a restaurant when you saw her.

Across the street, surrounded by managers and security. The group heading into a high-end boutique.

Your driver opened your car door, but you stood frozen, watching as she disappeared inside the shop.

She didn't see you.

When you returned to your hotel, you found a message.

7:03 PM

i saw you today

7:04 PM

you looked tired

You stared at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

No response.

Day Nineteen.

The final showcase. The final night in Los Angeles. Tomorrow, Le Sserafim would fly to New York. You would follow a day later.

You sat in the back row, hidden in shadow. Watched her perform for the last time on American soil.

She was transcendent.

Afterward, you slipped backstage under the pretense of congratulating the team. Your company's biggest assets. Your professional obligation.

She stood with the other members, accepting praise from American executives. Smiling. Nodding. Perfect.

Your eyes met across the room.

One second. Two.

Then she looked away, her expression never changing.

But you saw it—the slight tremble of her hand at her side.

Back in your hotel room, your phone lit up.

8:30 PM

i miss you

8:31 PM

i know i shouldn't say that

8:31 PM

i know i shouldn't even text you

8:32 PM

but i can't do this anymore

8:32 PM

please say something

Your chest tightened. Three weeks of silence, and now this—her desperation breaking through, risking everything.

You stared at the screen, knowing what you should do. Delete. Ignore. Follow the rules that kept her safe.

Instead, your fingers moved.

8:35 PM

The coffee in LA is terrible.

A pause. You could almost see her confusion.

8:36 PM

what?

8:37 PM

that's what you have to say?

You smiled faintly. Even the way you message her—capitalized first letters—is unique from hers.

8:38 PM

I hear New York's is better

Might try it when I get there

8:40 PM

when will you be in new york?

8:41 PM

Tomorrow.

8:41 PM

Early flight.

You weren't supposed to be on tomorrow's flight. You were meant to follow a day later. Keep the distance. Maintain the separation they'd enforced.

8:42 PM

you changed your flight?

8:43 PM

Figured I should see the Empire State Building.

8:43 PM

Heard the view is worth the risk.

Your heart pounded. The careful wording. The hidden meaning. Saying everything without saying anything that could truly incriminate either of you.

8:45 PM

there's a small coffee shop

8:45 PM

by the hotel

8:46 PM

i was planning to go there

8:46 PM

after tomorrow's rehearsal

8:47 PM

around 4

A plan. Hidden in casual conversation.

8:48 PM

Sounds like a good place for coffee.

8:49 PM

it is

8:49 PM

they say it's quiet

8:50 PM

not many people know about it

8:51 PM

I like quiet.

The conversation was innocent enough on the surface. Anyone reading would see nothing but meaningless chatter about coffee.

But between the lines: a plan. A meeting. A rebellion.

8:53 PM

i have to go

8:53 PM

sakura is calling

8:54 PM

don't forget to try the coffee

8:54 PM

it's been too long since you had a good cup

You stared at those last words. The double meaning clear.

8:55 PM

I won't forget.

You deleted the conversation. She would do the same.

But the promise remained.

Tomorrow. New York. 4 PM.

Day Twenty-one would break the rules. Day Twenty-one would change everything.

—

You got to the airport before the others. Boarded the flight before the others. Got the first class treatment that the board thinks you like.

The whole seat had a door. You closed it just in case you saw Chaewon. In case you lost it.

Despite it all, you knew she was there, the wisp of her soft perfume serenaded you even through thick mahogany wood panels—through the opulence of first class.

You kept your eyes fixed on your laptop screen. Work emails you couldn't focus on. Words blurring together as your mind fixed on one thought:

Tomorrow. 4 PM. Her hotel.

The ‘coffee shop’ wasn't a coffee shop at all. You both knew that. A code thin enough that anyone monitoring would see through it, yet plausible enough to maintain deniability.

The flight attendant asked if you wanted champagne. You declined. Asked for water instead. Needed a clear head.

Five hours trapped in a metal tube, knowing she was just rows behind you. Five hours of pretending the center of your universe wasn't within reach.

Your phone buzzed. A text from the Chairman.

‘Landing at JFK ahead of Le Sserafim. Good optics. Keep distance in New York. Almost done.’

Almost done. The words echoed.

Twenty days down. One more to go.

Tomorrow, at 4 PM, you would break every rule they had set. You would go to her hotel. You would see her—really see her—for the first time in three weeks.

And then what?

You had no plan beyond that moment. No strategy for what came after. The executive who planned everything had no contingency for this. A hollow cadaver. Waning the flames that could be easily put if you just resisted.

If only.

The plane took off, carrying you toward New York. Toward her. Toward whatever came next.

You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. All you could think about was her text:

i miss you

Three small words that had unraveled three weeks of carefully maintained distance.

Three small words that weren't the three words you couldn't stop thinking about since that night:

i love you

—

After you left her hotel room, after you hugged her, after you saw her face up close—dangerously close to kissing her—everything collapsed once more. The dregs of your hope were gone once again: You wanted only her. Only her.

You walked past the hallway, trying not to look suspicious under the camera—which, to be frank, was impossible.

And pressed the keycard onto the door, as suspiciously as possible, and entered. With your back to the closed door, you pulled out your phone and messaged her.

4:07 PM

Let’s meet again

4:08 PM

where?

4:08 PM

On the rooftop

4:09 PM

i miss you

4:10 PM

You just saw me.

4:10 PM

i know

4:11 PM

Hang in there. 

Chaewon.

4:11 PM

i like it when you say my name.

4:12 PM

Chaewon, this can end your career.

4:12 PM

i dont care. 

i want you. 

only you.

You slid down the door and sat. With your phone still in hand. 

You’re about to risk everything. Was it love that meant protecting her forever? Was it love that meant you couldn’t still yourself for a month or a year, wait, and wait, until she’s finally free?

Damn it all.

—

Chaewon’s Diary—Part 2 of May 15, 2025

He wants to meet me. On the rooftop.

Why?

Is he gonna kiss me? Is he gonna reject me once more?

Was it even a rejection in the first place? He promised. He promised. Oh god, my head hurts, I can’t think of anything.

All I can think of is him. My executive. 

—

As the sun turns orange in its preparation for slumber, you make your way to the rooftop of the hotel. The elevator chimes, almost too loud, and you enter with a towel on-hand. There’s moments where the shiver runs through your entire body—not out of being scared, but of the possibility of seeing Chaewon again. 

The elevator reaches the top floor. And in your hopes of not seeing anyone there, you were vindicated. No one. Nobody. Just a heated pool with the bougiest accommodations possible.

Thank the heavens, you thought.

Now it’s time to patiently wait, to not gnaw through your teeth like it’s cardboard in anticipation (which is easier said than done).

Regardless, you waited, sitting on one of the chairs, overlooking the sunset. The breeze was chilly, but nothing that you couldn’t endure.

So you waited.

But just for a moment, you closed your eyes.

—

‘Silly.’ 

Your eyes opened.

There she was. Chaewon. In all her glory

In the 2 hours you haven’t seen her, when the sun gained its slightly orange tint, she’s progressed into something like a goddess. Brown bob-cut, a perfect face…. Perfection incarnate.

‘You fell asleep.’

‘Oh.’ That’s about all you could get out; too busy staring at her.

‘I missed you.’

‘It’s been 2 hours.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re about to risk everything.

‘I know.’

‘Your career. Your… everything.’

‘You are my everything.’ She replies—climbing on top of you. Crystalline tears formed around the rims of her eyes.

‘Chaewon. Please.’

‘There’s nothing quite like this… hm?’ She says, amused at how doomed everything seemed to be.

‘Fighting against inevitability.’ You continue. Pressing your thumbs against her cheekbones once again, where tears flow once again. 

‘I’m so selfish.’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t say that… I am too.’ 

‘I thought if I avoided you. Long enough. Maybe, just maybe, we would’ve had a better chance. Look at me now, on you, risking everything.’

She softly collapsed on your chest, huffing her tears. And you spread your palm along her soft hair, this perfect hair.

‘You are so beautiful. Chaewon.’

‘I love you.’

Perhaps this is where it all topples. The final wall, once a 100-story skyscraper, reduced to mere ruins.

And you kiss her; grab the nape of her neck and press yourself closer to the kiss. Her lips. Her soft moans. Little squeals. 

Fuck.

You press yourself against the hotness of her mouth. Her velvety mouth crossed along your own. An apprehensive rush to it—oxymoron be damned—you wanted everything Chaewon—while not crossing any lines.

Despite it all, Chaewon’s soft hands ventured forth to your arms, grasped them tight and placed them right along her thin waist.

She wants it.

She wants you.

And that just about does it.

You release just for a bit. Look at her half-lidded eyes, seemingly, under pure bliss.

‘If we continue…’ You say, each syllable harder than the previous. The fact that you’re here, kissing Chaewon, feeling her body, just as you dreamed, just as you wished for all time—makes it harder to think of all the consequences.

The impending doom—so to speak.

‘You idiot.’ She replies.

‘What?’ 

‘I’ve risked everything and more to be here with you right now. And you think I’ll flake out now? Of all times—now?’

You laugh, so close to her mouth; you stare at her, and she’s attempting eyebrow-knitted frustration that’s more cute than anything else.

‘You’re so cute.’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘You’re everything to me.’ 

‘...So are you.’

Her eyes glisten something transcendent and she moves to kiss you again. That velvety soft mouth, of mint, of something fruity.

Pure bliss.

‘I want you.’ She squeaks out, between the kisses.

‘You have me.’ You reply, accidentally bumping teeth. Soft laughter ensues.

She’s so soft against your palms—the small of her back, the tightness of her waist, the bump of her bra-strap. Inbetween it all, moaning something sweet into your mouth. She releases just for a second, catching a glimpse of you; her lips are all kiss-bitten and swollen, soft and supple; ‘We’re two walking cadavers, you know.’

‘Lust and learning Chaewon. That’s all there is to it.’

Instead of a quick and bratty reply—

‘That’s true.’

Her lips land on yours once again. Flight and apprehensive, her thin arms wrap around you like you’re something to lose: tight enough that you know she’s there.

Her meek body is warm against you—just a shroud of clothing between your hand and her milky skin. You needed her. Wanted her more. An indulgence that satiation could barely meet.

So you flip her over; on this thin pool chair, a little bougie, Chaewon was splayed across.

And god.

It was all worth it. Your executive position on standstill—bound for execution. Your impending exile. All of it.

White t-shirt, thin shorts, and just a smidgen of make-up—lip-stick all smudged along her plump lips.

Being away for just a second was tantamount to hell: You dived in. Her body felt so docile and meek under you—squirming along your hot touch. Surround your thick arms around her thin waist, let her back bend in response, feel her stomach press upon you as you kiss her into the pool chair—little soft squeals the guiding light to it all.

Her hands ventured low to bunch up her t-shirt, and you helped her; really, you wanted to press on her soft naked abdomen, venture up to her naked sternum, feeling the soft naked swell of her—

Her t-shirt slipped off quickly, and there laid her gorgeous torso. 

You pressed kisses along her collarbone; just enough pressure to leave a mark there for days.

Just in case, you say, don’t forget me, just for a day or two.

You press softer kisses along the softer flesh below her collarbone, feeling her skin, really conceptualizing that she’s there. Really fucking there. And you laugh, under your breath; as if Chaewon knew exactly what you were thinking, her palm lands right on your cheek—softly grazing.

‘I’m here.’

‘Right. Right.’ 

Gain composure. This goddess awaits you.

So you venture forth. Along her neck muscle, the soft tendon that trembles under your kiss, the loose skin that gets her squirming under you, muscles tensing. Just below her jaw, you suck on her skin, tight, really tight, until you’re sure that there’s a welting hickey right there.

You observe how the red blooms, slowly gaining almost a purple hue. Nothing could cover that.

‘You’re really asking to be caught.’ She says, almost satisfied you left a mark on her.

‘Are you gonna cover it?’

‘Why would I cover what you give me?’ Her expression is pure seduction. Aphrodite incarnate.

Again, your world exploded.

You kiss her rougher this time. Muss up her hair. Venture beneath her waist. Pull at her firm thighs. Hands venture along the sides of her, your cold fingertips get her softly squirming beneath your touch—shimmers of gooseflesh rising along the delicate curves of her side, right under your fingertips.

The bronze sun shimmers off her torso as something like a masterpiece—faint shadows articulated along her perfect body—different orange, yellow hues bouncing off and enhancing the swells and curves and everything she had.

You pull her waist softly to get it bent again, venturing underneath, feeling her spine; venturing along her spine, the soft swell of it all—she’s here, she wants you, all 2 years of it condensed into this moment.

The bra-strap hits you like a reminder that her bosom was hidden beneath, the gentle swells and curves all a devious hint at what lay under.

So you clip it.

She shivers at the realization. The clip was off. And your hands automatically moved to take it off completely.

Her arms softly push together her torso: Displaying the treasure that laid before you.

Beautiful bronze peaks.

God.

God!

‘Ready the funeral wreaths for me. Chaewon.’

She scoffs. Then a soft laugh choked her up.

Your two hands softly teased the sides of her breasts; the way it surrendered to the slightest force; you ventured across her swell, feeling the desperate softness of her naked breasts. All while kissing her desperately. Your hands felt up and down, side-to-side, until she squirmed for relief: That’s when your fingers brushed over her perfect nipples.

And you had to look.

The way she shivered. God. Biting the side of her index finger. Moaning. Soft. Squealing even as you watched her carefully. The way her tongue traced a wet line along her lips—goading you, Aphrodite.

Your kiss ventured down, the soft tendon of her neck, the firm sternum.

Then finally—her breasts.

You kiss the soft skin.

Circling it.

The part that needed relief.

Teasing her. Even if the perpetuity of a multi-billion dollar company finding a way to bury you was crushing, her presence relieved it all.

Latched on.

‘Ahhh~’

‘Music to my ears.’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘Gladly.’

You dug in. Breaths became rigidly quick. Your other hand massaged the other breast. The nipple between your teeth got the most beautiful notes out of her.

By the time you stopped, her entire body shook.

‘Did you just cum?’

Her weak arm fell softly on your chest—apparently—a punch. 

‘No.’

A sick grin grew on you, and you wrapped your arms around her; kissing her jawline. 

‘You really did cum.’

Before you could do anything, her two hands squished your cheeks together.

‘Take responsibility.’

Trapped between her two small hands, you laugh. ‘I know. I know.’ A soft kiss on her sweat-slick forehead.

Your smirk lingers as you press another kiss against her temple. ‘You’ve got some nerve, you know that?’

Chaewon shifts slightly, resting her chin on your shoulder. ‘Nerve?’ she echoes, voice still breathless.

‘You climbed on top of me, seduced me, came just from me playing with your tits…’ Your hands wander, sliding down the dip of her back, feeling the heat of her skin. ‘And now you’re telling me to take responsibility?’

She hums, fingers tracing light, absentminded shapes on your chest. ‘Mmm. That’s right.’

You chuckle against her perfumed hair—sweet, fruity. ‘And what exactly does ‘taking responsibility’ mean to you?’

Her lips barely brush your ear as she murmurs, ‘It means you don’t stop until I can’t think straight.’

Your breath catches.

And then, you’re moving.

With a swift motion, you flip her onto her back, her body bouncing slightly against the lounge chair. She gasps, eyes wide for only a second before a slow, knowing grin spreads across her lips.

‘Too much?’ you tease, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

Chaewon shakes her head, cheeks flushed, wrists tightening. ‘Not even close.’

You take a moment to admire her like this—laid out beneath you, messy hair spread out over the cushion, lips still kiss-bitten and swollen. Her chest rises and falls with anticipation, and her legs shift restlessly against yours, already needing more.

‘I love this look on you,’ you murmur, tracing your free hand down her side. ‘All desperate and needy.’

Feigning offense, ‘I am not needy.’

‘Oh?’ Your fingers dance along the waistband of her shorts, teasing, not quite moving further. ‘Then what do you call this?’

She squirms. Just slightly. Just enough.

‘I call it,’ she whispers, tugging at her trapped wrists, ‘a challenge.’

Oh.

A thrill rushes through you.

Your grip on her wrists tightens slightly, your knee nudging between her legs, pressing against the wet heat of her core. She gasps, back arching, but you don’t move—just let her feel the pressure, let her know exactly what she’s asking for.

‘Careful, baby,’ you murmur, leaning down, lips hovering just above hers. ‘You might not like what happens when I take that challenge.’

Chaewon’s grin is pure defiance, pure want.

‘Try me.’

And so you do.

Your hand finally slips beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers sliding between her soaked folds, feeling the way she clenches around nothing, already so ready for you.

‘You’re soaked,’ you murmur against her neck, voice full of something dark and satisfied. ‘You’ve been like this since I was playing with your tits, huh?’

She whines, trying to twist her wrists free, but you don’t let her go.

‘You’re not getting out of this,’ you tease, slipping one finger inside her, the velvety pink folds, feeling her tense, then relax, then tighten again as you curl it just right, just fucking right, just until she curls her back to you. ‘You wanted me to take responsibility?’ You slip another finger into her, the tight wetness of her, stretching her slowly. ‘Then take it.’

Her breath stutters. And she moans.

Your thumb circles her clit, slow but firm, coaxing out soft, trembling moans that get swallowed by the night air.

And then, just when she starts getting lost in it—just when her hips start rolling, when she’s clenching desperately around your fingers—you stop.

Your hand is stuck on her wrists, and the other—fucking her senseless.

Her whine is immediate. ‘No, no, don’t—’

You smirk against her throat. ‘Not so fun when I’m the one teasing, huh?’

‘You’re evil.’

‘I’m making sure you really feel it.’ You drag your fingers out completely, holding them up just enough for her to see the way they glisten in the dim light. ‘And you do feel it, don’t you, baby?’

Chaewon glares at you, still breathless, still burning up, but there’s something playful in the way she juts her chin out.

‘Fine,’ she murmurs. ‘If you’re gonna tease…’

Then, before you can react, she hooks her legs around your waist and grinds up against you, rubbing herself against your cock through your pants—needy, desperate, shameless.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp hiss.

‘Shit.’

She grins. ‘What was that?’

You grip her hips, forcing them to still. ‘You really wanna play that game?’

She tilts her head. ‘You gonna stop me?’

No. No, you’re not.

You’re gonna fuck her senseless.

Your grip tightens around her hips, firm enough that she stops moving—but not before you grind back, pressing yourself against the slick heat between her thighs, making her gasp.

‘Chaewon,’ you murmur, voice rough, a warning. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

She exhales shakily, eyes locked onto yours, her body taut beneath you.

‘You sure you’re ready for the consequences?’ You add.

Instead of answering, she licks her lips and tugs at her trapped wrists again. ‘Dear, I forgot about consequences a long time ago.’

You smirk, it’s true. You’re about to fuck her on this pool chair. Open to 360 degrees of vision, just the slightest glimpse and they’d see you fucking Chaewon. The fact that you’d lose your position the moment they saw you within 5 feet of Chaewon, let alone fucking her.

Fight against fate with absurdity.

You shift, focusing on the moment, leaning down so your lips barely ghost over hers. ‘I like you like this,’ you admit, your voice low, teasing. ‘All spread out, squirming, desperate—’

She whimpers when you roll your hips into her again, the friction delicious, just enough to drive her crazy without giving her what she really wants.

‘You’re so mean,’ she breathes, but her body betrays her, arching up, trying to chase more.

You chuckle, finally freeing her wrists—only for her to grab the collar of your shirt and yank you down into a kiss.

It’s messy, all tongue and heat, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer, like she’s trying to mold herself to you completely. You groan into her mouth, one hand gripping her thigh, the other slipping beneath her shorts again, fingers finding their place against her soaked entrance.

She’s so fucking wet.

You tease her with your fingertips, barely dipping inside, a soft squelch, just enough to make her whimper into the kiss.

‘God, you need it, huh?’ you murmur against her lips.

She nods frantically, her hands clawing at your shoulders. ‘Please.’

Your breath catches at how wrecked she already sounds. ‘Please what?’

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t hesitate. ‘Please fuck me.’

You curse under your breath.

Then you sit up, hands moving with quick precision—grabbing the waistband of her shorts and yanking them down her legs, tossing them aside without care.

And finally, she’s bare beneath you.

You take a moment, just looking at her. The way she’s sprawled out, chest rising and falling rapidly, legs slightly parted, glistening with need.

‘You’re perfect.’

Chaewon bites her lip, her gaze flicking down—to where you’re already painfully hard, straining against your pants. She reaches forward, fingers trembling slightly as they brush over you, tracing the outline of your cock.

You let out a sharp breath.

‘You’re still dressed,’ she murmurs. ‘Not fair.’

She’s right.

So you fix it.

You shed your clothes as quickly as possible, the fabric falling to the floor, forgotten. When you look at her again, she’s staring at you—all of you—her lips slightly parted, eyes dark.

Then, slowly, her fingers curl around your cock, stroking once, twice, making your whole body tense.

‘Fuck.’

She grins. ‘That was cute.’

You glare at her, grip tightening on her hips. ‘You wanna see cute? Keep talking.’

She laughs, breathy, and guides you between her legs.

Your tip brushes against her entrance, and her laughter dies into a shaky inhale.

You barely push in, just an inch, feeling how tight, how hot she is, and you both groan at the same time.

Chaewon’s nails dig into your shoulders. ‘More,’ she gasps.

You give her more.

You sink into her inch by inch, stretching her, filling her completely, watching the way her pink lips part as she takes all of you.

She feels unreal.

You curse, head falling to her shoulder, breathing heavily against her skin. ‘You’re so—fuck—you feel so good.’

She’s trembling, her arms wrapping around your back, holding you as close as possible. ‘Move. Please—move.’ she pleads, desperately whispering hot breath into your ear, as you bury yourself into her petite shoulder.

And so you do.

Your hips pull back, then roll forward again, slow, wet, a stretched squelch, setting a slow, deliberate pace—making sure she feels everything. Every inch, every pulse, every deep thrust that has her gasping your name like a prayer.

She’s already falling apart beneath you, legs wrapped around your waist, nails raking down your back.

‘Faster. Oh please, faster.’ she breathes.

You obey.

Your hips snap against hers, faster, deeper, her moans turning into desperate little cries with every thrust.

‘You’re taking me so well,’ you murmur, kissing the shell of her ear, your fingers tangling with hers as you pin her hands above her head again. ‘Like you were made for this.’

She nods frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to do anything but cling to you and feel.

Her lips quiver. ‘I was made for you.’

She finally unravels, clenching around you so tightly, her whole body trembling, a gushing pressure around your cock, her musical chant of bliss filling your ears—you follow right after, burying yourself as deep as possible, spilling into her your entire seed, painting her cervix white, losing yourself completely.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing, tangled limbs, the aftermath of everything you’ve held back for so long.

Then, finally, Chaewon exhales, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw.

‘You’re definitely taking responsibility,’ she whispers.

You chuckle, pressing your forehead against hers.

There’s something nonsensical about it all. You’d rather not think about it. Your lover. The woman of your dreams underneath you, who took your seed, who keeps kissing the shell of your ear like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

But it keeps coming back.

The fact that no one caught you on the rooftop is a miracle.

The fact that maybe tomorrow or the day after is the day you get caught is… reality.

You want to fight everything that distends you from your dream, your everything: Chaewon.

But it’s frail. You can see it in her eyes too. Even as you rest your sweat-slick forehead against hers, blowing soft hairs out of her forehead—you can see tears coast on her red-rimmed eyes.

She loves you.

The near chance that you may be separated tears at you, hacks at your soul.

Your heart has wings for her.

Chaewon.

Your queen.

Aphrodite incarnate.

The only one.

TO BE CONTINUED(?)

[oceantornadoo]

you’ve got a certain captain wrapped around your finger and he’s more than glad to be there.

it’s a celebration of your one year on the team, drinks galore at your favorite local dive in london. johnny insisted on a half-circle booth and as the person of honor, you’re smack dab between him and your captain. your captain who’s been paying your tab all night long, waving off your hands as you try to reach for your wallet.

“lieutenant, give us a dance.” gaz says with a smirk on his face. ghost, on the other side of johnny, is one too many drinks in to move, which means it’s john’s turn to scooch. except he’s leaning his head on the worn wooden backing of the booth, lost in thought. he’s seen you naked in safe houses and shared showers, so why does it feel so obscene to lift yourself over his lap? there’s barely space between his massive thighs and the table, necessitating callused paws to guide your hips over his own. it’s the scrape of denim on denim, your ass firmly over his crotch for a whole second, before he pats your hip to push you all the way. “thanks, cap.” you turn with a glimmer in your eye and he dips his hat like a gentleman of old, making you giggle in your drunken stupor.

you used to hide reactions like these, suffocated by the rigid emotional walls of the military. but now, the team’s given you a safe space to be yourself: a titan on the field and a human with emotions off it.

gaz bows to ask for your hand and you accept with a curtsy. the two of you are the best dancers on the team (not a hard competition to win) and entertain johnny with twists and turns on a dance floor of your own making. he calls out instructions in that grumbly accent of his, causing you to cry with laughter in gaz’s arms. two things happen at once: you go down on the dance floor and simon lurches off the booth. johnny catches him with quick reflexes but you’re not as lucky, landing in a pile of gaz’s limbs and your own.

someone strong lifts you up with hands tucked under your armpits, inducing a ticklish squirm you subdue with years of experience. gaz is up without help, pushing simon back from the other side so he’s straight up again. “righ’ l.t., time to get ye home.” johnny’s strong but the weight and uncoordination of a drunk simon requires gaz’s help as well. “happy anniversary, angel!” he yells out as the three stumble out of the bar and (hopefully) back towards base.

“think he’ll be ok?” despite your alcohol levels, you whip around back towards john, throwing him off guard with raised eyebrows and hands out to steady your shoulders. “man’s a human tank. i’m more worried f’r gaz an’ soap. you ok?” you nod convincingly.

sure, in your year on the team, it’s been necessary to touch your captain. hands brushing over your shoulders as he reaches for his favorite coffee cup in the highest cupboard. fingers crossing as you pour over reports into the wee hours of morning. a fist bump here and there. he slaps his men in the chest but with you he squeezes your shoulder, a movement with longer contact and more thought required. tendons and sinew coming together to acknowledge your own with practiced hand eye coordination. you don’t read into it - he’s just avoiding touching you in an uncomfortable area. you’re familiar enough to initiate it first, a friendly squeeze to his bicep after a rousing pre-battle speech. but touching him has never been like this.

you ask him to become your new dance partner and he does, hands cradling your waist with splayed fingers. your own on the breadth of his shoulders, hard and never ending. instead of the joyful twists you did with gaz, john rocks you slow and steady to the crooning beat of an 80s love song.

“didn’t know you could dance, cap.” he shrugs and it echoes through your grip on him, magnified by a hundred. “every man should be able to waltz.” there was a word he wanted to say after his last and you can’t figure it out, the staccato ending bitter in your ears. instead of pressing, you’re content to sway back and forth. it calms your spinning brain. “got any loved ones yer celebratin’ yer anniversary with?” it’s an oddly personal question, but you doesn’t acknowledge its strangeness. you sway a bit with him before answering, stepping a half foot closer.

“my family and i are celebrating on my next leave. i would celebrate with my close friends, but it’s hard to explain my position without telling them classified information.” he nodded knowingly. the music changes to a faster song but he keeps your peaceful tempo, his chest brushing your own through your well worn civvies. “no’one else?” you shake your head before realizing the implications of what he’s asking. there hasn’t been anyone else for a long time, even before you joined the team. work was busy. once you joined, it felt somehow wrong to seek companionship outside of the four men who’d been gifted to you. one more than others.

“no one else, cap.” his fingers are tracing the small of your back. you can’t tell if he knows or not. before he can say anything, you turn the questions on him. “you got someone you’re going home to?” his eyes meet yours, dark blue and smoldering. “got everythin’ i need righ’ here.” you jump a little at his words. they sober you up instantly as you realize you’re slow dancing with your superior, prolonged eye contact past what’s socially acceptable. he doesn’t let you go too far, tightening his grip on your waist. “had ‘nough?” you nod and clutch your stomach for the full effect. “take me home?” he grabs his coat and dumps it on your shoulders, the intoxicating mix of pine, soap and musk seeping into your pores. john leads you back to base with a hand on your back the whole time.

-

“c’mon, got t’ make sure you’re tucked in alrigh’.” he’s in your barracks room, private thanks to the privilege of your position. you don’t sit down on the bed but he does, seemingly exhausted by the night’s activities. “i knew you were old, but wow.” you nudge his foot to make him look up. when he does its like he’s aged five years, with a scruffier beard and deep wrinkles. “john?” you’re drunk. that’s why you say his name, why you reach out to smooth a crease on his forehead. all the while he’s quiet, content to let you play with his face.

“i’m sorry about last month.” it rolls off your tongue unbidden.

(last month. half a bottle of whiskey in his office. your ass on his desk, his hands on your waist. his beard meets your chin but before he can kiss you, you turn, letting his lips meet your cheek. “i’m sorry.” it comes out as a gasp. he doesn’t say anything, scraping his beard against your cheek. “don’t worry about it.”)

“why’d ya say that?” he murmurs. you shrug. “you seem agitated in my presence. thought it might help.” he gives you an old man groan, peeking an eye out from his hat as you giggle. “y’r killin’ me sweetheart, so i’m askin’ this once. you into this or not? i’ll go home right now.” he’s closer than you thought, almost face-to-stomach.

you pull him closer by his beard until he’s resting against your torso. the angle has to be unflattering with how you’re looking down at him, but he’s not running away screaming. “are you into me even though i turned away?” he bites out a ‘yes’ automatically. you owe him an explanation.

“i got scared. i don’t want to jeopardize my place on this team.” in a move credited to a boot camp instructor somewhere, he flips you so you’re under him on top of the covers, arms pinned by his own. “y’r permanent on this team. no matter what.” you blink at him unbelieving. “laswell picks who comes and leaves. my words are jus’ a suggestion. i’ve barely any influence.” you hardly believe that but when he’s on top of you with these sapphire eyes, it’s hard to deny him.

you kiss your captain slowly like you’ve been wanting to do for months. he captures your bottom lip with his teeth, sucking like he owns your mouth. the pace ebbs and flows, from sweet to possessive in a matter of seconds. “john, oh fuck, john.” you pant out in between kisses. he moves to your neck, sucking the soft skin there. “you gotta promise me.” you nudge him until he gives you his hand. you twist him into a pinky promise, something he didn’t know existed. “i promise, baby. now let me give you your anniversary present.”

-

idk what this is. i’m tired and hungover. pls enjoy.