#like you can let me know if this is the step too far I WILL FULLY UNDERSTAND

[chrissssssmut]

I really like your stories if I may request.... Um can you please write Step Mom Chaewon x male reader, where Chaewon really after is not his father but y/n

My Stepmom's Secret

Chaewon x Male Reader

The scent of jasmine tea hit your nose before the sound of her voice ever did.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You blinked, a little disoriented by the soft warmth of the sun spilling through the kitchen window, and the far more disorienting warmth of Chaewon, standing barefoot on the cold tile, wearing only a long silk robe that clung to her figure like it had no right to. One hand stirred the tea, the other braced on the marble counter. Her hair was slightly damp, probably from the shower, and your eyes — you couldn’t help it — trailed down the curve of her neck to where the robe tied at her waist.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… uh. Morning.”

Chaewon smiled. The same smile she always gave you — just a little too slow. A little too knowing.

“You always get so quiet around me in the mornings,” she said, walking toward the table. “Still shy, even after all this time?”

“I’m not shy,” you muttered, pretending to scroll through your phone. “Just not a morning person.”

She let out a hum, the sound purring low in her throat as she placed a mug of tea in front of you. Her fingers brushed your hand. Deliberate. Lingering.

You didn’t move. You didn’t look up.

Chaewon did, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “I like you quiet, actually,” she said, voice low. “Makes it easier to see what you’re really thinking.”

Your heart kicked once, sharp.

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Oh, you’re definitely thinking something,” she murmured, gaze locked on yours. “I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

“I don’t—”

“You stare at my legs when I’m in shorts,” she continued. “You clench your jaw when I wear this robe. You hold your breath when I walk too close.”

“Chaewon—”

“Say it.” Her voice hardened, just slightly. “Say what you’re thinking right now.”

You stared at her, pulse loud in your ears. The room felt hotter, suddenly. Smaller.

“…You’re my stepmom.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “That’s not what I asked.”

You stood up, too fast, the chair scraping behind you. “I’m not doing this. Where’s Dad?”

She leaned back against the table, crossing her arms — the silk of her robe falling open just enough to hint at the curve of her inner thigh.

“Business trip,” she said simply. “Won’t be back until Monday.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how your brain immediately did the math: that’s six nights.

“You planned this.”

Chaewon tilted her head. “Planned what?”

“This,” you hissed. “You knew he was leaving. You waited until I came home from college for the weekend. You—”

“I’ve always waited for you,” she interrupted. “You think I married him because I loved him? No. I married him because it gave me an excuse to stay close to you.”

Your blood ran cold. Hot. Then cold again.

“I saw you before he even introduced us,” she said, her tone sweet, almost dreamy. “That party, remember? You were standing near the pool, wet hair, a little tipsy. God, you looked like a sin waiting to happen.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

She stepped forward. “I’m in love.”

You backed into the counter, the edge pressing against your hips.

“Do you know how hard it was,” she whispered, “to play the role of the doting wife? To sleep next to a man I don’t care about just so I could stay close to you?”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m devoted,” she corrected, pressing one hand to your chest. “Devoted to you. I’ve waited two years, baby. Every little smile you gave me… every time you accidentally brushed against me walking down the hall… every time you said my name. I burned for you.”

You swallowed hard. “This is wrong.”

“Says who?”

Her lips hovered just inches from yours. Her fingers slipped beneath your shirt, slowly dragging her nails down your abdomen. You didn’t stop her. You didn’t say anything.

Because your body was betraying you. Because the truth was, you had stared at her. Wanted her. Dreamed about her in ways that left you guilty and breathless.

And she knew it.

“I knew you’d want me,” she whispered, tracing your waistband. “It’s in your eyes. The way you’re breathing right now.”

“Fuck…”

Her hand slipped inside your shorts, curling around your half-hard cock like she’d done it a thousand times in her head. You shuddered. She leaned in and kissed your neck, soft and slow, her voice purring against your skin.

“Let me show you what two years of obsession looks like.”

You grabbed her wrist, but your grip was weak. Shaky. She didn’t stop — she stroked you, slow and possessive.

“I thought about you when I touched myself,” she confessed. “Every night. Quiet so your dad wouldn’t hear. But it was always you. Only you.”

You gasped, hips twitching.

“I thought about your mouth,” she breathed, dragging her tongue up your neck, “your fingers, your cock… how good it’d feel inside me.”

“Jesus, Chaewon—”

“I’m yours,” she moaned. “Always have been. So take me.”

You pulled her into a kiss, finally breaking. She tasted like tea and sin. Her hands clawed at your shirt, yours tangled in her robe, tearing the silk apart. You pushed her onto the kitchen table, dishes clattering, and she let out a low moan.

“God, I knew you’d be rough,” she gasped as you shoved her panties aside, fingers plunging inside her slick heat. “I dreamed about this. Being laid out for you.”

Your fingers moved fast, deep, curling to hit the spot that made her cry out.

“Louder,” you growled. “Let the neighbors hear what a fucking mess you are.”

Her thighs trembled. She reached up, dragging you closer, biting your lip as she whispered:

“Fill me. Ruin me. Make me yours.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You tore your shorts off and pressed your cock to her entrance, the slick heat of her body welcoming you in inch by inch. She was tight — impossibly so — and her nails dug into your back as you started thrusting.

“You feel so good,” she moaned, wrapping her legs around your waist. “Better than I imagined. You were made for me.”

Your rhythm grew brutal, desperate. The table creaked under you. Her moans echoed through the house.

“You gonna cum in your stepmom?” she whispered, voice broken with pleasure. “Gonna mark me? Claim me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, thrusts erratic. “Fuck—yes.”

Her body seized under you as she came, crying out your name like a prayer.

And then you followed, groaning against her neck, burying yourself deep inside her with one final thrust.

For a moment, everything was silent. Just your heartbeats. The soft tremble in her thighs. The stickiness between your hips.

Then she whispered:

“Now you can’t leave me.”

You blinked.

“You’re mine,” she said, smiling through the afterglow. “I made sure of it. No more running.”

You stared at her.

Chaewon reached up and cupped your face gently.

“I won’t let you go, baby. I didn’t come this far to lose you now.”

And the terrifying part?

You didn’t want her to let go.

You hadn’t been able to think straight for five days.

Ever since that morning in the kitchen, Chaewon hadn’t let you breathe without her hands somewhere on your body — brushing your chest when you passed by, sitting on your lap during dinner, sucking your fingers under the table. The worst part?

You let her.

You wanted her. Always had. And now that you’d tasted her — claimed her — she wasn’t just in your head anymore.

She was in your blood.

“Come back to bed,” she purred, tugging at the hem of your hoodie. Her body was warm against your side, bare under one of your t-shirts, her breath hot against your neck as you stood by the hallway mirror trying to fix your hair.

“Someone’s gonna come to the door soon,” you said, checking your phone. “That thing I ordered’s out for delivery.”

Chaewon pouted, pressing her hips to your back. “Let them knock.”

You turned, raising an eyebrow. “You're seriously insatiable.”

“I’ve waited two years, baby,” she murmured, slipping her hands into your sweatpants. “You don’t get to complain.”

Your breath hitched as she gripped your cock — already semi-hard from the constant teasing. She smiled at the reaction.

“There he is,” she whispered, kneeling in front of you like a devout worshipper. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

You groaned as her mouth wrapped around your tip — soft, warm, wet. Her tongue circled lazily, eyes locked on yours.

“This is so fucked,” you muttered.

Chaewon pulled off just long enough to whisper, “You love it.”

And you did.

You leaned against the wall as she sucked you deep, her throat taking you inch by inch like she’d trained for it. Her hands dug into your thighs, keeping you from moving. From escaping. Not that you’d even try.

Then the doorbell rang.

You both froze.

Chaewon glanced up with wide eyes — but her mouth never left your cock.

“…Chaewon,” you hissed.

She smirked around you and sucked harder, deliberately bobbing her head as you twitched in her mouth. You heard the doorbell again — and then the sound of a truck idling out front.

“Get the door,” she said breathlessly, pulling off with a pop. “Now.”

“I—what—are you serious?!”

She pushed you toward the door, hand still stroking you fast and wet.

“Open it,” she growled. “I want you to see how good you look with your cock in my mouth while someone else stands right there.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

You cracked the door open just a bit — heart pounding — and there he was: the mailman. Young. Bored. Holding a package and glancing down at the label.

“Package for… uh, Y/N?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Chaewon’s mouth wrapped around you again, hidden just out of sight behind the doorframe. You barely managed to hold your breath.

The mailman squinted. “You okay, dude?”

“Y-Yeah,” you choked out. “Just… allergies.”

Chaewon moaned around your cock. Loud.

You nearly dropped the package.

“Uh… right,” the guy said slowly, handing it over. “Have a good one.”

You slammed the door the second he turned.

“Chaewon—fuck—what the hell is wrong with you?!”

She pulled off, spit connecting her lips to your tip. Her eyes were blown wide with lust.

“You are,” she whispered. “You’re what’s wrong with me.”

And then she swallowed you whole.

You doubled over, hand slamming against the wall. She was ruthless now — bobbing fast, sloppy, desperate. Her eyes welled with tears but she didn’t stop. Didn’t care. She needed this.

“I’m close,” you warned.

She didn’t let up.

You came hard, hips jerking forward as she sucked you dry. She moaned around your release, swallowing it all — eyes fluttering shut like she was tasting something divine.

When you finally pulled back, gasping, she wiped her mouth and licked her lips.

“God, you taste even better when you’re trying not to moan,” she purred.

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy for you,” she said sweetly, standing and wrapping her arms around your neck. “I want you every minute of every day. I want your cock in my mouth when you do the dishes. I want to ride you when you’re on your stupid little Zoom calls. I want to jerk you off under the table while we eat dinner with your dad.”

You stiffened. “He’s back tomorrow.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “You’re not planning to stop.”

She leaned in, brushing your lips with hers.

“I’m planning to ruin you.”

And then she kissed you — slow and deep, her tongue still tasting faintly like you. Her hands wandered south again, never content, always hungry.

“Take me to your room,” she whispered. “And lock the door this time.”

You didn’t think.

You just obeyed.

The front door clicked open around noon.

You were on the couch, pretending to scroll your phone, though you hadn’t read a single word in the last hour. Your skin was still warm from the shower — mostly because Chaewon had joined you halfway through and ridden you against the tile wall like she’d been starving — but your nerves had started to catch up.

And then you heard it:

“Hey! I’m home!”

Your father’s voice.

You stiffened.

Chaewon walked in from the kitchen a second later, already wiping her hands on a towel. She was wearing a soft knit dress, something casual, something subtle — but you knew better now. The neckline was a little too low. The fabric a little too thin. Her smile a little too perfect.

“Welcome back, honey!” she said sweetly, moving to greet him with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Did everything go well?”

“Same old, same old,” he said, dropping his bag. “Tired as hell. God, I missed real food.”

You stood up awkwardly. “Hey, Dad.”

He turned, grinning. “There’s my college man!”

He laughed and pulled you into a side hug. You could feel Chaewon watching. Could feel the heat behind her pleasant little smirk as she stood beside the man she married — a man completely oblivious to the fact that you’d been inside her less than twelve hours ago.

Dinner was quiet. Tense, at least for you.

The table was set like any normal Sunday — steak, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables. Your dad poured wine. Talked about flights and meetings and a coworker who snored in the hotel room next door.

You tried to focus. To nod at the right parts. To laugh when you were supposed to.

But then you felt it.

A hand on your thigh.

You froze.

Chaewon didn’t miss a beat. She cut into her steak, chewed slowly, eyes flicking to yours just for a second — like a dare.

Her hand slid higher.

You glanced at your dad. He was sipping his wine, still mid-sentence about airport security lines.

Her fingers reached your zipper. Undid it.

You shifted in your seat, your fork trembling slightly in your grip.

Chaewon leaned in, casually brushing her shoulder against yours as her hand slipped into your pants. Her fingers curled around your cock, already half-hard from the tension alone.

You clenched your jaw.

“So,” your dad said, smiling at Chaewon. “He’s been behaving while I was gone?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said sweetly, giving your cock a stroke. “He’s been very… obedient.”

You choked on your wine.

Your dad raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

You coughed. “Yeah. Wrong pipe.”

Chaewon’s hand moved slower now — cruel, teasing — stroking you just enough to make it torture. Her thumb grazed your tip. You twitched under the table.

“Dinner’s great,” you managed to say, voice tight.

“I’m glad,” she said, squeezing gently. “I made it just for you.”

You reached for your glass again, desperate for something — anything — to ground yourself. Her hand moved faster. More confident now.

Your father didn’t notice a thing.

“…and then this idiot from procurement tried to expense a whole box of Cuban cigars,” he was saying. “Swore it was for client relations.”

Chaewon’s fingers twisted. You bit your tongue.

Her lips brushed your ear, voice a breathless whisper.

“Be good and I’ll let you cum later. Be bad and I’ll make you beg for it.”

You nearly groaned out loud.

She pulled her hand back just as your dad stood to grab more wine from the fridge. You exhaled like you’d been underwater.

Chaewon leaned over, reaching for the salt — her hand brushing your crotch one last time, like a reward.

“Such a good boy,” she whispered.

You stared at your plate, your appetite gone.

Because the worst part wasn’t the danger. Wasn’t the risk.

It was the fact that you wanted more.

Later that night

The house was still.

You lay in your bed, the sheets kicked off, your breath shallow, your body burning.

You could still feel her hand on you. Still feel the pulse of her voice in your ear. That smug look in her eyes when she cleaned up dinner like a model housewife and kissed your father goodnight with the same mouth that had whispered filth to you under the table.

You heard the bedroom door creak open down the hall.

Footsteps.

Muted.

Your dad’s voice — sleepy.

“Mm… you coming to bed now?”

Chaewon’s voice, soft and sweet. “Just a second, baby. I’ll be right in.”

A pause.

A kiss.

Then the bedroom door closed again.

You waited.

Fifteen seconds. Thirty. A full minute.

Then—

Your door cracked open.

Chaewon stood there in the hallway light, wrapped in a silk robe. Thin, nearly see-through. Her eyes glinted with something wicked.

She stepped in. Closed the door behind her.

You sat up slightly. “Chaewon—”

She pressed a finger to her lips, silencing you.

Then she crawled onto the bed.

Not a word. Not a sound.

She straddled your lap, robe parting just enough to show that there was nothing underneath.

You whispered, “He’s still awake—”

“And I’m still wet,” she whispered back, rolling her hips into yours. “You’ve been making me crazy all day.”

You swallowed hard.

She leaned in and kissed you — slow, hungry, the kind of kiss that made you forget your own name. Her hands pushed your shirt up. You felt her nipples brush your chest, already hard.

“I tucked him in,” she whispered. “Even gave him a little kiss on the forehead. Told him I loved him.”

You shivered.

“And now,” she said, biting your bottom lip, “I’m going to ride his son like a filthy slut.”

You groaned.

She untied the robe slowly, shrugging it off her shoulders like a present just for you. Her body was perfect in the moonlight — soft curves, tight waist, thighs that trembled with anticipation.

She reached between you, guided you to her entrance.

And then sank down with a gasp.

You clutched her hips, trying not to moan. Her walls hugged you, warm and slick, and she arched her back as she took every inch, her head tipping back with a silent cry.

“Fuck…” she breathed. “You feel even better when I know he’s asleep down the hall.”

She began to move.

Slow at first — grinding in little circles — her hands braced on your chest. Her pace built with each bounce, her breath coming faster, skin slapping against yours in faint, wet rhythm.

Your fingers dug into her waist. “Chaewon—”

“Shhh,” she hissed, smirking. “Do you want him to hear me moan your name?”

You bit your tongue, barely holding it together.

Chaewon leaned close again, her lips brushing your ear. “You like this? Knowing I’m his wife, but I’m only yours when the lights go out?”

You nodded, breathless.

She grinned, licking a stripe up your neck. “Good. Because I’m not stopping until you cum so hard it hurts.”

She slammed down harder now, faster, her thighs quivering, her mouth open in breathless pleasure. Her nails scraped your chest. Her voice — barely a whisper — poured filth into your ear like honey:

“Call me mommy again. Go on. Whisper it.”

You choked on your groan. “Mommy…”

“Louder.”

“Mommy—!”

She clenched around you with a gasp, her orgasm hitting fast and fierce. You felt it — her whole body trembling, pussy gripping you like a vice.

And then you couldn’t hold it anymore.

You came inside her, hard, your hips jerking as she rode you through it — milking you dry with each slow grind of her soaked cunt.

When it was done, she collapsed on your chest, both of you panting in the dark.

After a long moment, she giggled.

“Still think I’m just your stepmom?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “You’re a fucking menace.”

She nuzzled into your neck. “And you’re mine.”

Then she kissed you one more time — sweetly this time — and whispered:

“Don’t fall asleep yet. I want a second round in the shower.”

Ten minutes later

The bathroom was filled with steam.

Water ran hot from the showerhead, fogging the mirror, hissing over tile. You leaned against the wall, barely able to stand, body still recovering from the first time she wrecked you.

Chaewon pressed up against your back, her arms wrapped around your waist from behind, her breasts warm against your spine. She kissed a line across your shoulder, hands already moving again — relentless, greedy.

“I wasn’t kidding,” she whispered. “I need more.”

You groaned as she slid one hand down your stomach, fingers wrapping around your cock — already hard again. Her other hand braced against your chest.

“Chaewon…” you panted. “You’re insatiable.”

“Mmhmm,” she purred. “You’ve ruined me. I can’t get enough.”

She began to stroke you — slow and teasing — her lips brushing your neck, her thighs slick against yours. You thrust into her hand, already pulsing.

Then—

A knock.

Both of you froze.

“Hey, bud?” your dad’s voice came through the door, muffled. “You in the shower?”

Your blood turned to ice.

Chaewon’s eyes went wide.

You opened your mouth to respond but she slapped a hand over it.

“Shhh,” she mouthed.

Your heart pounded.

“I—uh—yeah,” you called out, your voice cracking slightly. “Just… just taking a quick one.”

“Alright. Thought I heard something,” your dad said from the hallway. “You good?”

You nodded — stupidly, as if he could see you — and croaked out: “Yeah. Totally fine.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Okay. Just checking. Night, kid.”

You waited, breath frozen in your lungs, until the footsteps faded.

Then you turned to Chaewon.

“What the fuck was that?!”

She grinned.

And then sank to her knees.

“No one said I had to stop.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The water poured down over her as she wrapped her lips around you — warm, wet, and sinfully good. Her tongue worked expertly, her eyes locked on yours, daring you to make a sound.

Your back hit the tile wall as you gripped her soaked hair, biting your lip to keep from groaning out loud.

She was relentless. Her mouth slid deeper with each bob of her head, her hand stroking your base, her other hand cupping your balls, rolling them gently.

You hissed. “He’s still awake…”

She popped off for a second. “Then be quiet.”

And just like that, she took you in again — this time deeper, letting you hit the back of her throat. She moaned around you, the vibrations making your knees buckle.

It was torture. Blissful, cruel torture.

And then she pulled off with a wet gasp, stood up, and turned around, pressing her palms to the wall.

She looked over her shoulder.

“Take me. Now. Quietly.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You grabbed her hips, lined yourself up, and slid inside her soaking core — hot, tight, perfect.

She bit her hand to keep from crying out, her body arching back into yours. You began to move — slow but deep, every thrust making her press her face into her arm to muffle the sounds.

Her walls fluttered around you. She was close again.

So were you.

And right as your climax built, she whispered, “Cum in me. Do it. Fill me up while your dad sleeps two rooms away.”

You didn’t last another second.

You exploded inside her with a muffled groan, your hand over your mouth, hips slamming forward as she clenched around you in ecstasy.

You both collapsed under the stream of water, breathing hard, hearts racing.

She leaned back against you, eyes fluttering shut. “That,” she whispered, “was so fucking hot.”

You stared at her, chest heaving.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

She smirked.

“Only if your dad doesn’t catch us first.”

[misctf]

Safe Space Spray

Owen picked up his phone and dialed Jake's number as he drove along the winding country road leading to Jake's family cabin. The warm southern sun beat down through the windshield while classic rock played softly from the speakers. After a few rings, Jake answered.

“Well hey there partner!” Jake's cheerful voice came through the speaker. “How far ya'll out?”

“Not too much longer now,” Owen replied, his deep southern drawl rolling through each word, “I reckon 'bout thirty minutes tops. That fishing hole better be swimmin' with catfish like you said!”

“My mama didn’t raise no liar.” Jake replied, his hearty laugh echoing over the phone.

Owen smiled. This was gonna be the best fishin’ trip yet. As the call continued, Owen kept his eyes on the road ahead, the vast expanse of rural landscape stretching out before him. Suddenly, something caught his eye- a small figure standing beside a broken-down vehicle on the shoulder.

“Aw shucks, looks like some fella's car done gone and quit on 'im.” Owen muttered to himself as he slowed his truck, “Jake, I reckon I’ll be by later. I’m gonna see if I can lend a hand.”

Owen pulled his pickup truck over onto the gravelly shoulder behind the stranded vehicle. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his short brown hair and approached the man hunched over the open hood.

“Howdy there! Looks like you're havin' some trouble with your ride. Name's Owen, I'm pretty handy with fixin' things if you need a lendin' hand.” He called out in his friendly drawl.

The stranger, a slender young man with styled blonde hair, whirled around. His eyes widened in surprise and apprehension as he took in Owen's appearance. The twink's hands shook slightly as he reached into his pocket and aimed what looked like a small spray bottle directly at Owen.

“I-I don't want any trouble!” the blonde stammered, his voice high-pitched with anxiety.

Before Owen could react, the twink pressed down on the trigger, unleashing a fine mist across his handsome face and chest. Owen blinked and coughed, shaking his head slightly as droplets hit his face and clothes. It didn’t sting or burn. It felt like water.

“The hell was that for?” Owen demanded, his brow furrowing in confusion and annoyance, “I ain't here to cause you no harm, bud. Just tryin' to help.”

“I-I'm sorry!” The twink squeaked, “Around here, you don't know what kind of people you'll run into.”

Owen sighed heavily, wiping his brow, “Listen here, I understand yer cautious. But I promise you, I mean no ill intent. Let me take a look at yer car, see if I can get 'er runnin' again.”

The blonde hesitated briefly before nodding, “Okay... I guess that would be okay. Thank you.” He stepped aside, allowing Owen access to the vehicle.

As Owen popped the hood, he furrowed his brow in concentration, his large hands working deftly under the hood. However, he found himself growing increasingly clumsy and uncoordinated, fumbling with tools he'd handled with ease a hundred times before.

“I swear...” he muttered, his words coming out slightly slurred, “This oughta be a cinch for me...”

He fumbled with the engine components, his large hands suddenly feeling clumsy and unfamiliar. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled to focus. Just then, the twink appeared at his side, holding out a bottled water.

“Here, you must be thirsty after all this work.”

Without thinking, Owen took the bottle and chirped in an impossibly high, effeminate voice, “Thanks sis!”

Owen froze, his eyes widening as the words left his mouth. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he gripped the edge of the car hood for support. Shaking his head, he tried to push the strange moment from his mind.

“Uh, thanks kindly.” he mumbled, taking a long swig of water to cover his embarrassment.

He turned back to the engine, determined to finish the repair quickly so he could be on his way.

With renewed focus (and a touch more difficulty), Owen worked to diagnose and fix the issue. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he stepped back as the engine roared to life.

“There ya go, as good as new!” He grinned at Paul, wiping his hands on a rag.

As Owen straightened up and turned to face Paul fully, he couldn't help but really notice the younger man for the first time. Paul's delicate features, stylish hair, and slim physique suddenly seemed incredibly appealing. Their eyes locked- Paul’s deep blue captivating Owen’s. Owen felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest and his dick stir ever so slightly in his increasingly tighter jeans.

“You've been an absolute lifesaver.” Paul gushed, flashing Owen a dazzling smile. He stepped closer, the two now the same height. Owen could’ve sworn he had been taller, “If you ever find yourself in the city, call me. I'd love to thank you properly.” He slipped a piece of paper into Owen’s pocket with a playful wink.

Owen felt a flush creep up his neck at the suggestive tone. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure despite the odd sensations still tingling through his body.

“Ah, well, just doin' what any decent fella would do.”

Owen watched as Paul slid gracefully into his car, the movement highlighting the pert curve of his ass. He swallowed thickly, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn't quite explain. As Paul drove away, Owen looked down and saw the discarded can that Paul sprayed him with earlier.

“He must’ve forgotten it.” Owen frowned inspecting the strange bottle, “Safe Space Spray... what in the world...” He chuckled, “I reckon I’ll get it to ‘em when I see ‘em next.” He paused, “What the hell am I thinkin’. I ain’t seein’ him again...”

But he wasn’t sure he could even convince himself. He wanted to see him again... Owen shook his head and placed the can in his pocket before climbing back into his own truck. With a sigh, he reached for the ignition but recoiled at the sight of his hand.

“What in the...”

Owen stared at his hand in shock, noting the slight tremor and how it almost seemed to have lost some of its natural ruggedness. His callouses... gone. His nails... well-manicured. Alarmed, he gripped the steering wheel tightly and peeled out, speeding towards Jake's cabin with an urgency he couldn't explain. As he drove, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he noticed his hair looked shaggier, his facial features softening.

“What in tarnation is happenin' to me?” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. He tried to rationalize it, blaming stress or exhaustion, but he knew it was something more.

Just then, he squirmed in his seat as his ass inflated, his previously snug jeans straining against the growing mounds. And with each bump in the road, Owen stifled a moan as jolts of unfamiliar pleasure rushed through his groin.

“No, no, no... Oh my GAWD!” He whimpered, cringing at the loss of his rich Southern drawl- replaced now by words colored by a nasally, high-pitched timbre, “Like... this is totally not okay!”

Owen finally arrived at Jake's cabin, tires screeching as he parked haphazardly. He stumbled out of the truck, trying to balance himself given his now fat ass. He can hear Jake outside, gathering wood for a bonfire and he bites his tongue before sauntering towards the door.

“I-I have to get inside... hide this from Jake...” He whimpered, “How... why is this...?” His eyes widen, “The spray!” He squealed, “I need to like... totally wash this off!”

Owen practically sprinted to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. With trembling hands, he began tearing at his clothes, buttons flying as he stripped. He stood naked in front of the mirror, hardly recognizing the reflection staring back at him.

His once broad shoulders had narrowed, his pecs shrinking into perky little mounds with cute pink nipples. Below, his six-pack had melted away, leaving behind a smooth, hairless torso. And between his legs... Owen gasped, covering his mouth as he saw the nub that had once been his proud cock.

“Oh em gee...” He whined, “I'm like... a total twink now!” Tears pricked at his eyes as he reached for the shower knob with slender fingers. Steam billowed out as he stepped under the hot spray, hoping the water might somehow reverse these changes.

Owen lathered up a loofah, scrubbing at his skin vigorously. To his horror, he watched clumps of any remaining dark body hair rinse away down the drain, leaving behind silky smooth flesh. Scars and rough patches vanished, his complexion becoming flawlessly soft and clear.

“Eep!” He yelped as his hands brushed lower, encountering the plush globes of his ass. They seemed to swell and expand with every passing second, growing rounder and fuller until they were each easily a handful. Owen couldn't resist giving them a tentative squeeze, marveling at their suppleness- imagining another man playing with them.

A breathy moan escaped his increasingly plumper lips as he kneaded the doughy cheeks, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through his core- thoughts of muscular men squeezing his ass filled his head.

“Oh fuck yes.... I wonder...” Curiosity got the better of him as he inserted a digit inside his virgin hole. It stretched deliciously around the intrusion and Owen saw stars, his neglected cock weeping steadily. He pumped the finger faster, soon adding a second, then a third, “Oh.... Ohhhhhhh....” He moaned, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head, “I'm... I'm gonna... cum!”

Owen let out a long moan as his entire body seized and his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave. He slumped to the shower’s floor, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over. After a few moments of basking in his post-orgasm bliss, the new twink slowly stood up and exited the shower. He walked over to his bed and collapsed- the day’s events exacting their toll on him.

“What the hell!?” Owen looked up- a shocked expression gracing his cute features.

“J-Jake! I... um...It’s me! It’s Owen!” Owen stammered, his voice pitching higher than normal. He made no attempt to cover himself, proud now to flaunt his assets. And besides, why had he never noticed how sexy Jake was before?

Jake's jaw dropped, his eyes bulging as he took in the shocking sight before him. There were few, if any similarities between him and his friend. But there were enough.

“Holy shit, Owen?! What happened to you?”

Owen's eyes lit up as a mischievous grin spread across his glossy lips, “Oh sweetie, you wouldn't believe the wild ride I've been on!” He giggled.

Reaching over to the pile of discarded clothes, he fished out the mysterious spray can. Jake looked at his friend, and then to the can, and then back up to his friend.

“Wha...”

Without warning, Owen pressed down on the trigger, unleashing another fine mist straight into Jake's stunned, handsome face...

[dreamauri]

Hi sweetheart, I saw you're taking requests, so I'm going to take advantage and make one. Sub Charles. We all saw how well he looks in his pilot suit and how tight it can get. Before the race, the reader kisses him and gets him really hot, then the reader sees the bulge in his suit and goes crazy. After the race, she helps him solve his big problem

♪ — 𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗖𝗛 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗚𝗢 charles leclerc x girlfriend! reader ( suggestive ) fic summary , Before the race, it’s just a kiss — soft, simple, nothing more. But by the time the podium’s climbed and the door shuts behind him, you both know exactly how far that kiss was always meant to go (0.5K)

( main master list | more of charles leclerc ) ( requests )

The room is small, lit by the sunburnt glow leaking through tinted windows, and smells faintly of citrus and engine oil. You're sitting on the edge of his chair, your legs crossed, arms lazily draped over the sides, like you own the place. Like you own him.

And maybe, in this moment, you do.

Charles is pacing, half-zipping up his race suit, brows furrowed in a way you know means nervous but trying to look cool. You watch him with a smile that is all fire and mischief, propping your chin in your hand.

"You’re gonna kill it out there," you murmur.

He stops. Turns to you. Smiles—just a little, but it's real.

"Come here," he says, and his voice is already lower than it should be. Already cracking under the weight of you.

You rise, step over like it’s choreography, and press a soft kiss to his lips. Meant to be sweet. Barely a breath. Barely a spark.

But then—

You tilt your head.

He pulls you closer.

One second becomes two. Three. The air between you thins. Your hands move on instinct, one slipping into his hair, the other ghosting over the curve of his waist.

You both lean in, too far, too fast—and hips brush.

Click.

Something unspoken shifts. You feel it before you see it: the way his breath catches, the way his fingers twitch against your back. Then you see it—him—the proof of exactly what you've done to him, tight and obvious through the red fabric of his race suit.

“Oh,” you say, eyes gleaming. “Is that for me?”

Charles groans softly, burying his face in the crook of your neck like it’ll save him from you. It won’t.

“You’ve got a race in ten minutes, baby,” you whisper, teasing fingers tracing the edge of his waistband, your palm flattening—pressing—just enough against his bulge, almost palming him. “But you’re already so . . . tense.”

“Mon dieu,” he hisses, head tilting back. “You’re evil.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, lips brushing his jaw. “Maybe I just like the idea of you driving with this kind of… motivation.”

He kisses you again, harder this time, desperate and rushed and messy. His hands are in your hair, your shirt is wrinkled, and there’s heat in every kiss that promises more than either of you has time for.

Then, with visible pain and supreme restraint, he pulls away.

“I have to go,” he says, voice strained. “I can’t be late.”

You pout, letting your hand fall away—just before he completely unravels.

“Fine. Go finish third,” you tease. “And come back here hard again.”

"Why P3?"

He does finish third. Ferrari’s first podium this season. The whole paddock is buzzing. Charles is flushed with champagne and adrenaline when he finds you in his room again, changed into your oversized Ferrari tee, looking like a sin disguised as support.

He closes the door behind him and leans against it.

You’re already walking over.

“Still tense?” you ask, fingers dancing over his chest, tracing the zipper down ever so slightly.

He looks at you like a man undone. His eyes say please. His lips say nothing.

You grin.

“Don’t worry,” you purr, sinking slowly to your knees, your fingers brushing the inside of his thigh. “Let me help you celebrate properly.”

His breath stutters. His hands thread through your hair.

[selfloverrrrrr]

Hiii can i please req yandere megumi corrupting innocent reader?😫😫 like reader is so helpless against gumi who’s like 2x bigger than her

Stealing?

Warnings : smut , heavy smut, unprotected sex, Noncon, Kidnapping, physically and emotional abuse, biting, size difference, Yandere Megumi, protective, jealous, obsessive, manipulative....

( All characters are aged up/18+)

Minors Do Not Interact

Read the warnings carefully....if you don't like my stories block me not report

Y/N’s POV

College is… chaotic. The kind of chaos where I am constantly juggling assignments, and trying not to lose your mind from the pressure. I loved my friend circles as well. Nobara, the girl who always helps me out with my overthinkings. She's the best girl's girl I've ever know. Then yuji. She's such a sweet gut. Funny, sweet. He's too.... Well let's not talk about that now... Then Megumi. He’s always been there. Quiet, composed, eyes that say too much but lips that stay sealed. I always felt safe around him. He walks me to classes, waits when it’s dark, and steps in when some creepy guy tries to hit on me in the library.

“Hey, Y/N,” Nobara waved as she jogged over. “You coming to training?” she asked. “Yeah. I wanna catch up with Yuji and Megumi too.” I replied. Then after the training is done. We were walking towards our Campus again when we heard a whistle. Looked at the direction. Saw a guy of our campus looking at me *creepy*. He disgustingly signed for a blow job pointing towards his dick. And after that yuji was about to launch but Megumi was faster.

He grabbed that guy's neck with one hand and pushed him to the wall. We all gasped. "Look at her again you'll know what the hell looks like in seconds" Megumi muttered. The guy was struggling to breathe. One of that guy's friends came to save. But when he tried to reach megumi grabbed his hand with his other hand and twisted it. He screamed in pain. "Megumi let him go... He'll die" I said. "Yes that's enough don't be too rough... If does this again we'll see... Let him go now" Yuji said and Nobara nodded.

Megumi finally let them go and they ran gasping for air. "I didn't know Megumi's like that.... I mean he seems like a silent guy" I whispered to Nobara. "He is like this actually... He used to beat up guys in high school who used to bother him. The whole school used to fear him" Nobara whispered back. I gave her a shocked look. "Yes... This emo isn't that emo you think he is" She whispered and laughed.

Megumi’s POV. Few days later.

It was too early for training today. Yuji was half-asleep, drooling on my shoulder. I didn’t have the heart to push him off—not that he’d wake up anyway. We were waiting for the others to show up for technique sparring, but my mind was far from training. Y/N walked by. Her hair tied in a loose ponytail. Hoodie too big. Laughing softly at something Nobara said. She didn’t even notice what she does to me.

She never notices how I follow her when she’s walking alone at night to make sure she’s safe. How I memorize every outfit she wears, every guy she speaks to, every look she gives. She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet. "You're drooling, idiot," I muttered to Yuji, but he didn’t even twitch. Suddenly, I felt it—a shift in energy. The lazy weight on my shoulder grew tense. A low chuckle slithered into my ear like venom.

"I know... She's hot." I snapped my head. Yuji was no longer Yuji. Sukuna. He was smirking. "Get the fuck out," I hissed. “Relax, kid. I just wanted to say… you’ve got taste. That girl—Y/N, right? Delicious little thing” Sukuna teased, eyes flicking to Y/N. "You do like her, don’t you? Don’t lie. I'm not an idiot like the rest of these dumbasses." He said. I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He laughed again, voice low and dangerous. "You’re so quiet about it. Lurking like a shadow. But you haven’t done anything, have you? Haven’t even kissed her. Tch... pathetic."

"She’s my..........we're just friend." I said. "You sure Yuji sees her that way as well?" Sukuna leaned in. "You don’t know about their late-night chats? Every night, Megumi. While you're asleep like a good little guard dog, your best friend is texting your girl." He said. My heart dropped. "You're lying." I said. "Am I?" Sukuna grinned, devilish. "I'm stuck with this brat 24/7. I see everything. The way he blushes when she texts back. The way he types and deletes messages like a nervous virgin. And trust me, you really don’t wanna know what kind of things they talk about sometimes."

I clenched my jaw. Hard. "You're trying to get in my head." I replied. "Am I?" Sukuna echoed. "You think he’s innocent? He’s a teenage boy with zero filter and a pretty girl giving him attention. Do you think he’s just talking about school and cursed techniques?" I hated how my stomach turned. How something cold twisted in my chest.

"You’re pathetic, Megumi," Sukuna whispered like poison. "You sit and watch. Let him flirt. Let her laugh at his jokes. You protect her, worship her from afar… while someone else is inching into her bed....You’re weak, Fushiguro. You could have had her years ago. But now, you’re watching her slip through your fingers like a coward. What are you waiting for? For Yuji to stick his cock in her first?” he said.

“Shut up.” I almost screamed. My heart arched. “Take her. Mark her. Chain her to your fucking bed if you have to. She’s yours. Not his.” he said. “You’re insane.” I said but my heart didn't agree with my words. “No. I’m just honest. You think love is gentle? It’s possession. It’s war. She needs to learn that.” sukuna said. “You’re wasting time protecting her like she’s some princess,” Sukuna sneered. “She doesn’t need a knight. She needs a master. Someone who’ll show her who she belongs to. Who’ll make her kneel and learn.”

“That’s not—” “What’s stopping you?” Sukuna cut me off. “Your morals? Your cowardice? You think that’ll keep her from spreading her legs for someone else?” he asked. My heart pounded. “Face it,” Sukuna continued, voice slithering through my ear like poison. “You’re not gonna win her by being soft. You’re going to lose her. Unless you make her yours. Break her if you have to. Love like yours doesn’t need permission. It needs control.”

“You think she’ll hate you for it? Who cares? Let her hate you. Fear makes people loyal. Fear makes them yours" he said. And just then Yuji groaned and slowly opened his eyes, stretching like he hadn’t just been possessed by a monster. I didn’t say anything. My head was burning. I needed proof.

Later that afternoon, Nobara invited us to sit together outside the cafeteria. I pretended to scroll my phone, watching Y/N and Yuji across the table. Laughing. So close their knees touched. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and she giggled. I waited for her to leave her phone on the table when she went to grab a drink. Yuji had gone with her. The moment they were gone, I reached for her phone. Opened the chat. Scanned. My blood ran cold.

Yuji: “That little skirt you wore yesterday? You really trying to kill me?”

Y/N: “Haha stopppp.”

Yuji: “Not joking. If you wore that in my room, I don’t think I’d let you leave.”

Y/N: “You're bad.”

Yuji: “Wanna be worse?”

There was a photo. Yuji. Lying back in his dorm bed. Shirtless. Sweatpants low on his hips. His hand was clearly inside the waistband. I scrolled.

Yuji: “You thinking about me now?”

Y/N: “Maybe.”

Yuji: “What would you do if I pulled you into my lap right now?”

Y/N: “Depends. Would you let me go?”

Yuji: “Not a fucking chance.”

My grip tightened around her phone. My knuckles went white. Another photo. A mirror selfie this time—sweatpants again. No shirt. The message below it:

Yuji: “Imagine me behind you like this. My hand under that cute little shirt you wear to bed.”

And she replied?!

Y/N: “Flirt much,huh? 🤭”

Yuji: “it's you after all.”

I know they hadn’t done anything yet. But it was close. It was dangerous. He was pushing it, and she was letting him. She trusted me. She talked to me about books. Walked beside me in silence. Called me “calm in the chaos.” And all this time she was letting Yuji talk to her like this? “Make her yours… Fuck her before this brat puts his dick inside her…” Sukuna’s words echoed again, like a goddamn curse, coiling around my brain. I looked up. They were still at the vending machine. Laughing. His hand brushed her back like it was nothing. Like he owned her. But he didn’t. He never would.

As the cafeteria crowd thinned, I stood up. "Hey, Y/N," I said casually, stepping behind her chair. "Can I talk to you?" She turned to me, all innocent eyes and soft curiosity. "Yeah, of course. What’s up?" “Privately.” I said. She blinked, then nodded, grabbing her drink. “Sure.” she replied. "Can you please come to my droom.... I really need to tell you something" I said. "It's okay..... We can go now. I was about to go to my droom anyways" She replied. Good.

Y/n's pov

We walked to his droom room. He opened the door. "You first" He said. I went inside the he. He locked the door. "Yk your droom always smells good and-" I was saying and suddenly he grabbed my face and kissed me. Roughly. Too roughly that I almost couldn't breathe. My bag fell on the floor. He tried to push his tongue in my mouth but I kept it close. I pushed him away. "What are you doing?!?!" I said loudly.

He just looked at me. I can't even get outside he's standing in front of the door. He threw his bag on the floor. Still staring at me. I walked back. He's walking towards me. "Megumi stop!" I said panicking. "Now you're scared of me? After all these days I've protected you from everyone?" He asked. "Megumi what's wrong with you?!" I said. I didn't realize and my back the door behind me. I was trapped. "Everything is wrong with me" He said. Then he opened the door and pushed me inside.

"Wait... Megumi stop please!" I said. He didn't replied. He closed the door and threw me on the bed. "Take off your clothes" He said. A shiver runs through my spine. "........what?" I asked. "You want me to rip that off?" He asked. "Megumi I-" He cut me off again. "I see what it is" He said and went up the bed. I was scared and tried to back off but Megumi grabbed my top and pulled it over my head and threw it on the floor. "Megumi stop!" I screamed and tried to cover myself. "Should have think about it before flirting with Yuji" He said leaning close.

"M-Megumi stop this please!" I said. "You weren't saying this when yuji was flirting with you" He said leaning close and pressing his lips on mine. I tried to push him away but he was pulling me closer. His hand slid to my chest and squeezed it. My body jerked off. I turned my head to the left to prevent his kiss. But he started kissing and licking my neck and jaw.

I grabbed his hand to stop him but he squeezed harder. I screamed. "Megumi stop this!" I said. "You thought I won't know?" He asked. He licked downwards and captured a nipple in his mouth, sucking on it. I was trying to push him away. "Megumi stop!!!!" Screamed. He looked up. And pulled down my pants with panties using one hand while looking at me. "I had planned everything how you gonna be mine how everything's gonna work out until you decided to go to the wrong person" He said.

I was breathing heavily. "Please I won't do anything again please-" He cuts off "you think I'm dumb like Yuji?" He asked and took off his sweatpants. He wasn't wearing anything underneath. He was pinning me under him. I looked away. He grabbed my chin and made me look at him again. "Don't look away.... I've waited for this for days...." He said a smirk appeared on his face.

He lined himself with me. "Megumi please please don't do this... Please! I'm begging you! I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry please!" I begged. Tears appear in my eyes. But he didn't. He pushed inside. I threw my head back. My back arched. I can't.... I can't. It's too big. It's thick. It hurts. He jerked forward and he was fully inside. I screamed.

It's too much. I've never done this before! I don't want it. I didn't realize when I started crying. He started thrusting. "Fuck.... Mmmhhhh..... Ahhh.... Fuckkkk.... Feels good.... Too good.... Ughhhhhh" He said between groans and moans. He looked down and me smirking. "Don't worry you'll get used to it" He said. He kept thrusting.I scremed. He didn't even give me time to adjust his size and started thursting in and out roughly. I was throwing my legs from pain and begging him to stop. And he was liking it so much. His thrust became harder and harder. I clenched around him tightly and he moaned loudly " ughhhhhh....ahhh s-so...ahhhh....so f-fucking tight " he started rubbing my clit with his thumb.

I bite his shoulder scratched his back to control myself. With a few more thurst I came. He was still thrusting roughly. I felt his cock pulsing inside me. I tried to push him away with all of my strength." Ughh...no no no no...ahhhhhh...no please no....ahhhhhh..... n-not ahhhh.....not inside... please please.... please Megumi I'm begging you....you're not even using protection" I told him between hiccups. He grabbed my throat and chocked me down to the bed.

"Isn't that more fun?" He said calmly with a smirk. I couldn't even believe what was happening to me. How could Megumi do this to me. Weren't we good friends??? The boy always kept silent, so the innocent is doing the most devilish thing to me??!! Within a minute he came inside me I could feel his seed inside me. He pulled out.

"You are mine... You always have been! No one will take you away from me! I'll keep breaking you until you understand that I am the one for you" He said biting my lip.

Give me your requests guys....

I love when you give me your requests 💗

[solastarr]

Coming Soon…

Both Ain’t Shit- smoke vers.

Stack Moore x Black Reader

Genre: Smut with plot

Summary: You and Smoke have been having a little fling for a while now. But Smoke goes too far. And now it’s time to show him you can play the game just as well as him, and remind him who he’s dealing with.

Teaser:

Because even when he’s out chasing whatever new girl that caught his eye, he still ends up in my bed. He might go ghost for a day or two, but he always shows back up with that same sorry ass smirk like he ain’t been doing me wrong. But I know I mean something to him because I’m the one he slips up and calls when he’s drunk, the one he trusts with his silence, his stress, his secrets. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not the only one he touches, but I’m the only one that sees Elijah Moore. They might get Smoke, but I get both. And maybe that makes me just as dumb as them, but at least I’m the one he always runs back to. Even if he pretends like he’s just passing through.

 I don’t return the energy—not 'cause I’m loyal, but 'cause none of them other dudes make me feel what Smoke do. They don’t got that pull. They don’t got that calm but dangerous aura that make your knees weak and pride nonexistent. And I hate that. I hate that I crave the same man that got me second-guessing my worth, but still got the power to fuck me like I’m the only woman in the world. They couldn’t handle me anyway—not like he can. So I let him think he winning… while I lose my damn mind behind closed doors.

Another little tease because i like y’all 😚:

“You wasn’t gon’ fuck him.”

“Wanna bet?”

He snatched the glass from my hand, set it down rough, stepped between my knees.

“Say that shit again.”

I looked up, lips parted. “I was gon’ let him taste every inch of me… then let him sleep right where you do.”

His hand was around my throat in a flash—tight, hot, possessive.

“You gon’ let another man lay where I sleep?” he growled.

I smiled, breath hitching. “I was gon’ let him do more than that.”

~ ayeee #badbitchy/n i’m still working on this fic but i hope yall like it when it come out!

~sola 💫

[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 8

Paige X Azzi

Warning: language.

A/N: didn't plan to post this early get this chapter away from me before i edit to the point of disservice. if it doesn't make sense, its not my business. xoxo

Azzi’s POV

A few months ago.  

Hard fracture.

That’s the only way Azzi knew how to describe it.

There had been small fissures forming between them for a while. Cracks in the foundation. Somehow, putting a name on what they were made it feel heavier. More difficult to carry.

It had been a steady eleven months, mostly. Private. Careful. A thing she held close to her chest.

Caroline knew. Nika too. Though she never said it out loud. Just offered knowing looks and quiet exits when things got too soft around the edges.

But beyond that, it was just the two of them. Her and Paige. 

They said it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner. No headlines. No rumors. No room for people to ruin it before it ever got the chance to breathe.

And in the beginning, that quiet felt like protection. Like something theirs in a world that wanted to take everything.

But the world doesn’t stay quiet for long. Not when Paige was in it.

Because there were nights when Paige would light up an arena and the whole world would look at her like she belonged to them. And Azzi would be in the background, clapping quietly, pretending her heart wasn’t in the front row.

There were moments where she’d catch Paige smiling at someone else and think, I’m not sure she even remembers I’m here.

She didn’t blame her for it.  Not really.

Paige wasn’t really hiding her. She offered soft touches. Lingering glances. Quiet, firm reminders that she belonged to Azzi—at least in the ways that counted. But the longer they stayed hidden, the harder it became to believe there was a difference between protecting something and burying it.

And that quiet, gnawing feeling…the one Azzi couldn’t shake, kept whispering the same truth: Paige belonged to the world. And Azzi belonged to no one.

Som she started pulling back. Just a little. Just enough to see if she still had a pulse outside of Paige Bueckers. And maybe, if she was being honest, it wasn’t just about herself. Maybe it was also to see if Paige would notice. If she’d feel the shift. If she’d say something.

Because sometimes, truthfully, Azzi felt less like a person Paige loved and more like a weight strapped to her ankle—quiet, heavy, and always just barely out of step.

Paige did notice. Azzi could see it in the way she reached for her. In the way her eyes searched the room before her body followed. In the way she kept trying to press her hands to the bleeding wound of who they were. Like if she held it hard enough, long enough, maybe it would stop.

But she didn’t say anything. And Azzi didn’t know how to ask for what she needed without sounding like she was asking Paige to be smaller. To shine a little less bright. To come back down to a place Azzi wasn’t sure she belonged anymore.

So the silence grew teeth. Not sudden. Not sharp. Just slow. Choking. The kind you don’t notice until you realize you haven’t taken a full breath in weeks.

Paige was still Paige. All in. Loyal. Constant. But she didn’t ask.

And Azzi didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to explain that being loved by someone like Paige Bueckers meant being seen by everyone but still somehow forgotten by yourself.

The realization struck her on a Thursday night. There was no grand trigger. No dramatic fight. Just the quiet, aching feeling that had made a home of her chest stretching a little too wide like her ribs were forgetting how to hold it in.

She sat with it. Let it settle. Didn’t cry. And then, two nights later, she showed up on Paige’s doorstep.

The conversation wasn’t angry. They didn’t raise their voices. Didn’t say things they’d regret.

Azzi just stood there in Paige’s apartment—small and familiar and somehow already too far gone—and said the thing she hadn’t known how to say until it became the only thing she could.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Paige looked at her like she’d dropped something. Like any second now, Azzi would laugh. Take it back. Say just kidding, I’m tired, ignore me.

But Azzi didn’t. She couldn’t. Because she wanted to leave while there was still something left of her to carry.

Paige didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t chase. She just nodded. And that hurt more than if she’d screamed.

Azzi stood there for a beat, her heart clawing against the inside of her ribs like it might rip its way out. She wanted to apologize. To explain. To say I love you, I just don’t know how to survive it. But the words stuck to the back of her throat like they were trying to save themselves.

So instead, she turned. And let the door close behind her. In that moment, it felt like the right thing.  But God, it still split her clean through.

Paige’s POV

Azzi stirred, and Paige stayed perfectly still. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Like if she moved, even a little, the moment might vanish.

Azzi fit against her like something Paige had been missing long before she even knew it. And then—soft, gentle—fingers began to walk their way up her arm. Curious. Familiar. Like they remembered this path even after all that time.

Paige couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.

“I know you’re awake, Bueckers,” Azzi whispered, fingers still tracing lazy lines up her arm.

Paige shook her head, voice low and muffled against the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

“No such luck,” Azzi murmured. “We’ve gotta be downstairs for breakfast in ten.”

Her tone was gentle, but Paige could hear the smile in it too.

“Then five more minutes isn’t an indecent request,” Paige mumbled.

Azzi hummed in mock disapproval, already shifting, starting to slip from her arms with the kind of quiet ease that made it feel like she’d never been there at all. And for some reason, it hit Paige like a wave.

Panic, fast and silent. Like her body remembered every morning she’d woken up without this. Like it didn’t trust that Azzi wouldn’t disappear again if she let go now.

Her hand tightened instinctively around Azzi’s wrist.

“Wait,” she said, too quickly.

Azzi froze. And Paige couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t breathe around the sudden fear clawing at her throat.

“I just… one more minute,” she whispered. “Just stay a minute longer.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away.

Then Paige felt it. The soft press of Azzi’s body folding back into hers. No questions. No teasing. Just quiet understanding. Like Azzi could feel how badly Paige needed her without either of them having to say it out loud.

They stayed like that longer than they probably should’ve. Long enough for the sun to climb a little higher, for the real world to start creeping back in around the edges.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, voice low against her neck. “We need to go to breakfast. Geno will have both our asses.”

Paige groaned, half into the pillow. “Let him.”

But she knew Azzi was right.

Reluctantly, she began to untangle their bodies—slow and careful, like letting go might break something. Her fingers hesitated for a beat too long at Azzi’s waist before pulling back. And then, summoning whatever courage she had left, she turned. Looked at her. Really looked.

And it was stupid, probably, but in that moment, Azzi looked like the beginning of something. Or maybe the middle of something Paige had never stopped wanting.

“Did you sleep okay?” Azzi asked, pulling on her sweatpants, her voice still scratchy with morning.

Paige nodded. “You?”

“Great,” Azzi said, and it came out like a sigh. Light. Content. Like she meant it.

They held each other’s gaze a second too long. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Words hovering just below the surface, so many unsaid. So many that didn’t know how to come out yet.

Paige swallowed. Looked away first and grabbed her hoodie from the end of the bed, tugging it over her head.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. All good.”

They took the elevator in silence. Walked in silence. But as they neared the breakfast room, the quiet broke. Voices spilling into the lobby.

A few heads turned when they walked in.

“Nice of you to join us!” Jana called, far too loud for the hour.

Paige rolled her eyes, peeling off from Azzi to head toward Nika and Aaliyah. Not out of the ordinary. They always split up at team things, even when things were good. Careful to not draw too much attention. 

She absentmindedly filled her plate with eggs and whatever else was closest, before doubling back for the only thing she actually wanted.

Cereal.

“Will you ever grow up?” Azzi’s voice came from just behind her, amused and familiar and so, so easy.

Paige smirked without turning around. “Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

And even though their shoulders didn’t touch, it felt like something had clicked back into place. Quietly. Carefully. Like maybe they weren’t pretending anymore. Not completely.

Paige dropped into the seat beside Nika and Aaliyah, pushing the full plate to the side without a second glance. She focused on the only thing that mattered, her bowl of Froot Loops.

“Well, good morning,” Nika sang, her grin entirely too knowing. “How are you, Paige Bueckers?”

Paige paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing. “I’m fine.”

“I can see that,” Aaliyah muttered, not even looking up from the book in her hand.

Paige turned to her, brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aaliyah shrugged. “Just saying. You look like someone who actually slept last night.”

Paige blinked. “Don’t know if I should be offended or flattered.”

“Up to you,” Aaliyah said, flipping a page.

Paige watched Aaliyah for a second longer, then finally dropped her gaze and started eating again.

“Huh.”

The sound came from across the table—low, amused, and laced with something dangerous. Paige gritted her teeth and turned toward Nika, who was watching her like she knew something Paige didn’t. 

“Can I help you?”

Nika licked her lips, clearly trying not to smile. “I wasn’t aware you added a three to your number.”

“What?”

Nika nodded toward Paige’s sleeve. Paige looked down. And there it was, embroidered in soft white thread on the shoulder of her hoodie.

Not just her number. Not just 5.

35. Azzi’s number. Which meant she was wearing Azzi’s sweatshirt. 

Her eyes went wide for only a second before she reeled it back in, smoothing her expression like it hadn’t cracked at all.

“Must’ve gotten them switched up in the room.”

Nika nodded slowly, a smirk slipping through. “Totally. Happens to us all the time, right Liyah?”

Aaliyah didn’t even glance up. “Constantly.”

“Last week she accidentally wore my socks,” Nika added, deadpan. “So intimate.”

Paige shot her a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” Nika said, grinning now. “And observant.”

Paige swallowed, the cereal suddenly harder to get down. She turned slowly, gaze drifting over her shoulder, like she already knew what she’d find.

Azzi sat at her table, cheeks flushed unmistakably pink. Her eyes darted between Jana and Caroline, who were whispering with the subtlety of a car alarm. Then, like she could feel it, her gaze snapped to Paige.

Their eyes locked. Azzi froze. Then her gaze dropped, first to the 35 stitched on Paige’s sleeve. Then to the 5 on her own.

Her expression flickered, a full-body oh no.

Across the table, Caroline and Jana followed the trail of her stare. Their eyes narrowed in sync before they leaned their heads together, whispering like they knew something the world didn’t. Maybe they did. But Paige didn’t really care. She just kept looking at Azzi.

They locked eyes again, stunned into silence by their own stupidity. Or softness. Or something dangerously close to both.

Paige raised a single eyebrow, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Azzi’s mouth parted like she might say something. An excuse. A threat. A please stop looking at me like that. But all that came out was a tiny shake of her head.

Paige just shrugged. Too late now.

And maybe it was petty, but she tugged the sleeve up a little higher, just so the 35 was nice and visible.

The rest of breakfast passed without much fanfare. A few lingering looks. A few too-pointed whispers. But no one said anything outright.

Geno dismissed them with two hours to kill before departure, his only instruction being, “Use it accordingly,” in the tone that meant I don’t care what you do as long as you win.

So they filed out. 

Azzi didn’t take the same elevator, and Paige beat her back to the room.

She collapsed onto the bed without thinking, face first into the pillow Azzi had used. It still smelled like her—faint shampoo, maybe lotion. Something specific and warm and unmistakably Azzi.

Real, Paige told herself. Last night was real. She let herself believe it. Clung to it like proof.

But time passed. The room stayed quiet, and Azzi was still nowhere to be found.

Paige rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers. Her stomach buzzed with nerves and she tried not to read too much into the silence.

She also tried very hard not to listen to the buzz of a phone coming from across the room. Persistent. Again. And again. They didn’t bring phones to breakfast anymore. Geno had made that habit a short-lived one. So, she knew it was Azzi’s. 

Paige tried to ignore it. She really did. But it was steady. Rhythmic. A little desperate.

Azzi still wasn’t back, and the silence had begun to feel like a warning.

And so, Paige stood, slow. Crossed to the other bed, where Azzi’s phone was lit up like it had something urgent to say.

She picked it up before she could think better of it.

Cam — 9 Messages

No nickname. No emojis. Just his name. Three little letters that felt too big. She didn’t mean to read them. Not really. But the previews were right there.

10:42 p.m. let me know when you're back.

10:57 p.m. you said you’d call.

11:10 p.m. guess you got distracted.

11:26 p.m. how close is too close? just wondering.

11:31 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:32 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:34 p.m. seriously azzi.

7:12 a.m. Still nothing?

7:16 a.m. it’s wild how she always manages to be the exception.

7:18 a.m. you act different when she’s around.

7:21 a.m. you think she’s not doing this on purpose?

Paige exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not. He hadn’t said her name. But he didn’t have to. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

There was something in the messages—some mix of insecurity and entitlement—that made her skin crawl a little. Not loud, not dangerous. Just... controlling. Dressed up as concern.

Like Paige was a problem Azzi should’ve outgrown by now. Like Azzi owed him reassurance just for being near her. Paige set the phone back down, screen still glowing, refusing to let it consume her like she wanted to let it. And at that exact moment, the door swung open.

Azzi walked in, a little out of breath, like she’d been pacing or thinking too hard or both. Paige dove back onto her bed like she’d been caught stealing something. Azzi didn’t seem to notice or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She dropped onto her own bed with a sigh, the kind that sounded heavier than it should’ve.

“Hey.”

“Your phone’s been going off like crazy,” Paige said before she could stop herself. The words landed somewhere between casual and sharp.

Azzi blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, blunt this time.

Azzi tilted her head, brow barely furrowed, then crossed the room. She picked up the phone and studied the screen, chewing her bottom lip like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Paige watched her, watched the way her thumb hovered before she finally tapped out a response. Something quick, definitive and set the phone back down, face-first.

“Everything okay?” Paige asked, trying to sound light. She wasn’t sure she pulled it off.

“Oh yeah,” Azzi said, and it was so clearly a lie that it almost made Paige laugh.

They lay in the silence for a while, but it wasn’t the kind that soothed.

It was heavy. It pressed against Paige’s chest like a weight she hadn’t agreed to carry, and the longer it stretched, the more she felt like she might crawl out of her own skin just to get away from it.

“Cam?” she said, too softly to sound casual.

She saw Azzi’s throat bob at the name. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” Azzi said finally.

Paige nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?”

Azzi rolled over then, slow and quiet, like she already knew there wasn’t a good answer.

“No,” she said finally. “He doesn’t.”

Paige blinked, not really surprised by the answer but Azzi’s honesty. 

Azzi let out a slow breath. “He’s jealous of you.”

Paige huffed a laugh. 

“He thinks I turn into someone else when you're around,” Azzi added. “Someone who might not come back to him.”

That one landed harder.

Paige nodded again, slow this time. “I don’t want you to ever have to be someone else. Not for me. Not for him.”

“I know,” Azzi said.

“But he acts like I do.”

Azzi didn’t argue. Just nodded, barely, and turned her face toward the ceiling like she couldn’t look at Paige anymore.

“I didn’t tell him,” she said after a beat. “About last night.”

The silence that followed felt colder than the room had any right to be.

Paige stared at the ceiling now too. “Because it didn’t mean anything?”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut. Like maybe if she closed them, the question would disappear.

“Paige,” she whispered. The name barely audible. “You know that’s not possible.”

Paige turned her head, watching her in the half-light like she might be able to peel her open—layer by layer—until the truth finally spilled out. And then, before she could stop herself:

“Do you think you could love him, Az?”

Not accusing. Not angry. Just a quiet kind of devastation. The kind that doesn’t ask to be answered gently.

Azzi’s breath caught. “That’s not a fair question, P.”

Paige stared at the ceiling for one more second, then turned her head.

“I don’t care,” she said, and she didn’t. Not right now. Not here, with the room pressed full of all the things they’d refused to say for two months. She didn’t want calm. She wanted the wave. Wanted to drown in it. In Azzi. In whatever this was, finally spoken out loud. “I’ve never said I was fair.”

Azzi was chewing on the inside of her cheek again. Paige watched it for a second too long, the familiar twitch of avoidance, and felt something flare in her chest. Anger maybe, or fear disguised as it.

She stood. Crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. Lowered herself onto the bed and reached out, slow but certain. Her hands found Azzi’s face like they’d done it before. Like they still knew how.

Azzi’s skin was warm. Her eyes unreadable. Paige tilted her chin until their foreheads nearly touched.

“Do you think you could love him?” she asked again quietly.

And then, just a beat later, her voice cracked, the sentence coming out like something pulled from the trenches of her breaking heart. 

“Because if you could… if that’s where this is headed, then just…tell me. And I’ll step back. I’ll get out of the way.”

Azzi didn’t move. Paige smiled. Not kindly.

“I won’t pretend I’ll be fine. I won’t do the whole mature, understanding thing. I’ll be pissed and probably a little unbearable for a while.”

She paused. Her thumbs brushed against Azzi’s cheeks, like she was memorizing the shape of her before she had to let go.

“But if there’s a version of you that’s happy without me...I’ll try not to make that harder.”

The words hung there, trembling between them. Paige didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just stayed there, waiting—already preparing for the worst kind of kindness.

Azzi’s POV

Three years ago

Azzi wanted to kill Paige.

She pictured it now—grabbing a pillow, shoving it over her face, maybe just hard enough to shut her up. Paige would probably still talk through it. Still try to win the argument with her last breath.

They were three hours into a game of Monopoly with her family. Her brother had already quit. Her mom was trying to referee from the kitchen. And Paige?

Paige was drunk on power.

She had Boardwalk, Park Place, and a terrifying collection of oranges. She was chewing on the corner of a Chance card and grinning.

“I’m just saying,” she said, leaning across the board like a lawyer mid-cross-examination, “if you invested earlier, this wouldn’t be happening to you.”

“You’re insufferable,” Azzi muttered, watching her dad mortgage yet another property to cover rent.

“I’m winning,” Paige corrected, and tossed the dice with one hand like she was born to do it.

Azzi rolled her eyes.

God, she’s so annoying.

And then Paige laughed—loud and shameless and totally unselfconscious—and looked at her like she’d been waiting the whole game just for Azzi to catch up.

And it hit her.

God, I’m in trouble.

The thought landed fast and quiet. No big reveal. No warning. Just Paige Bueckers, in the middle of her family’s kitchen, being a complete idiot and somehow making every person in the room fall in love with her without even trying.

Including Azzi.

Especially Azzi.

“You’re staring, Fudd. Plotting my downfall?” Paige whispered, leaning in.

Azzi jumped, like she'd been caught thinking something she shouldn't. Which, yeah. She had.

She tried to shake it off, the realization still crawling under her skin. She wanted to say no. Just realizing you’re mine. But instead, she laughed. Shoved her shoulder.

“It’s a wonder you still have friends,” she muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the board.

And Azzi, sitting across the table with her arms crossed and her pulse loud in her ears, realized her whole life had tilted slightly off its axis.

That was it. That was the shift.

No thunder. No music.

Just Paige Bueckers in a hoodie that wasn’t hers, trash-talking her little brother, laughing like the world was hers to break open and Azzi watching her like she was already broken.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She hadn’t even seen it coming. One second, Paige was just Paige.

The next:

She was everything.

And Azzi loved her.

She loved her in a way she didn’t have the language for. In a way that made her chest feel too crowded and too hollow, all at once. Like something blooming and breaking inside her at the same time.

In a way that made everyone else feel…quieter. Smaller. Like the volume had been turned down on the rest of the world and Paige was the only thing still in color.

Azzi blinked the memory back into her chest, where it lived. Where it always lived. And when she looked at Paige again, almost nothing had changed.The world was still dimmer. Softer. A little out of focus.

Except for her.

Paige in screaming color. Heart-stopping, breath-stealing, goddamn technicolor. Inches away, close enough to touch, and somehow still not close enough.

And Azzi, despite everything, still wanted to reach for her. She always had.

Azzi exhaled, slow and shaky, and Paige winced—like she was bracing for impact. Like she expected to be shattered. Like she had no idea. No idea that Azzi had never loved anyone else. That she couldn’t.

No matter how hard she tried. No matter who she kissed, or how far she ran, she couldn’t outrun Paige Bueckers. And if she was being honest? She never really wanted to.

Still, she’d spent the last few months trying to keep a safe distance. Not because she didn’t want Paige. But because she did. Too much.

In the kind of way that made her want to wrap herself around her and never let go. In the kind of way that made her believe, just for a second, that maybe love could be enough to protect someone like Paige from everything else.

But love didn’t work like that. No matter how badly she wished it did. 

Azzi had seen it. Watched the world wear people down until all the soft parts were scraped raw. And Paige…she was made almost entirely of soft parts. Of second chances and wide-open faith and that stupid, stubborn light that made people want to be near her, even when they didn’t deserve to be.

Azzi wanted to protect her. Wasn’t that the root of it all? The world was loud, and terrifying, and unforgiving—and that scared Azzi. But the real rot, the thing she never said out loud, was simpler than fear. It was doubt.

The quiet, aching belief that she couldn’t do right by Paige. That she couldn’t give her what she needed. Not fully. Not in the ways that mattered.

Azzi had always wanted to be the person who could take on the world so Paige didn’t have to. But the truth was... she couldn’t. She couldn’t shield her from the pressure. From the attention. From the thousand tiny ways the world tried to hollow her out. 

And over time, loving Paige started to feel like standing at the edge of a storm, arms stretched wide, trying to hold it back with nothing but good intentions. And it drained Azzi wholly until there was nothing left to give that didn’t ache.

She thought leaving was the kindest thing. For Paige. For herself. The most loving choice she could make. Because staying felt like dragging them both through something she couldn’t name without bleeding.

She told herself it was mercy. That walking away would hurt less than slowly coming undone. And since then, she has tried. Tried to move on. To force Paige too as well. 

But now, looking at her, color-bright and too close and still holding out her heart like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the world to give…

Azzi felt that familiar weight settle in her chest again. That impossible, unshakable truth: I love Paige Bueckers. Even if it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

And just like that, all the shuttered windows of her heart—ones she’d nailed closed out of fear and exhaustion and the ache of almosts—swung open again. Not easily. Not cleanly. But with the creaking kind of honesty that only comes when you finally stop pretending you’re not still standing at the door, waiting.

She hadn’t meant to want this again. Hadn’t meant to let it back in. But Paige had always been the thing she couldn’t unwant. The one thing she’d never outgrow.

So maybe, finally, it was time to stop trying to outgrow impossible things. Maybe it was time to live with them. To choose them. To choose her.

She sighed, leaning her head into Paige’s palm like it steadied her. Life with Paige would never be simple. It wouldn’t be quiet. Or easy. Or something you could fold neatly into a plan.

Azzi would probably stumble. She’d fall short. Say the wrong thing when it mattered, shut down when she should speak up, lash out when all Paige wanted was softness. But she was starting to understand. Paige didn’t need perfect. Didn’t need a protector. She just needed honest.

She needed someone who would stand beside her when the lights were too bright and the world asked too much. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when the noise got loud or the pressure cracked something open.

And Azzi, God help her, wanted to be that person. Not just when it was beautiful. Not just when it was easy. But when it was messy and loud and real.

Because loving Paige Bueckers meant standing still while the world shifted. Meant holding on through the storm, not waiting for the calm. And Azzi was done running from it.

Azzi was quiet for a long time. Too long. And Paige just waited—like she always did—still and patient and probably bracing for an answer that might undo them both.

“I think I wanted to,” She finally said. “I really, really wanted to.”

Paige didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a breath.

“Because he made sense. And I was so tired of wanting things that didn’t make sense.” She laughed, barely. “But the whole time I was with him, I kept thinking about how it didn’t feel like it did with you.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t bother to fix it.

“It didn’t make me nervous. It didn’t make me ache. It didn’t make me feel anything, not really.” She blinked, looked away. “I thought maybe that meant it was good. Safe. But it just felt quiet in all the wrong places.”A breath. “And I missed you. In every version of him.”

She forced her eyes back to Paige. 

“So no,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever love him.” She paused. Let it sit there for a second. “I don’t think I could love anyone else.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t have to. Then, after a beat, quieter:

“How could I Paige? I know you.” She looked up. Met Paige’s watery eyes. “Not the version people cheer for. Not the one they write about or put on billboards.”

A breath.

“I know the you who shuts down when things get too loud. The you who tries to make everything okay for everyone else even when you're barely holding it together.” Another breath, tighter this time. “And the thing is… people love the idea of you.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now. “But I know you. And it’s… impossible. It’s impossible not to love you.”

Paige didn’t speak. Not right away. She just looked at her like Azzi had cracked something open in the room, in the air, in her chest. Like the words had knocked the breath out of her but left her standing.

Her hands stayed on Azzi’s cheeks, unmoving, like she was afraid that if she let go, this would all disappear. That Azzi would take it back. That the moment would fold up and vanish the way it had so many times before.

And then, quietly, so soft Azzi almost didn’t catch it:

“I’ve loved you so long it started to feel like grief.” Azzi’s breath caught. Paige blinked like she was still trying to hold herself together. “I tried to bury it. To grow around it. To pretend it wasn’t still there every time you walked into a room.”

She let out a breath, sharp and shaky.

“But it never left. You never left.”

Her thumbs brushed gently across Azzi’s skin—almost like apology, almost like worship.

“I think I’ve been waiting years for you to say that. And I think some part of me would’ve waited forever.” Paige sighed. “I know we said it—that we were together. Girlfriends. But we never really talked about what that meant. Not when it got hard.”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“We never talked about how to stay when it stopped being easy,” Paige said. “Or what it would mean if one of us started pulling away. Or how to ask for more without sounding like we were asking the other person to be less.”

Her voice cracked, just a little.

“I think I kept waiting for us to just...figure it out. Like we always did. But this wasn’t something we could outrun or joke through. She looked at Azzi then. “And I should’ve said something. Sooner. I just didn’t know how. And when you showed up at my apartment that night, I thought the kindest thing I could do…the thing that would prove I loved you most, was to let you go.”

She looked away, jaw tight, eyes watery.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave. I should’ve fought for you. For us.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. Not in frustration. Just heartbreak. Or relief. She wasn’t sure. 

“It’s on me too, P,” she said gently. “You can’t always be the one doing the holding. I could’ve said something. I could’ve stayed.”

Paige blinked at her, like hearing it was somehow worse.

Azzi smiled, small and sad. “We both broke it. We both thought the other one would stop us.”

“We didn’t break it.” She looked up, eyes steady. “Not fully. I don’t think we could.”

Azzi stared at her. Breath caught. And Paige just nodded once, like that was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Things bend,” she said, “but they don’t break. Not really. They bruise. They splinter. But they hold.” Paige exhaled. “We hold. Because we’ve always been each other’s. Terribly. Damningly. Even when we were too afraid to say it out loud. Even when we pretended we weren’t.”

The words settled between them. Confessions bleeding out slowly. Shortcomings they both named. Faults they both owned. No one flinched. No one looked away.

“I know there’s still more to talk about,” she said. “Things we have to figure out. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me. Always been yours”

Azzi bit back tears, reached out, and traced Paige’s face the way she always had, like she was memorizing her all over again.

“You were never mine to lose,” she whispered. “You’ve always been the thing I came back to. Even when I didn’t know how.”

She let her thumb rest against Paige’s cheek, breath catching.

“So yeah. I’ll have you.” A pause. “I think I always have.”

Paige leaned forward, carefully, as if touching something holy. 

She rested her forehead against Azzi’s, and for a moment, they just breathed. Like that was enough. Like it had always been enough.

Then, with a smile so small it almost hurt:

“I don’t want easy.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I want this. I want you.”

And then, finally—finally—she kissed her.

Not like a beginning. Not like an apology. But like the middle of something they’d been writing for years. Something neither of them had words for yet, but both of them had always known.

Paige’s POV

The game came and went without much stress. They did what they were supposed to do. Won. Controlled the pace. Made it look easy. No one made too much of it. That was the expectation.

There wasn’t time to celebrate doing what was expected. There never was.

The press conference was routine. Predictable questions. Predictable answers. Nika sat between them like a human buffer, mic in front of her, legs crossed  It was halfway over when someone asked it. Not a stat question. Not a headline grab.

Just: “There seems to be a real shift in the team’s chemistry this season. What do you think’s changed, culture-wise?”

All eyes shift don Paige and she cleared her throat. 

“I think we’ve just committed to each other more this year. Everyone knows their role, and no one’s trying to be the hero. It’s not about who scores—it’s about who shows up. We hold each other accountable, but we’ve also learned how to have each other’s backs. That kind of trust doesn’t happen overnight.”

She leaned back, stretched her arms a little like it was nothing. Just another answer. Just another press cycle. But Azzi turned her head. Looked right at her.

“That was a really good answer,” she said.

Not to the room. Not to the mic.

To Paige. Direct. Steady. Soft in the way that made Paige’s entire ribcage feel too small. Paige’s eyes flicked sideways. Her cheeks flushed, color blooming fast.

She stretched her arms again, suddenly a little restless, blinking like the lighting had changed.

“What?” she asked, not quite casual.

Azzi shrugged, still looking at her. “I said it was a good answer.”

They both snapped their attention back to the room, as if remembering they weren’t alone in it. But beside her, Nika shifted. Not much. Just a slight stiffening of posture, the kind of movement that meant she was holding back a smile so smug it could power a city.

Nika stared straight ahead, face neutral, but the smug was radiating.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Nika tilted her head. “Nothing,” she said, far too quickly. “Just listening. Press conference, remember?”

Paige’s eyes darted to Azzi again but she was pretending to read her stat sheet like it held national secrets.

The next question rolled in, something about defensive matchups, but Paige could feel it. The heat still rising in her cheeks, the ghost of Azzi’s compliment still pressed into her skin.

When the conference finally wrapped and they stepped off the dais, Paige didn’t get more than three steps down the hallway before Nika spoke.

“You’re not subtle.”

Paige froze. “Excuse me?”

Nika didn’t even look at her. Just kept walking.

“You know you were making heart-eyes at her for half the press conference, right?”

“I was not,” Paige muttered, cheeks already warming.

Nika glanced sideways, all innocence. “Sure. And I’m not sitting directly between you like the world’s most underpaid chaperone.”

Paige groaned. “You’re making things up.”

“You blushed when she said your answer was good.”

“That’s not—”

“You stretched, Paige.” Paige clamped her mouth shut. Nika just laughed. “God, I can’t wait to get paid.”

Paige blinked. “Paid?”

“I’ve been in the betting pool since day one.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “A betting pool?”

Nika gave her a look. “Paige. I told you this last year. Well, I told you I wasn’t involved. But truth is, I practically started it.”

Paige groaned, already regretting this conversation. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” Nika said, grinning now. “You two are. I’ve been emotionally and financially invested in this mess since sophomore year. I deserve a bonus for emotional damages alone.”

Paige muttered something under her breath. Azzi was already waiting near the locker room door, trying very hard not to laugh. Nika leaned in as she passed, voice just low enough to sting a little:

“Took you long enough.”

Then she winked. And Paige—red-faced and heart full—didn’t even argue.

As they walked into the locker room, Nika threw her arms open and bowed like a queen returning from war.

“Pay up,” she announced, gaze sweeping the room. “Every single one of you.”

The chatter stopped. Every eye in the locker room flicked to Paige and Azzi. Not subtly. Not quickly.

Just…assessed. The space between them. The not-so-casual brush of Azzi’s shoulder against Paige’s. The way Paige didn’t even flinch when it happened, like it had already become a habit.  The room practically buzzed with the sound of realization.

Jana immediately groaned. “No. Absolutely not. I won.”

Nika snorted. “You said before the season, which—spoiler alert—is not what happened.”

“We’re still in preseason,” Jana countered, already standing, arms crossed like a lawyer preparing her closing argument. “So technically, I win.”

“Technically,” Caroline chimed in, “you tampered with the outcome by getting them to room together. That’s rigging the bracket.”

“I was accelerating fate,” Jana said.

“You were cheating,” Nika corrected. “You played God with the rooming chart. You’re disqualified.”

Jana lifted her chin. “Caroline did help me with my psych project!”

Caroline sighed. “I did. But still, rules are rules.”

“There were no rules,” Jana argued. “And if there were rules against…gently pushing them together, I would’ve been disqualified forever ago.”

Nika laughed. Loud, delighted. “Yeah, we know. Between ‘accidentally’ texting Paige from Azzi’s phone and rearranging the movie night seating chart so they’d end up next to each other—”

“That was a coincidence,” Jana cut in.

“You literally made us watch The Notebook,” Caroline said flatly.

“I was creating emotional vulnerability!”

Nika grinned. “You’ve been toeing the line for weeks. But rooming them together? You cleared it. That was a full-on sabotage play.”

Jana rolled her eyes. “I should at least get half.”

“You should get a moral penalty,” Caroline muttered.

In the middle of it all, Azzi paused, towel slung around her neck, brow furrowed.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “What?”

Silence.

She turned to Nika. “Paid for what?”

Nika blinked. “Oh.”

Jana looked at her. “She doesn’t know?”

“Guess not,” Nika said, not even a little apologetic. She smiled. “There’s been a...small betting pool.”

Azzi blinked. “A what.”

“On when you and Paige would finally get your shit together,” Caroline said, like it was obvious.

“Been going since sophomore year,” Nika added cheerfully. “Technically it closed when we all knew you were together last year. But then you broke up—or, like, emotionally imploded without telling anyone—so we reopened the pool. Odds were terrible a month ago but I held the damn line.”

Azzi looked around the room like she’d been dropped into an alternate universe. “You were betting on us?”

“I prefer to think of it as investing in emotional inevitability,” Nika said.

Azzi’s jaw dropped. “We were in turmoil.”

“And we appreciate your suffering,” Jana said, clapping her on the back. “Deeply.”

Azzi turned to Paige, scandalized. “Did you know about this?”

“Don’t look at me. I just found out in the hallway.”

Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it. And then, she laughed.

“You’re all insane.” 

“And you’re in love,” Nika said, already opening her phone. “Which means I’m rich.”

The room went quiet for a second, but then it hit Paige.

“Wait,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You all knew we were together last year?”

The entire locker room groaned in unison.

“Not like you’re subtle, P,” someone muttered.

“You used to wait for her after film,” Aaliyah said. “Like a golden retriever in basketball shorts.”

“You guys shared entire closets,” Caroline added. “You’d wear something one day and then Azzi would show up in it a few days later.”

“That’s just being proactive with fashion,” Paige argued.

Snorts followed. “Yeah, because you’re so known for sharing your NIL-funded closet with the rest of us.”

“I’m generous,” Paige muttered.

“Name one other person on this team who’s worn your coach jacket,” Nika said, raising a brow.

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Azzi. “Technically, she wore it without asking.”

“Exactly,” Caroline said, triumphantly. “You didn’t even blink.”

“Because she’s Azzi,” Paige said, like that explained everything.

The room, once again, groaned. But this time, it sounded different. There was laughter, yes, but behind it, Paige could see it. The love in their eyes. The knowing. The relief.

She looked around and saw it clearly: They’d never been hiding. Not really. And keeping it a secret had been a waste of time. Because the people who mattered had always known. And worse…they’d been rooting for them.

Paige let out a quiet breath. Then glanced sideways, where Azzi was watching her with something soft behind her smile.

Nika shoved her before clearing her throat, “With that said, Venmo me or bring cash to the next practice. Thanks for playing.”

“Split pot,” Jana grumbled.

“No chance,” Nika replied, already texting. “Love and capitalism, baby.”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

They didn’t say much on the way back. Not because there was nothing left to say, just because the silence finally felt like something they didn’t need to fill.

Azzi’s pinky brushed against Paige’s once, then stayed there. And Paige held on like it was permission.

It was late when they got to campus, the sky a kind of navy that made the world feel folded in. Paige lingered outside the door of Azzi’s dorm, keys in Azzi’s hand, like maybe it wasn’t real until they were inside.

“I can go back to mine,” Paige offered, not really meaning it.

Azzi turned to her. No hesitation.

“Or you could stay.”

The words landed soft.

Paige nodded, like her heart had already decided. “Yeah. Okay.”

They didn’t do anything important but being together was important enough. 

Azzi tossed her an old worn shirt. Paige’s favorite, secretly. And they grinned at each other as she tugged it on. They sat on the couch, sharing one blanket, and half watched a movie neither of them cared much about. 

Around 1:30 a.m., Azzi’s head dropped against Paige’s shoulder and stayed there.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, maybe.

The credits were halfway through when Azzi finally stirred, blinking up at her with sleep in her eyes.

“You could’ve woke me up,” she murmured.

Paige shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Was kind of enjoying it.”

Azzi laughed and stood, tugging Paige up by the hand without a word.

Later, tangled in sheets that smelled like laundry detergent and something distinctly Azzi, Paige lay there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart doing something that felt both too fast and too careful. And then, without looking at her, she asked:

“Do you think we missed it?”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“The timing,” Paige added, like she couldn’t bear to say it twice.

There was a beat. Then Azzi’s sighed.

“Maybe.” She shifted just enough for their arms to brush under the blanket. “But I think we found the version of us that lasts,” she said. “And I’d take that over the one that didn’t.”

Paige closed her eyes. Let that sit in the dark with them. Then she whispered, barely audible

“Don’t let me ruin it.”

Azzi didn’t laugh. Didn’t say you won’t.

She just reached under the covers, found Paige’s hand, and held it like that was the answer.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The knock came in the morning.

Not hesitant. Not aggressive. Just…certain. Like whoever it was already knew what they’d find on the other side.

Paige stirred first. Azzi’s shirt hung off her shoulder, boxers hanging from her hips, hair a tangle from sleep. She rubbed a hand over her face, still floating in that warm, soft quiet The kind that made her feel like the world had stopped just long enough for them to exist.

She opened the door without thinking.

Cam.

He laughed. Not loudly. Just once. Low. Bitter.

“Bueckers,” he said, like it tasted wrong in his mouth. “Of course.”

Paige tucked her hair behind her ears. “Good morning to you too.”

He didn’t smile. Just shook his head, eyes flicking down to the shirt she wore. Clearly Azzi’s. Then past her—to the two mugs on the table. One blanket on the couch. The faint sound of movement from the bedroom.

“I think I always knew,” he said, voice low but clean. Like he’d practiced it. “I just kept hoping she’d grow out of you.”

Paige’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t bite.

“I’m not a phase,” she said, finally.

Cam let out a dry laugh. “No. You’re a habit. A bad one she keeps calling back.”

Paige swallowed. “You should go.”

“You know what the worst part is?” Cam went on, like he’d been waiting to say this. “I watched her. Watched her watch you. Squirm when you were around. I could tell you hurt her. One way or another.”

He stepped forward a little. Not close enough to touch. Just enough to make her brace.

“And then she goes back to you.”

Paige's voice was flat. “She made a choice.”

He smiled without smiling. “She made a mess.”

There was a beat—long enough for the air between them to curdle. And this time, she saw it. The hurt. The fury. The part of him that wanted to say something worse, and the part that knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Cam’s eyes narrowed.

“She used to flinch when your name came up.”

Paige hated that. Hated that he knew it.  Hated that she knew it was true. It hit somewhere specific…somewhere ugly. The part of her that burned too hot, too fast. The part that never liked Azzi’s name in anyone else’s mouth. Especially his. But she didn’t let it show. Didn’t blink.

She just raised an eyebrow. Deadpan.

“And now she wears my shirt to bed,” Paige said. “We all evolve.”

Cam’s jaw twitched.

“She’s going to regret this,” he said.

Paige just nodded. She knew he was pissed. Hurt. People say all kinds of things when their back’s against the wall. But for all her media training and carefully crafted answers, she didn’t really care.

She hated Cam. Unfairly, maybe. But fully. So she shrugged, casual.

“It kind of sounds like you’re just trying to convince yourself, Cam.”

She didn’t give him time to respond. Just shut the door gently in hopes to not wake Azzi. Exhaling, she leaned her head against the door, trying to slow her heart. 

“Baby?” Azzi’s voice floated down the hall, groggy and warm.

Paige smiled and any tension still clinging to her spine unraveling with that one word.

“Coming, Az,” she called back, her voice gentler now.

She turned away from the door. From Cam. From all of it. And walked toward the only thing that felt like peace.

[onlyquinns]

https://www.tumblr.com/onlyquinns/783571336627961856/oh-my-days-i-actually-love-you-jack-hughes-ideas?source=share

This is the first time I've really seen my self in a fic! That's the kind of shy awkward I am and I've never seen it reflected back. May I please make a request of Jack trying to woo the same kind of shy, awkward girl who's brushing it off and avoiding his attention because to her Jack either isn't flirting at all and she's making things up, doesn't mean it and just wants her for fun, or will eventually get tired of how she is and leave?

you stand still as some guy talks to you at the bar. your hands are laced together around a whiskey glass, and your lips are pursed in a straight line. the dude reeks of cheap beer and bad news as he talks to you, something about how the hockey boys in the corner of the room are awful people. which you know isn’t the case.

jack watches you from the corner, lips pulled into a scowl as the dude in front of you blocks your body from his view. he pushes himself off the booth he’s at with some of the guys and makes his way to you, throwing casual elbows at people who dance in his way.

“hey, pretty,” jack says as he circles you, wrapping an easy arm around you. he shoots a quick glare at the guy who’s forced you into a conversation. “how’s my favorite girl doing?”

your eyes flick to jack, filled with uncertainty at what he’s plotting, but a slight glimmer of urgency catches his attention and jack moves to remove you from the conversation.

he pretends to whisper in your ear, leaning in and saying, “just go along with my plan,” and then turning to the drunk. “thanks for keeping my girl company, man—she’s gorgeous, huh?” jack gives the guy a friendly smile, a flash of teeth catching in the dim bar light, and an unmistakeable look in his eye that challenges the dude. the drunk guy backs away, leaving with hands up.

your body relaxes as the guy vanishes from sight, a relieved sigh leaving your lips. your fingertips ache from how tightly you were pressing into the whiskey glass, knuckles turning back to their normal color rather than the unusual white.

“you okay?” jack asks, and you body stiffens once more.

you give a curt nod. “uh huh… thanks… for that.” you clamp your mouth shut again, rocking back and forth on your heels. “i’m gonna… go.” as you move to walk away, jack grabs your elbow and redirects you to his table.

“c’mon,” he says softly, tone more than what you’re used to for a platonic or professional relationship. “sit with me; let me buy you a drink.” he smiles at you, far too soft, and your cheeks feel hotter at the implication.

but you shake it away. no way in hell is jack hughes flirting with you.

as you sit down next to luke, you awkwardly scoot away so that his leg doesn’t brush yours. he gives you a funny look but doesn’t push, letting you position yourself at the edge of the booth, half of your body hanging off the seat as if you’re about to flee. jack excuses himself quickly and goes to get you a drink, something he promised you’d like.

“so, you’re the media girl, right?” someone asks, arms lazily draped on the back of his seat. “we rarely see you at the arena, so i figured i’d ask.”

you shake your head and glance at jack as he makes his way back. his steps are slow and thoughtful as he carries back two mystery drinks, one for him and the other for you.

“no… i…” you gesture vaguely in front of you, unsure of what to say. “i’m just normal staff. i only work when there’s a game or other event going on at prudential.” you place your hands in your lap, curling your fingers tightly. you give a nod as if approving of what you said.

jack laughs a little and pulls a chair up beside you, sitting with it placed backward so his arms can rest on the back. “makes killer nachos when she does concessions,” he says, looking at you fondly.

the guys laugh, and you figure you don’t have to tell them that the nachos are just normal corn chips with over-processed cheese on top.

after the laughter lulls, you fidget in your seat uncomfortably. you’re not sure what to say—if you even have to say anything.

“uh…” you start, glancing at people around the table as they sip beers. “i’m gonna leave.”

you stand from the table and raise your hand in a quiet wave. jack jumps up beside you.

“i’ll take you home,” he says, grabbing his jacket and throwing it over his shoulder. before you can say no, jack ushers you through the bar and toward the front door, a gentle hand ghosting over your lower back.

“you don’t have to do this,” you say as he holds the door open. you step out onto the sidewalk, hands behind your back as you rock back and forth a little. “i’m capable of getting home myself.”

jack shrugs and starts walking to a car parked on the side of the road, its headlights flashing twice as he unlocks the car. he holds the passenger door open for you, nodding his head toward the leather seat. you shuffle forward, rubbing at your arms in an attempt to comfort yourself.

“thanks,” you mumble, hauling your body into the seat and buckling yourself in. jack watches you diligently, waiting to hear the telltale click of the belt buckle before shutting your door and rounding the car.

when he slides in next to you, he turns and smiles. he gestures to the radio, “want aux?” he asks, reaching for the dingy phone cable. you shake your head no and jack shrugs, smirk pulling at his lips. “suit yourself,” he says, plugging his phone in and pulling up spotify.

jack shuffles through his playlists, scrolling through endless playlists with goofy names until he finally settles in one. you glance over as he chucks his phone into the cup holder and stiffen at the name typed at the top of the playlist.

songs for the pretty assistant.

jack whistles along to the song that plays while your mind spirals. you’re certain it’s just a random playlist that he picked—that you’re not actually the pretty assistant—but he glances over at you as cheesy lyrics ooze from the car speakers. you turn away and stare out the window, listening as jack chuckles and begins driving.

he doesn’t attempt conversation as he goes, content with sitting in silence and tapping along to the soft romance songs that play. you sit with your hands curled on your knees, back pressed harshly into the seat. jack doesn’t say anything about how stiff your posture is, he’s known you long enough to know you. but when he finally pulls up outside your apartment complex, he finally decides to bite.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, looking right at you with gentle eyes and furrowed brows. the automatic light in the parking lot shines down on his face, making the concerned glint in his eyes more apparent.

you gnaw on your lip. “nothing,” you lie, anxiously bringing your hand to your mouth to chew on your fingernails.

you turn your head so you’re staring out the window and jack leans over the middle console to gently grab your chin. your heart feels like it might combust at the sensation of his fingers on your skin, at how rough they are compared to the softness of your face. you swallow thickly.

“c’mon,” jack murmurs. “what’s going on inside your pretty head?”

you want the ground to open up and eat you whole, to take you away. your feet fidget, the sole of your sneaker pressing on your other shoe. you don’t want to admit it, but you like jack—he’s sweet and kind and understanding of your personality. but you know hockey players, and you know that love is a game to them.

so, you say, “why are you messing with me?” it’s the boldest thing you’ve said in the history of your relationship with him, and it shows.

jack stares at you, caught off guard. his eyes are wide and a frown pulls at his pink lips. “what? i’m not messing with you at all.” you want to call him out, but jack doesn’t let you. “i really like you, like, a lot. i thought i made it pretty obvious.” his eyes flutter over your face, ghosting over your eyes and your cheeks and settling on your lips. “just… just wasn’t sure you like me back, or at all.” he lets out a pained chuckle and you feel guilt rise in your throat.

without thinking, you fist the front of his shirt. the action is unpracticed and messy, but you make do. you surge forward and screw your eyes shut, slamming your lips to jack’s without another thought. for a second, he doesn’t reciprocate and you think you’ve made a mistake. you’re about to pull away, but jack wraps tight arms around your waist, hauling himself up just to be closer to you—as if he’ll die if he isn’t as close as he can be.

jack kisses with everything in him, all pining and yearning. he tilts his head and has a hand on the back of your neck, pressing you so close you can feel his chest rise and fall against you. you savor the moment, all of your nerves gone and your mind filled with just jack.

when you pull away, you’re breathless and light headed. you push open the car door and turn to jack, kiss-swollen lips pulled into a mind-blowing smile. “i hope that answers your question.”

[eraserbread]

nanami and pregnant resided sensually feeding eachother in bed would fix me 🙏

→ pregnant!freader, feeding, malewife kento, mention of drinking, sfw

the air smells like curry, the fans are on high, and the windows are open. It's mid-fall, right in the peak of your third trimester. swollen ankles, painful stretch marks—all of it—have you bound back to the bed.

kento has been cooking dinner most nights; tonight, he made curry. he is the perfect husband, coming home straight from work with no time to settle before diving into caring for you again. he does it with a nonchalant smile on his face, willing to dive to the dirtiest ends of the earth to dote on his pregnant wife.

he steps into the room with two bowls cradled in his hands. hair all disheveled and work shirt falling off the bone. kento's never cooked so much in his life, you do all of it because you love to. now, he's standing at the stove with a furrowed brow, scratching his head as he tries to read your chicken-scratch recipes.

"yum, what do you have there?" you're mumbling, sitting up as he rounds your side of the bed. it's been hard to focus on much at this stage, too—reading was harder, and your mind kept getting lost. all you could really focus on now is the sound of music, the thought of your baby, and scrolling endlessly on sites to buy things for her. a few days ago, you two settled on a name. kento chose it; he wanted to name his daughter nanami rin.

"ah. curry. " he's quirking a brow, making a flustered look you don't see often on him. "c-chicken. pork, too, and some nuts. used that base you had in the fridge, you'd know better than I would."

"thank you for taking care of me," you whisper when he crawls into bed, a pair of chopsticks between his teeth, pulls off his shirt, and loosens his pants. he'd not usually be so careless, but he did have a drink while preparing your dinner and was so ready to be on your skin.

"thank you for carrying our girl." the first place he kisses you is against your loose cami, right above your belly button. then, he moves to your sternum, nuzzling his nose against your heart. his chopsticks are in his hand now, digging into the fleshy part of your thigh unintentionally. "dinner's the least I can do."

you spend a moment looking at him, tracing a finger over his cheek. he's at the perfect vantage point to kiss, but he doesn't. it's how you know his demeanor is off, you thumb at his bottom lip. "bad day at work?"

"no," he sighs, sitting up to fetch the bowl he was planning on giving you—the bowl with most of the meat and vegetables. kento always makes sure you eat well at this point. "well, I was just worried about you... any day, now."

he's scooping in your porcelain bowl, grabbing the perfect bite to present. gently, you smile into it, taking the utensils between your teeth. flickering eyes, kento watches it disappear behind your lips, it makes him smile. "how is it?" he asks, sucking the chopsticks clean after you to try his cooking.

"it's good cause i meal prepped for it."

"would just be a base in the fridge if I didn't finish it."

"yes, kento, and you did so well." he's giving you another bite, a slight shake behind his hand. you reach forward and grab it, giving him stability to guide between your lips. "mm, here. you try it." you sit up a bit too fast for comfort, but you hide the lightheadedness enough to feed kento a bite, smiling like an idiot when he lets you. "'s good?"

"tastes like your curry." now, he's leaning in to kiss you, big hand tangled in your thigh, forming wells in your skin. you kiss him back, tasting the strong, pale taste of alcohol on his breath.

"that's what you taste like." you're speaking against his lips, smiling when you tell him, "and alcohol. one more kiss and I'll be drunk."

"don't speak like that, you've got my baby inside you. she's far too delicate for those jokes." that hand on your thigh trails back to your jutting belly. his grip is real -- like he's not afraid of touching you, but still so gentle with how he cradles the weight of her.

you're swimming with affection, whispering, "i love you."

[httpvomitello]

False Alarms .｡*･ﾟﾟ (part 2)

Summary: Following the aftermath of the argument, where the silence is louder, Joel has to claw his way back to you.

joel miller x f!reader

(part 1)

WARNINGS: Angst, age gap, references to past trauma, hurt/no comfort(in the beginning), language, happy ending (sort of).

The silence lasts some days.

Not tense, not heated—just cold.

The kind of quiet that settles into the bones of the house. Every floorboard creak, every clink of a spoon against ceramic sounds like it's happening in an abandoned place. Like you live next to each other, not with each other.

Joel sleeps on the couch.

You didn’t ask him to.

But you didn’t stop him, either.

On the second day, he leaves a cup of hot chocolate by your bedside. Still warm. You don’t drink it.

On the third, you come home to the broken hinge on the kitchen door fixed. You hadn’t asked. You hadn’t mentioned it. You’d been dealing with it squeaking for weeks. But there it is—quiet.

And so are you.

By day four, it’s raining, hard.

You’re curled on the far end of the couch, blanket around your shoulders, trying to read the same page for the fourth time. Joel steps inside, drenched, holding something behind his back.

You don’t look up.

He approaches cautiously, like he’s stepping through glass. Then—

He sets a small object on the table in front of you and backs away.

It’s a flower.

Not fresh. Dried. A small yellow bloom you’d pointed out months ago on patrol and told him reminded you of honey. Of warmth.

You swallow. Hard.

But say nothing.

Joel lingers by the fireplace, arms crossed like they’re holding him together.

He tries again later. Dinner.

He cooks your favorite—if anything made of canned beans and rabbit stew can be called a favorite. He sets the table. Lights a candle. Doesn’t say a word when you walk right past it and grab a granola bar from the cupboard.

But he doesn’t put the food away. He leaves it there, like he’s hoping you’ll change your mind.

You don’t.

Not yet.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, while Joel stays curled up on the couch downstairs, blanket thrown haphazardly over his shoulder.

You remember the way he looked at you when you told him you weren’t pregnant. Like the floor had fallen out from under him.

Not because he was relieved. Not because he was upset.

Because he didn’t know how to feel, and hated himself for it.

On the fifth morning, you find a note on the kitchen counter. Joel’s handwriting. Uneven. A little rushed.

"Didn’t know how to talk.

Didn’t know how to fix it.

Still don’t.

But I’d give anything if you’d let me try."

You sit down at the table and read it twice.

Then three times.

Then fold it neatly and place it in your pocket.

The sixth morning is quiet again. But the silence feels different.

Less like punishment. More like waiting.

You find him outside by the fence, hammering in reinforcement boards. The rain’s stopped, but his shoulders are soaked in sweat.

You watch him for a long time. The way he works—focused, jaw tight.

Finally, you speak.

“I got your note.”

Joel stopped.

Then slowly turns.

You meet his eyes.

“I’m ready to talk now.”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t speak.

Just breathes—sharp and almost broken.

Then he nods.

And he drops the hammer.

Inside, the tension thickens again—different this time.

Joel sits down across from you, eyes down, wringing his hands like he’s bracing for the end of something sacred.

You take a breath.

He does too.

“I was scared,” you start. “Not of being pregnant. Not really. I was scared you’d shut down again. And you did.”

Joel flinches. But he nods.

“I thought we were past that. Thought we were better than the version of us that runs away when shit gets real.”

“I didn’t run,” Joel says quietly. “I froze.”

You look at him. “Same thing.”

He winces. “I know.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t know how to be okay with it. Thought I’d say the wrong thing. So I said nothin’. Like a goddamn coward.”

You close your eyes. “It made me feel alone.”

Joel’s voice cracks. “You weren’t.”

Silence.

Then—

“I kept thinking,” he says, voice low, “if you were pregnant, I’d find a way. I’d try. Even if it scared me to death. Because I already lost too much. And I ain’t ever gonna be ready to lose you.”

Your chest tightens.

“But I also knew,” he continues, “that I’m not what you’d call a good bet. I get scared, I shut down. I don’t talk right. I’m... Jesus Christ, I’m older than you and still don’t know how to make you feel safe when you need it most. And that... that kills me.”

You don’t speak.

So he keeps going.

“But if there’s a way to learn, to be better at this—at us—I’ll do it. I’ll fuckin’ beg, if I have to.”

Your fingers tighten around your sleeve. Your throat is hot.

“I don’t want you to beg,” you whisper.

Joel meets your eyes.

“I just want you by my side.”

His voice is almost a whisper now. “Then say I still got a chance.”

You look at him for a long time.

Then nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “You still got a chance.”

Joel exhales so slowly, like he’s deflating.

Like his soul’s been waiting to come back home.

taglist: @umadirectioner, @keseqna, @jasminedragoon, @joelsslutt, @valoxwayward, @writingwizardsblog, @peachtickler69

[prettydaisygirl]

i am on my hands and knees when i ask u for rafe!zombie au where they(rafe) finally admits how much he loves her after another close call with a zombie or person/group

Nonnie, I am on my hands and knees thanking you for this request! I had some ideas floating around but nothing solid and this is exactly what I needed! I love you, I hope you're doing well, and I hope you enjoy! Also, shoutout to the person who asked for a longer part, this one is the longest by far <3

zombie au with Rafe Cameron x fem!reader & the first "i love you" ✿ 5.4k words

cw: zombie apocalypse, fem reader, reader gets threatened with a gun, reader gets kidnapped(?), reader gets a knee injury and wounds on her feet, death from gunshot, death from fire, death from zombies, lots of death described in detail, I can't really say 'happy ending' given the AU but sweet ending

rafe cameron masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You and Rafe are on the road again.

You can say with 100% certainty that you hate when you and Rafe are moving, unsure of when you’ll get to sleep in a bed or eat a full meal again. You miss the farmhouse more and more every day, but when Rafe says it isn’t safe anymore, you know he’s right. Staying in one place for too long will just lead to complacency, which will just lead to death.

Rafe lets you hold his hand as he leads you through the woods. He pretends like he hates it, but when his thumb brushes soothingly over your knuckles, you think it brings him just as much comfort as it does you.

The sun beams down on the two of you from high in the sky. The days are getting longer now, the bone-chilling cold of winter slowly melting away into spring. The ground sloshes slightly with every step, saturated with water now that the last of the snow has melted away. Your shoes, coated in mud and plant debris, are soaked through and making your feet cold. You’ve been looking for some new ones but haven’t had any luck. The only shoe store you’ve found was completely ransacked, and you sure as shit aren’t trekking through the woods in six inch stilettos.

You feel the sting of another mosquito bite and whack it as soon as you feel the pinch. Your body is covered in small bites and welts, the tall grass not doing anything to help your poor, eaten-up legs. 

“Rafe?” You say his name quietly, and he turns his head for a moment to glance at you. You press yourself into his side just for a second, just to be a little closer.

“Hmm?” His questioning sound is accompanied by a gentle squeeze of your hand, his eyes returning in front of him.

“Do you think we can get infected from mosquitos?” Your question hangs in the air for a moment and when Rafe tugs on your hand again, you realize he isn’t going to respond. You continue anyway, “I’m just saying, if a mosquito bites a zombie, and then bites me, I could die.”

“We don’t know that,” Rafe’s short response is nothing new, but his soft tone is a significant contrast from the harsh, biting words he used to spit in your direction. 

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t,” You argue, bumping your body into his side again. He gives you a quick side-eyed glance but doesn’t say anything else, so you speak again to fill the silence. “If you got bit by a zombie mosquito, I would shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

“I wouldn’t,” Rafe quips, voice husky and low, “I’d watch you turn ‘n let you suffer forever.”

Your jaw drops in offense and Rafe smirks, jerking you against him again. He presses the gentlest of feather-light kisses to your hair as an apology, though you know he’s just teasing.

The woods are never-ending, bits of sunlight shining through the canopy and into your eyes. Twigs crunch under your feet, and you cringe with every squish and squelch of your socks. 

By the time the sun is approaching the horizon, you think your feet might fall off. Rafe picks a spot to camp, and you peel off your socks and shoes while he gets the fire started. You wiggle your toes, feeling the light breeze against your wrinkly, water-soaked skin. 

“Gotta get some new shoes,” Rafe states, though more to himself than to you as he glances at your sneakers, barely holding together. He pokes at the fire as it begins to grow, then he stands with a groan as you stretch your legs forward, letting the heat of the fire warm you. 

“I’m gonna walk around, scope a perimeter,” Rafe announces like he doesn’t have the same routine every night when you camp. You nod, and he nods back, grabbing his crowbar and his flashlight and moving back into the trees. The fire crackles by your feet and you hold yourself up with your palms on the ground behind you. You let your eyes fall closed as Rafe’s footsteps slowly recede further into the trees.

Things have been good between the two of you lately, at least romantically. There’s not often enough energy or space to have sex, but Rafe has been more forward and open with his affections toward you otherwise. He kisses you more, he lets you hold his hand. A few nights ago, you’d woken up to him cradling you and stroking your hair. He said you’d had a nightmare, but you think maybe he just wanted to hold you.

It’s hard, given the zombies and the survivors hunting you both down. But in a lot of ways, love is easier than it used to be. There’s no expectations, no family to argue with, no jobs to move for or rings to buy. And definitely no class standings that would keep Rafe from being with you. Now, the biggest hurdle in your relationship is keeping each other alive. 

You sit up a bit, wiggling your toes again and stretching your arms. Rafe is far enough away now that you can’t hear the clomping of his heavy boots. Not having him in your line of sight is still a little nerve-wracking, less so than it used to be now that you’ve adjusted to the zombie apocalypse. Or adjusted as much as you possibly can, anyway.

The joints in your knees crack as you stand. Bare feet on the forest floor isn’t very pleasant, but it beats the possibility of getting trench foot from your wet shoes and socks. You shiver a bit at the thought. 

Walking over to your pack, you kneel down to dig through it. You unzip it, digging through to find a different pair of socks.

You don’t get far in your search before something cold and metallic presses against the side of your head, and a deep voice hisses in your ear.

“Scream, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out, bitch.”

Your heart stops, your breath catches, and fear surges through you. Not Rafe. Definitely not Rafe. Is it a gun he has pressed to your head? You aren’t sure, but you aren’t going to take any chances. So, you don’t scream.

“Take your hands out of the bag, zip it, and hand it to me.” His orders are clipped and low, like he knows Rafe might sense something is off if he speaks too loud. You hesitate, and his next words are harsher.

“Now, bitch! Your man will be back soon, we don’t have time for you to fuck aroun’!”

Your hands tremble as you scramble to follow his command. You zip the bag up and lift it to hand to him, catching a glimpse of both the man and the gun that he definitely has pointed at your head. Fuck.

“Get up,” He spits, and you slowly raise up from your kneeling position. The man swings your bag over his shoulder and presses the gun into your head harder to push you forward. “Move! Grab his bag too.”

You flinch as your bare feet scrape against the ground, scrambling to grab Rafe’s bag. Your brain is completely blank, survival taking over you as adrenaline surges through your veins. You grip Rafe’s bag like a lifeline, but the man rips it harshly from your grasp. He shoves you forward again, gun to the back of your head now.

“Put your fuckin’ shoes on and let’s go,” The man growls and you cringe at the thought of putting your wet sneakers back on your aching feet. “Now!”

You shove your feet into your shoes with no socks, and you don’t waste time tying them, just shoving the laces inside beside your feet. It’s uncomfortable, and you can feel your eyes burn as you stumble forward again, the gun pressed firmly to the back of your skull.

He forces you to walk quickly, sometimes shoving into your back to push you along. He’s worried about Rafe being on your trail, you can tell. You know he’s going to be frantic in his search for you as soon as he realizes you’re gone. You can only hope it’s soon.

The sun sets quickly, the light not illuminating the ground in front of you nearly as much as it had when it was beaming down from above. You find yourself slipping and sliding through the mud and grass, and your captor’s threats only become more intense the further you go. 

“Keep fuckin’ walkin’ bitch. Tha’s right,” Every word out of his mouth makes you feel like puking. 

The sun has officially fully set by the time you finally get where you’re going. Your captor grabs you roughly around the arm, taking the gun away from your head. You take a full breath for the first time in what feels like hours. Your feet are killing you and you feel numb, like your body doesn’t want to process what is happening. You miss Rafe.

The man shrugs your bags off his shoulder and pushes you into a small clearing. There’s a camp with three other people around the fire, two men and a woman. They are all smiling and laughing in the middle of a conversation, but it stops immediately when they see him approaching with you. Your captor keeps a firm grip on your arm, tossing the two bags toward the others. Their eyes dart between the bags and you. You stand there, petrified, and the man only squeezes your arm harder when you try to squirm out of his grasp. It’s going to leave a bruise. 

“Levi, what the fuck?” One of the other men steps forward. The man gripping your arm, Levi, scoffs.

“The fuck was I supposed to do? He left her there alone!” Levi shakes your arm with each word and you grit your teeth from the pain. 

“We told you to grab their stuff and run,” The woman speaks now, standing up and taking a few steps toward you. She eyes you up and down before turning to Levi with a look of anger, “We don’t have enough supplies for anyone else. That’s why we have to steal, dumbass!”

“I couldn’ just grab the stuff n’ leave! She was righ’ there!” Levi shakes his head and shoves you forward. You stumble, landing on your knee wrong as you hit the ground. You cringe, moving to sit up and Levi pushes your head down again roughly.

“Will you stop?” The other man speaks up again. The third man is still silent, watching the interaction. “If she was there, then it clearly wasn’t the right time!”

“Well, I did it, alright? Fuck me…” Levi kicks dirt toward you and you watch as he walks away for a moment before he turns again and pulls out his gun, pointing it directly at you. Your eyes widen and you try to scramble away, crying out a bit at the pain in your knee. 

“Woah, hey stop!” The woman stands up and puts herself between you and Levi. 

“Move, Angie!” Levi demands, waving his gun at her. His finger is on the trigger. “If y’all want her gone so bad, I’ll just get rid of her!”

“No.” The third man finally speaks up, his voice a deep boom.

“Fuck off, Matthew!” Levi spits but Matthew stands up. He towers over Levi, who immediately backs down the closer Matthew gets. 

“You aren’t gonna fuckin’ shoot her. You’ll get us all killed, who knows how many zombies are crawling around this forest.” Matthew’s voice is low, but he doesn’t need to yell. Levi gets the message and huffs, sending you a glare.

“Whatever. Fuck all y’all.” Levi flips Matthew off and pockets his gun, turning and walking back into the woods. You watch the entire interaction silently, a hand cradling your knee. Matthew gives you a look, but there’s no softness or pity at all. He returns to his spot, and you curl up where you are. 

The second man, the one whose name you don’t know, grabs Rafe’s bag off the ground. You watch helplessly as he digs through it, tossing out some of Rafe’s things and ‘ooh’ing when he finds Rafe’s granola bar stash. He grabs several, tearing into them. He passes one to Matthew, who takes it and slowly begins to eat. 

Deciding not to watch the three strangers continue to rummage through your stuff, you return your attention to your feet. You tug off your shoes with a hiss, each slight movement causing pain on your skin and deeper within your foot, your nerves alight. You can see blood on the inside of the soles and when you examine your feet, you see several popped blisters and some that are just forming. The sores line all sides of your feet, the skin red and inflamed. You wiggle your toes a bit and find it hurts to do so, which worries you even more. 

“Well…” Man #2 speaks up again to Matthew. He thinks he’s whispering but the quiet of the night allows you to hear his words. “What should we do with her?”

Matthew closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing his fingers against his temples in small circles. You try to act like you aren’t listening, pretending to tend to your feet. “Fuckin’ Levi. He always fucks everything up.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Matthew’s gruff voice speaks up again, slow and quiet, and you have to strain your ears to catch his words. But you do.

“I guess we tie her up so she don’t run. And in the mornin’, we’ll head off and leave her.” The idea of being left alone in the woods, tied up by yourself makes your stomach churn. They don’t need to tie you up, you can’t run given your knee and your feet. When the unknown man comes toward you, you try to scramble away but he is able to tie your wrists and ankles with some thin rope, easily overpowering your struggle. The woman, Angie, watches from the sidelines with a frown.

“Do you really have to tie her up?” She asks, finishing off her granola bar and tossing the wrapper into the woods behind her. “She’s injured, look at her feet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matthew gruffs, “You know the rules.”

You struggle against the ropes binding you but they don’t budge. You have to curl against the ground and get leverage to sit up. You lean against a tree trunk beside you, watching the others as they demolish all of your and Rafe’s work before apparently planning to abandon both of you, separated and with no supplies. 

The ground is cold and wet underneath you, your clothes and skin covered in patches of mud. You fight to keep your eyes open, to keep sleep from taking over you. You don’t trust any of these people, and even though you can’t run, the thought of being unconscious and unaware right now doesn’t sit right with you. You watch as they prepare for bed, your shoulders and ankles aching from the position you’re stuck in with the ropes. 

The other three settle in pretty quickly. You’re surprised none of them stayed up to keep watch. The fire begins to die out soon after they go to sleep and you somehow manage to stay awake, the twinging pain in your back keeping you from getting too comfortable. You manage to loosen your ropes, freeing your wrists and then your ankles. You're thinking of running when something catches your attention.

You hear Levi’s return before you actually see him. At least, you think it’s Levi and not a zombie. You’re not sure which one would be better, though. 

The moon shines down, not quite full but almost, as Levi huffs and puffs, stomping his way back into the camp. He’s not even trying to be quiet, twigs cracking under his steps and letting out careless groans of anger. You see his shadow pass by you, and you’re grateful that you don’t seem to catch his attention. He kicks at the fire and realizes it’s out, cursing loudly as he reaches to restart it. 

His movements are loose and carefree, almost like he’s drunk. He might be, though you aren’t sure where he would’ve gone to drink. There aren’t bars anymore. 

Levi grunts as he tosses something into the fire and it ignites quickly, even larger than it was before. You can’t see his face, only his silhouette illuminated by the flame. He stands up, stumbling back a bit and seems to chuckle, a small shake visible in his shoulders. His hand reaches behind to his back pocket and he pulls out the gun again, his finger going to the trigger as he waves it around carelessly. You try to stay completely silent, hidden behind him and hoping he won’t notice you.

He seems pissed off that the other three are asleep. His head moves, and you can assume he is looking at each of them before he scoffs, and then he lets out an ear-piercing whistle. You jump, and the other three leap from their beds instantly, panic immediately taking over. Loud sounds like that are a surefire way to die out here, attracting God knows what in the middle of the night. 

“Levi, are you crazy?” Angie hisses out, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps toward the gun-wielding man. “You’re going to get us all killed!”

“Y’all never fuckin’ appreciate what I do for the group!” Levi’s words are yelled and slurred, and he continues to wave the gun around aimlessly, finger on the trigger. He’s definitely drunk. “I got the fuckin’ bags!”

“Levi,” Matthew’s face is stern, and he approaches Levi slowly, “You need to shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck you, Matthew!” Levi points the gun at Matthew, who raises his hands despite the fact that he could easily overpower Levi. It’s better not to risk getting shot at all, you guess. 

“Levi, stop!” Angie and the man whose name you don’t know both move forward to try and stop Levi, and he turns his attention back to them, gun primed for shooting in his grasp. 

“No!” Levi’s voice is howled and you push yourself further up against the tree. Your feet are fucked, and so is your knee, but maybe if you stay silent, any zombies he attracts with his yelling won’t notice you. Angie’s eyes dart toward you, but as soon as they land on you, her gaze is back on Levi. 

“You’re being a fuckin’ moron,” Matthew growls, stepping forward to reach for Levi’s arm. “If you’d just think for one goddamn-”

It all happens so fast, and then all hell breaks loose. 

The gun goes off, the end smoking, with Levi’s finger holding down the trigger. Matthew stumbles back, raising a hand to his abdomen where the bullet entered his gut. Blood begins to seep from the wound, pouring down Matthew’s skin and soaking through his shirt. His body crumbles to the ground with a loud thud, a wet groan bubbling from his throat as he grasps at the gunshot wound.

The four of you watch for a moment, disbelief and shock thick in the air. And then Angie starts screaming.

“Matthew!” Her words are piercing, harsh and loud in the dead of night. She scrambles across the ground, hand moving over the wound in Matthew’s abdomen. The other man charges at Levi, roaring and grabbing for him. Levi seems to panic, trying to dash away so as not to get grabbed but he gets punched in the gut, doubling over. You watch, pressed against the tree and completely in shock at the scene in front of you. 

Levi hits the ground, the gun tumbling from his hand and going off again. The sound echoes through the trees, bouncing off the leaves as the campfire seems to surge with the violence and chaos. The unnamed man punches at Levi over and over, the sound of his fists on Levi’s bones again and again causing you to feel sick. Levi somehow manages to shove the other man off with a grunt, and man #2 falls back, landing directly in the campfire. 

His screams are immediate, his body writhing to try and escape. The flames soar around him as his clothes ignite, melting to his skin. Levi struggles to sit up, the both of you watching the scene in horror. Angie finally looks up from Matthew’s body at the other man’s screams, and she screams even louder, practically howling as she stumbles over to Levi and begins to hit him too. He tries to fight back, but he grows weaker, his body flopping back against the mud as the woman continues to pound on his chest. By the time Levi stops moving, the man in the fire has stopped moving too. 

You don’t know what to do. You can’t think, you just feel like you’re separate from your body, like none of this is really happening. Like maybe you’ll flinch and wake up to Rafe holding you and stroking your hair again, like maybe you really did just have a nightmare this time because there’s no way any of this is actually happening, right?

Things go from bad to worse when you hear another raspy growl, and a few zombies begin sneaking into the clearing from the other side, lured by gunshots and screams. 

You let out an involuntary cry when you try to stand, and you’re quick to cover your mouth with a hand. You can’t run, you don’t know if you can even walk really, but you know it isn’t safe to stay here. Especially not if zombies are coming. A few sneaking in could mean a dozen are headed this way. You don’t want to stick around to find out, and your body seems to understand this without you even consciously deciding to move. It hurts though, once you do. 

Your feet… you’re worried if you think too much about them, you might not like what you find. It’s a pain like you’ve never experienced, only amplified by your knee, which is likely injured pretty badly if you can judge by the swelling and the obvious limp in your stride. But you keep going. You have to keep going, because if you don’t, you’ll die. And you’ve only just started to explore things with Rafe. You miss Rafe, your heart aches for him and it hurts almost as bad as your feet. 

You manage to get up fully, shuffling away from the scene as quietly as you can. It hurts terribly, it’s probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and you can still hear the screams of the woman behind you, her ‘No! No! No!’, the sound etching itself into your brain as you slowly push yourself further and further away from that nightmare. 

The movement doesn’t get easier, especially the further you get from the light and the deeper you get into the woods. It’s almost pitch black, the moonlight not able to cut through the thick canopy like sunlight can. You are running on fumes, the adrenaline in your blood is the only thing keeping you going. You trip several times, and you get cuts and scrapes all over your body, but you never fall. 

When you finally manage to break through the trees, you do find yourself crumbling to the ground. Your body aches everywhere, there isn’t a single part of you that doesn’t hurt. Your eyes scan the road in front of you. It’s empty. 

You can see the faintest hint of light on the horizon, or at least what you’re able to see of it from the ground. You breathe heavily, trying to will yourself to get up again, to find Rafe, to keep going, but you can’t. You lay there, trembling and in pain, until you ultimately lose consciousness. 

Rafe’s laugh is deep, a full belly one you’ve only heard once or twice since you met him all those months ago. His fingers slide against your lower back, pulling you a bit closer to him. You blink, taking in your surroundings, and he places a gentle kiss to your temple.

“You alright?” He asks, tilting his head as his eyes scan your face. You nod, but you’re sort of lying. Your brain feels sluggish and you don’t feel right. The laughter of children catches your attention and you find your head turning. A little boy runs toward the two of you and Rafe picks him up easily.

“Hey, buddy!” He says the boy. You can smell a grill, hear the chatting of neighbors. Are you having a barbeque? You close your eyes for a moment, trying to get your bearings, nothing makes sense. 

“Babe?” You hear Rafe’s voice, but when you open your eyes, there’s a zombie in front of you. You scream and everything goes silent. Everyone watches you with unnaturally dark eyes as you scramble back, and when you blink again it’s Rafe, not a zombie. There’s an eerie smile on his face, and on the face of the small boy he is holding too.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe’s mouth opens, but it’s not his voice you hear, it’s Levi’s. White hot fear surges through you and you step back again just as Rafe’s arms let go of the boy and he once again transforms into a zombie. You turn to run, screaming, but there are zombies everywhere, your neighbors who have become undead clawing and grabbing at you. There’s nothing you can do, you’re completely surrounded.

The grabbing is real. You can feel hands on your arms, your face, your neck. They aren’t painful, but the sensation of the touch is enough to have you screaming out and writhing away from the thing. It doesn’t let up, a gruff tone reaching your ears as you try to push them away, tears streaming down your face.

“It’s me,” The thing says, “Shh, I gotcha. It’s me, baby.”

You force your eyes to open, vision swirling as the familiar voice soothes you before you even register that it’s Rafe. He’s above you, the morning light making him look like an angel and for a moment you think you died. 

Until all the pain, fear, and memories come back. 

“Rafe?’ You ask, hissing as you try to move. You can’t, and Rafe reaches out to stop you before you try again. “How-”

“Don’t move,” He says lowly, arms moving to reach around you. He gathers you against him and you cry out a little when he jostles you. He coos into your ear and you manage to wrap an arm around his shoulder, face buried in his neck. 

If you didn’t hurt so bad, you really would think you died. Rafe is so gentle with you, soft and kind in a way he’s never been before. Even during the more intimate moments between the two of you, he was never really a lover. 

He carries you through the woods, and into a cabin you don’t recognize. You don’t ask, you can’t ask, moving in and out of consciousness as he cleans you up and places you on an old bed. The mattress is thin enough that you can feel the beams but it’s better than the floor. 

Rafe lays next to you, fingers resting over your neck to feel your pulse. He was able to get you to drink a few sips of water, and you managed a hum of agreement to try and eat in the morning. You don’t know if Rafe really knows how to take care of you, but he’s trying. Even in your state, you recognize how different this is from how he normally acts. 

“You’re not a zombie?” You ask him, brows furrowing as your overwhelmed brain confuses your dreams with reality. “What happened to the cookout?”

Rafe takes your words in stride, shushing you and pulling you closer as gently as he can manage. You still whimper but you curl into him, seeking his warmth. “You’re okay,” He says, and then again, “I gotcha, baby.”

Someday soon, he’ll ask you what happened, and he’ll hold you as you sob and recount the entire night. He’ll vow to never leave you alone again, to teach you how to fight, and you’ll swear he lets a few tears fall too.

But for now, you don’t think about what happened. You think about Rafe, and how warm he is, and how his body keeps tensing and he pushes his fingers against your neck to feel for your pulse. You think about the dream you had, the good parts of it, with the neighbors and the cookout and the little boy who looks like Rafe. You think about finding somewhere safe like the farmhouse where Rafe can hold you like this and you’ll never be worried about Levi or anyone like him ever again. 

The words come then, whispered that same night while he cuddles you in the cabin’s small bed. He’s barricaded the door and completely blocked the windows. You know he won’t sleep a wink and you probably won’t either. The bed isn’t comfortable. You feel more like yourself, the pain dulled after Rafe managed to find some pain pills. Other than that, and a few expired cans in the cabinets, you have no supplies, you’ve lost all of your things, and it’s probably the worst off you two have been since the beginning. But you’re together. 

“I thought I lost you,” He whispers against your hair. You don’t move, his hand sprawling against your back under your shirt. Maybe he thinks you’re asleep. “Fuck, I’ve never been scared like that.”

The admission is one that has your heart pounding and butterflies erupting in your stomach. Even with your feet bandaged and your knee swollen, and cuts all over your face, Rafe still wants to hold you. He’s admitting things to you in the dark, things he never would’ve imagined himself saying to anyone. But you’re not anyone.

“When I got back, I was going to tell you I found this place but you… you weren’t there. And your shoes were gone, and the bags. I knew something had happened. I tried looking around but I had no idea which direction you went in.” He pauses, swallowing thickly and you think he might cry, but he doesn’t. He pulls you even closer to him, completely wrapping himself around you.

“You did so good goin’ to the road, baby. I’m so proud of you, tha’s how I found you.” His lips brush over your cheek and your ear, and you find your skin warming under his touch, his whispered praise. 

“I thought I was going to die,” You admit to him, and his lips pause for a moment. You think maybe he really did think you were asleep. “I tried to get up, but I saw the road and I just…”

“Shh… You did everything right, I’m so proud of you.” 

You don’t feel like you did everything right, the horror of what you witnessed will probably always be with you. But your life since the start of the End has been suffering broken up with moments of peace and joy. So you think this moment, with Rafe in this cabin, will mean more to you in the future as eventually the horror begins to fade away. You let tears fall, soaking into his shirt.

“I love you,” He whispers, and you sniffle, pulling back enough to look at him, trying to hide your grimace from the pain of moving. “I’ve never said it to anyone before, but I do. It scared the fuck outta me when you were gone.”

“I love you, too.” You whisper back, and Rafe wipes at your tears. He kisses you then, soft and sweet. His fingers barely touch you, afraid of causing you any kind of pain. He whispers it again when you pull away from the kiss and settle down to try and sleep. There, etched into your soul right next to the helpless screams of Angie, is the sound of Rafe’s whispered words, holding you together as you’re falling apart.

“I love you.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[xavistarlight]

My eternal spring

Synopsis - the story of how Daisy came too be and all the in between

Pairing : Xavier x fem!reader

Cw: mentions of pregnancy, tiny bit of smut in the beginning, mentions of hospitals , fluff, Xavier and mc are hopelessly devoted to each other.

You and Xavier lay in bed Cockwarming

This was a usual night routine for you. there something so intimate and relaxing about being inside your partner but not in a sexual manner in a

“ the closest I can be to you is inside you” type of way.

You two even slept like this Xavier’s length in your warm folds but little did you two know, your love shined through in moments like these as well

Creating something out of love in the midst of it.

“what should we get for dinner tonight” you sighed walking through the forest Xavier trailing not far behind you

Both clad in hunters gear

“ I heard there’s this new-“ Xavier smiled before being cut off by a wander taking out his blade quickly slashing it.

From the corner of your eye u slowly see more appear your watch beeping over and over again

“well it would’ve been nice if you let us know before we’re were surrounded” you sigh in annoyance

Xavier giggles “ maybe it figured you needed a challenge you’ve gotten a bit too good hm might not need my help anymore”

“ always need my Xavi” you smile glancing over quickly before pulling out your weapon.

But as you pull it out you stumble on your feet a little, thinking nothing of it you go to step closer to the wanderer, but your vision blurs almost greying out.. the sound of a sword slashing is the last clear thing you here before it all becomes muffled. As you collapse onto the grassy terrain.

“ all clear on that side?” Xavier turns but quickly realizes the sight in front of him your on the ground and wanders quicky surrounded you.

“ starlight!” He shouts lunging at the wanderers quickly before they can get to you, finishing them off in one clear blow.

“ baby, you have to wake up” he says softly but urgently picking you up syncing your evols to get you to the hospital.

“ please i need a doctor.” He walks in carrying you desperation in his blue eyes.

How could he let this happen, he can’t lose you Xavier had always taken in account losing you to outside forces but what hurt him even more than letting that happen was your own body taking you away from him, your body rejecting his love.

Your eyes flutter, slowly taking in the room around you.

Monitors, IV fluids , hospital bed.. and it all comes back to you, you had passed out during battle

You look next to you and there lies Xavier, cuddled up to your shoulder, hand resting on your belly.

sensing you waking up he lifts his head caressing your face.

“ Xavier, what’s going on?” You say still groggy from the events of earlier.

You can see the wheels turning in Xavier’s mind almost fighting an internal battle, but he catches himself quickly straightening his facial expression in hopes of not worrying you.

“ they said you’re dehydrated that’s why you have iv drip , your blood pressure dropped from it and you fainted- “ before letting him finish you jump in .

“ ahh, this has happened to me before! No biggie sometimes I forget to stay hydrated on mission” you giggle but you see Xavier still has something on the tip of his tounge.

Xavier shakes his head.

“the dehydration was a complication from the pregnancy…”

“ you’re pregnant” he looks you in the eyes now holding your hand.

“P-p-pregnant ..” your face drops just seconds ago giggling over how you’d forgotten to drink enough water before your mission now your eyes were welling up.

Swiftly wrapping your arms around Xavier you start sobbing.

“ I don’t understand, how couldn’t I tell” you say in between sobs

“ they said it could be a cryptic pregnancy, they’ll have to run some more tests to make sure but.. just know this isn’t your fault my star and whatever you choose to do I’m behind you 100 and ten percent”

You lift your head up from his shoulder looking him in the eye and give him a small lingered kiss on his lips, slowly rubbing noses with him in the process.

A knock on the door comes, Xavier is now in the chair next to your bed

Your hands intertwined as well as your hearts so bonded together neither can be severed.

The ultrasound tech enters the room politely, as she applies the ultrasound gel, the room is quiet so quiet you could hear a pin drop you and Xavier looking nervously at the screen.

“ as of now based off all the test we ran and the ultra sound it looks like you have a healthy baby girl on your hands” you and Xavier sigh in relief

As you quickly look over at the each other you both realize, you wanted the baby to be healthy..

It may have been a surprise a crazy one at that but she was already so wanted.

Xavier squeezes your hand and nods

“and by chance do you know how far along I am?” You say nervously.

The ultrasound tech senses you worries a soft smile landing on her face.

“ you’re 20 weeks so about 5 months pregnant”

➽──────────────❥

books stacked up on the coffee table in front of you while Xavier’s head rests on your lap.

“ ask me another one” Xavier smiles

Xavier the book loving nerd of yours had purchased every baby book there was he’s been reading them in place of whatever novel he was keeping up with recently.

“ when should soft foods be introduced?” You read of a page of the book.

“ six months!” Xavier says excitedly noticing his tone had changed he blushes a little slightly shy over the fact that this was fun for him.

You look at the notebook Xavier had been writing notes in about the information he had found in the books

“ what is it? Did i interpret some info wrong?”

You turn the notebook to face him the question you had just asked him written on the paper with the answer underneath but circled off to the side read

“no answer for when baby can start eating hotpot” even including a little wonky sad face Xavier had drawn.

His puppy dog like blue eyes come out.

“while I was reading it had me thinking about how much the little princess will miss us on our weekly hot pot dates. I already know she’ll love it as much as me”

You giggled to yourself a bit knowing you couldn’t out loud because he was seriously saddened by the fact she wouldn’t get to try hotpot for a long time.

“ she can always sit in a high chair when she’s a little older” you say happily smiling at him

He gets happy for a moment but the sad look returns to his face

“ Isn’t that basically taunting her”

➽──────────────❥

Where as most couples had the beginning of there pregnancy to start planning and shopping you had found out you were expecting at 20 weeks already half way through your pregnancy. You were now 30 weeks already purchasing all of the essentials you decided to go baby clothes shopping.

You and Xavier walk in hand and hand, you notice Xavier’s foot steps get a little speedier and look over as you see a glint in his eyes like he’s locked onto a target you quickly look at what he had his eye on.

A tiny white hoodie with a bunny embroidered in the center , hanging on a tiny matching hanger

Xavier silently takes it off the rack holding it up to show you excitement in his eyes. Hoping you’ll share the same feeling.

“ it’s perfect, she’ll look just like her papa” you grab it putting it in your basket. As you glance back up at Xavier in his classic oversized white hoodie giggling at the thought of a little baby girl hanging on to him in matching apparel.

Your shopping trip goes well Xavier grabbing anything off the rack that had a bunny on it or daisies, the bunny’s you could understand the daises however you hadn’t figured out his infliction yet , he loved his flowers and plants so you’d amounted it to that at the moment.

After getting home you put up the baby clothes you bought in her Newley decorated nursery Xavier behind you hand resting on your stomach, ever since finding out about your pregnancy his hand usually travelled there.

“We’re gonna have to give this little girl a name soon ” you say patting your belly, then moving your hand to grab another onesie out of the bag to fold, you grab the daisy baby grow little flowers scattered around it and in the middle in cursive it wrote “ a flower has bloomed” you hold it up looking at it.

“this would be cute for her first outfit” you say happily before putting it aside.

You then stop in your tracks remembering what you were thinking earlier at the store

“ baby, why have you been buying all of these daisy related outfits anyways?” You look back at Xavier who has a peaceful look on his face.

“ reminds me of her” he says rubbing your belly

“ in what way?” You question

“ when you fainted in the field before we knew about her, there were patches of daises around it was unexpected in its own right how could such beautiful flowers thrive in such a frightful environment, I didn’t think much of it until I saw you lying there in the hospital bed, and the doctors had come in scolding me for letting my partner fight wanderers while with child. I just layed in bed with you for a while hand caressing your stomach, and that’s when I realized.”

“beautiful things can bloom from the seeds of your most difficult times”

“I thought about all the times I’d come home craving your touch, your intimacy because being away from you is like losing a part of me.”

“I thought about the times we made love, that ended with you crying in my arms because you were stressed.”

“Our most difficult moments made our love stronger, so strong it bloomed” he said kissing your neck.

you were on the brink of tears, you turned around hugging Xavier before reaching up and kissing him grabbing his hand and placing it on your belly in the process before saying

“our daisy girl”

➽──────────────❥

In the first week of spring a flower bloomed

“oh hi princess” you cooed at the baby girl opening her eyes. She had the prettiest eyes you had ever seen

Blue took up most of her iris , all Xavier but near her pupil was a portion of your eye color, doctors had told you it was central heterochromia it was like you two had perfectly mixed together.

She had the softest loose baby curls on her head, the same ash color has Xavier’s hair

Xavier kissed your forehead as you held her

“you did so good my star, she’s perfect”

Daisy made her presence known on a warm spring day a season symbolizing fresh starts and hope. It was almost like she did it on purpose without even knowing taking a season Xavier once dwelled in the past about, and making it her own.

Spring would no longer hold bittersweet memories but new ones instead spring would come every year and he would be reminded of his greatest blessing.

As you hand her off to Xavier you can’t help but notice the gleam in his eyes, how he looks at her like she’s hung the stars

“hi little princess” Xavier says as he gently strokes his thumb over her tiny fingers

He uses his evol to create a sparkling daisy hologram as it flies over the little baby she lets out happy squeals

Making both you and Xavier giggle.

His life was now an eternal spring

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[velvetvexations]

This? After over a MONTH?

What a stunning example of the failures of radical feminism, which is to say that the audience one cultivates as a radfem can rocket someone to being the most talked about published author in the field for a hot second and then immediately throw that same person away the second she's nice to a group they don't like. Telling trans women to kill themselves they let slide, they all do that, but the second they catch wind their icon is friends with a detransitioner, suddenly really big "transfeminist" blogs are breaking the One Sacred TRF Law to reblog a callout post about a trans woman over it.

Like, seriously. I take a lot of effort to limit how much specific people are brought up or responded to on this blog, regardless of how much I like them or the things they believe. After carelessly and callously responding to an old post by a much smaller blog than me and causing them distress, I began implementing policies about the way I interact with people on Tumblr to minimize the potential for incidents to occur while still being able to discuss things happening out in the aether as a moderately popular blog.

Yet now people like txttletale, with a million times more influence than me, and who insist you can never do callouts of trans women, even if you know for a fact the trans woman did something deeply evil and harmful, because it's just so inherently transmisogynistic an action, have finally been roused to do exactly that. Seems to have worked well, too. Is this the 'social murder' of trans women TRFs are always talking about TMEs doing? it's been stunningly effective at poisoning the well so far, if these numbers are anything to go by.

And hell, the except they dug up from T/R/F is honestly pretty bad! I mean, celebrating the detransition of a trans man as a step to the road to a gender-free utopia? Wild! But I don't even think the other radfems actually had a problem with that, that's just something they can disingenuously use to back up the adjacency to a despised group in and of itself. The callout post kinna skips over the alarming stuff to talk about how the detransitioner in question oversteps her bounds as a tee-em-ee.

Plus, like, they read the book before right? They read it? While they were running around trying to force telling people to read the author into being a meme catchphrase? Surely they read the damn thing and came across that passage before, yes?

Maybe not. This is the crowd that cares more about the idea of theory than what the books they stack into Jenga towers actually say. Recently one gave me a book to read and insisted they wouldn't give me a page number for the relevant information because that would be "out of context" and I had to read it all, which is so far from how citing academic text works that I literally laughed out loud.

In all honesty, this has to be without a doubt the perfect dissection of how radical feminism is a failure and the worst possible foundation for any transfeminist theory. It really is amazing how just two people, and with so little effort, can reveal an ideology to be nothing more than a doomed, irrelevant, niche fandom on dying social media websites. It's almost some kinna miracle, because what mortal hands could do the job with such clockwork precision?

I'm sorry, this post has probably gone on way too long. I tend to ramble sometimes and there's just so much to analyze with this situation. But I guess, to put it as succinctly as possible, what I mean to say here is basically this:

Announcing a new podcast centered on radical transfeminism!

@taliabhattwrites and @dolphin-diaries unveil their evil lesbian radical transfeminist agenda: to end both Manhood and Discourse with a single podcast. Cracked Ivory is an examination of popular feminist discourses and the scholarship (both good and very, very bad) that spawned them!

In addition to our website at crackedivory.com, you can find us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and wherever else you listen to your pods.

Please support us on Patreon!

[mamiobesssionfics]

The Quiet Between the Thunder

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: You’re a florist who lives quietly and loves deeply. Rhea Ripley crashes into your life, unexpected, loud, and fierce.

It started with a broken vase.

You hear the shatter from the backroom. Your head snaps up, the scent of lilacs and eucalyptus still clinging to your sleeves as you rush forward.

Glass glitters across the floor of your flower shop like scattered stars, and in the centre of it stands a woman, tall, tattooed, looking like she was carved out of leather and lightning.

She holds her hands up, sheepish, with sheepdog eyes and black nails.

"Shit," she says. "I was just trying to grab the black roses."

You blink. Most people ask for peonies.

Not obsidian-dipped stems and thorns like daggers.

“I’ll clean it up,” you murmur, crouching with a dustpan.

“No, I broke it. Let me help.” She kneels beside you, big hands awkward around delicate shards. “I’m Rhea, by the way.”

Of course, she is.

The name fits the storm she carries.

You learn that she’s buying flowers for her sister, for a birthday.

You suggest deep burgundy ranunculus and wine-coloured calla lilies. She listens, really listens, head tilted, eyes soft.

She leaves with a bouquet wrapped in black paper and tied with a crimson ribbon. Before she steps outside, she looks over her shoulder and smiles.

“I’ll be back,” she says.

And somehow… You believe her.

She returns the next week.

No broken glass this time. But she lingers.

Her boots thud against the floor as she walks the shop slowly, trailing fingers near the petals but never touching.

She asks questions. About meanings. About arrangements. About you.

You tell her little things that you like silence that you talk to your flowers. That you named your favourite fern "Bartholomew" and he’s very fussy about light.

She laughs. Loud and warm. It startles you at first, but it also pulls a smile from your lips.

“Y’know,” she says, leaning against the counter, “you’re not what I expected.”

You glance at her. “What did you expect?”

She grins. “Someone afraid of me.”

You look at her, really look—past the ink, the muscle, the sharp tongue—and find shadows under her eyes.

A softness in the way she keeps her hands close to her sides. You smile.

“I’m not.”

It becomes a rhythm.

She shows up, sometimes bruised from a match, sometimes tired.

You make her tea. She helps you close the shop.

She watches you tie ribbons with practised fingers. You give her lavender for sleep, chamomile for calm, and roses when she’s quiet.

Sometimes you don’t speak.

Sometimes she talks too much.

Sometimes you lean into her side without thinking, and her breath catches like it surprises her every time.

One evening, the lights are low.

Rain patters against the windows like soft drumming fingers. She sits on the floor, back against the counter, while you water the violets.

“You know,” she says suddenly, “I used to think gentleness was weakness.”

You glance at her.

She doesn’t look at you. Just stares at her hands. Big, scarred, strong hands.

“But then I met you. And you’re the softest thing I’ve ever seen. And the bravest.”

Your heart flutters like a moth against glass.

You set the watering can down.

And sit beside her.

Close.

Not touching.

But not far.

“You don’t have to be made of thunder all the time,” you whisper.

She turns to you.

And there’s a look in her eyes like something breaking open.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

You reach for her hand.

Thread your fingers through hers.

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”

The first kiss happens weeks later.

No roses, no drama.

Just you.

In your little apartment above the shop.

Wearing a sweater too big for you, sleeves covering your palms.

Her in joggers and a t-shirt, hair wet from the shower.

She touches your face like you might vanish.

And when she kisses you, it’s slow. Careful. A little clumsy, like she hasn’t kissed in a long time.

You cup her jaw and pull her closer. She exhales against your lips like she’s finally breathing right.

Later, her head rests against your chest, and your fingers trail her tattooed arm like it’s the most sacred thing you’ve ever seen.

“You smell like lilies,” she murmurs.

You smile against her temple.

“You smell like trouble.”

She grins. “Guess we’re a good match, then.”

When she makes love to you, it’s with reverence.

She unravels you slowly, fingers tracing skin like petals.

Your breath hitches. Her mouth follows.

She whispers your name like a secret—over and over—until it’s the only thing that matters.

And afterwards, tangled in your sheets, she pulls you close and buries her face in your neck.

“You’re everything I didn’t know I needed,” she murmurs.

You kiss her hair.

And hold her tighter.

[laceandlipstick]

touch me like you mean it | a.s

ROTS!anakin skywalker x f!reader

MDNI

word count: 2.9k

summary: haunted by his past, anakin discovers comfort in your forbidden touch

warnings: SMUT, dirty talk, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms f!receiving, fingering f!receiving, heavy bionic arm mention, anakin yearning, confessions of love, forbidden romance, fluffy aftercare, let me know if i missed any!

a/n: this is my first anakin/star wars fic ever and it was inspired by @sudsnribbons she recently got me into anakin and i can never go back anyways i hope u all enjoy!!

The Jedi Temple always had a way of making you feel cold.

Despite the Coruscant sun filtering through its high windows and the polished stone warmed by thousands of footsteps, there was an emptiness in the air that training and discipline could never fill. It was silence masquerading as peace. And you—barely a Jedi, no longer a Padawan—were beginning to see the cracks in the Order’s perfectly composed exterior.

And then there was Anakin Skywalker.

He wasn’t a crack. He was a rift.

The first time you met, he had just returned from a campaign in the Outer Rim. His robes were scorched, hair damp with sweat, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. You were in the Archives, studying doctrine you were no longer sure you believed in. He passed by you—then paused.

“You’re not just reading that,” he said, voice low, tinged with amusement. “You’re trying to believe it.”

You looked up, startled. His gaze pinned you. Not unkind, but sharp. Intimate. Intrusive.

You didn’t respond. He smiled anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he said, walking away. “I don’t believe it either.”

You should have let it go. But that one sentence lodged in your chest and stayed there like a live wire.

Since then, he’s been everywhere.

In the Temple, brushing shoulders in hallways. On missions, volunteered for with what he insisted was coincidence. His presence charged the air around you. He didn’t flirt—Jedi weren’t supposed to. But there was something far more dangerous than words.

A glance held too long.

A breath caught in his throat when your fingers brushed.

The way his hand hovered at your lower back, never quite touching—but gods, you wanted it to.

And tonight, the line between restraint and surrender is thinner than ever.

⸻

The war is quiet, for once. You’re both stationed on a Republic cruiser, en route back to Coruscant after assisting with negotiations on a neutral system. Anakin had done most of the talking—charismatic, unpredictable, disarming even when he was furious. You just stood beside him, your voice calm, your force presence grounding his.

You’re in your quarters now. The lights are low. You haven’t slept.

A knock.

You hesitate, heart racing.

The door slides open and there he is—hair a tousled mess, dark robes loose around his shoulders. There’s a tension in his jaw, a heat in his eyes that doesn’t match the calm expression he tries to wear.

“You’re awake,” he says softly.

You nod. “So are you.”

He glances down the hall as the door closes behind him, sealing you both in quiet.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

He takes a slow step forward. You don’t back away.

“You feel it too,” he says. Not a question.

Your pulse thrums. “It doesn’t matter.”

His hand—the real one—lifts and brushes your cheek with such care, it shatters the wall of silence between you. “It does to me.”

His voice is rough with restraint. The force trembles faintly around him, echoing his unrest.

“Anakin…”

His name on your lips pulls a soft groan from his throat. His head dips—close, so close, but he doesn’t kiss you. He hovers.

“I dream about you,” he whispers. “When I’m gone. When I’m in battle. Every time I close my eyes.”

You can feel the heat of him, smell the dust of the stars and war clinging to his skin. Your body aches for him like a song with no words.

“You’re a Jedi,” you say, but even your voice is trembling.

“I’m human,” he replies. “And I want you.”

The words hit like a tidal wave. You gasp softly, the sound swallowed between your bodies. His bionic hand, usually hidden beneath a glove or sleeve, is bare. The metallic sheen of it catches in the low light. It rests at his side—still, but alive with tension.

Your eyes drop to it.

He sees.

And for the first time, Anakin Skywalker looks… uncertain.

“It’s not just a weapon,” he says, voice low. “Not with you.”

Your fingers reach for it, hesitating only once before brushing against the cool metal. His breath hitches. You trace the edge of his palm, slowly, reverently.

“Then show me what else it can be,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, jaw clenching.

He doesn’t move for a long moment—then steps back.

“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not rushed.”

You stare at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I want you,” he says, as if it physically hurts him to admit it. “But I don’t want to take. I want you to give.”

Your body feels lit from within, but your heart stutters.

He’s always been intense. But this is different.

“Then take your time,” you say, voice barely audible.

He looks at you like he’s drowning in everything he shouldn’t feel—but he’s not letting go. Not this time.

He brushes your cheek again, and this time he does kiss you. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise sealed with heat and desperation.

And when he leaves—just for now—your lips are still tingling, your body thrumming, and you know this tension won’t hold much longer.

⸻

Three days pass.

Three days of war briefings, close quarters, and the kind of silence that vibrates with everything unsaid.

Anakin doesn’t touch you again. Not in the hallways, not during missions, not even during quiet conversations shared over rations and datapads. But his eyes never leave you. They follow you like shadows: watching, wanting, waiting.

You can feel the tension winding tighter each day—until it finally snaps.

It happens late at night, when the ship is running on low power and everyone’s settled into uneasy rest. Your quarters are too small for the way your body tosses beneath thin sheets, haunted by the memory of his mouth on yours.

A soft chime.

You don’t think. You answer.

He slips in without a word, his cloak shed in one motion. The door seals behind him, and for a breathless moment, all he does is stare at you. Hair mussed. Shadows under his eyes. Chest rising and falling with a rhythm that speaks of war—not the one outside, but the one inside him.

You whisper, “Anakin…”

He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you like a man starved.

No pretense. No delay. His hands—flesh and metal—wrap around your waist, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a force that steals air and thought. You whimper into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as he walks you backward, bumping gently into the edge of the bed.

He pulls back—just far enough to speak. His voice is a growl.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t.

You arch up to kiss him again, nails dragging lightly down his chest, and that’s all he needs.

He groans, deep and guttural, and suddenly he’s everywhere—mouth mapping your neck, hands exploring like he’s trying to memorize every inch. His flesh hand pushes up your tunic, the warmth of his palm a contrast to the chill of metal as his bionic hand slides up your bare spine.

The first full contact of it makes you gasp.

It’s cold, precise—and somehow just as reverent as flesh. It follows the curve of your spine with shocking delicacy, each joint moving fluidly like water over skin. The sensation is overwhelming. Alien. Erotic.

He watches your reaction carefully. “Too much?”

You shake your head, heart thundering. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

The bionic hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your face so he can kiss you again, deeper this time. His tongue explores your mouth with hungry strokes, matching the rhythm of his thumb—cold, calloused, metal—brushing over your pulse point.

You moan into his mouth.

He breaks the kiss to pant against your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”

Your hands find his shoulders, pushing the robes off slowly. Beneath, his body is heat and muscle and scars. But your fingers move to the base of the bionic arm—where metal meets skin. You touch the seam gently.

He shudders.

“You hate it,” you say softly.

He freezes.

“No,” he breathes. “I hate what it represents. But you…” His forehead touches yours. “You make me feel like I’m more than what they made me.”

The ache in your chest is almost worse than the ache between your legs.

You guide his bionic hand down your torso, pressing it over your breast, your nipple already hard beneath thin fabric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch, adjusting pressure.

He’s learning you.

The hand shifts—fingers spreading, curving, applying pressure with maddening precision. It’s like being touched by a machine programmed to worship you.

You grind into him with a needy moan, your body begging.

“Anakin, please—”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on the bed. His knee nudges between your thighs, his body covering yours, and you’ve never felt so consumed.

But even now, even while trembling with want, he pauses.

“You can stop this any time,” he whispers. “You say the word, and I walk out that door.”

You look up at him—his wild hair, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses. His body is tense above you, like a dam about to break.

And you whisper, “Don’t you dare.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, there is no holding back.

Anakin’s weight settles over you, his heat pressing into every line of your body. His kiss deepens, bruising and wet, his tongue claiming every soft sound you make. You arch into him, desperate for contact, for friction, and he gives it—his hips pressing into yours, clothed heat grinding against the aching center between your thighs.

“Force,” he gasps against your throat. “You feel… you feel like—”

You cut him off with a kiss, panting. “Touch me. I need—I want—Anakin, please.”

The last thread of control inside him snaps.

He pushes your tunic up and over your head, baring your chest to the chilled air. His eyes drink you in like he’s memorizing, worshiping, burning.

“Maker,” he breathes, running his real hand down your side—soothing, grounding—but it’s the bionic one that moves with intent. The sound of shifting metal is soft, intimate, as the arm flexes above you. It moves with uncanny precision, brushing your nipple with the pad of his thumb, adjusting pressure when you gasp and arch into the touch.

Every motion feels calculated—deliberate—but not detached.

“Does it feel good?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “More than good.”

He smiles against your skin, mouth warm as it trails lower, nipping at your sternum, then dragging his tongue down between your breasts. The bionic hand explores further—cool metal gliding over your ribs, down your belly, to the band of your pants.

“Let me…” he starts, voice raw.

You lift your hips before he finishes the sentence. He slides the fabric down slowly, savoring every inch he reveals. When you’re bare beneath him, he just… stares. Like you’re something sacred.

His human hand cradles your thigh. The metal one trails from your knee to the inside of your leg. He spreads you with inhuman strength masked by delicate control.

You shiver. “You’re staring.”

“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he confesses hoarsely. “But I never thought it would feel this… real.”

Then he moves.

His metal fingers slide down to your center, parting your folds with aching precision. His index finger—cool and deliberate—presses slow circles against your clit. He watches your face, absorbing every twitch, every gasp, every moan as his pace adjusts.

You choke on a whimper. “Anakin—”

“I know,” he says, voice shaking. “I know. Let me take care of you.”

His middle finger sinks into you.

The sensation is unreal—hard, smooth, and perfectly curved. It’s not the warmth of flesh, but something different. Something more intense. He pumps slowly, curling just so, brushing against your inner walls with devastating accuracy.

“Oh—Force—”

“That’s it,” he pants, eyes dark. “Let me feel you like this.”

You writhe beneath him, hips chasing each stroke. He adds another finger—his hand strong enough to stretch you without pain. You’re slick and pulsing around him, your moans getting louder with every thrust of those bionic fingers.

You clutch at the sheets. “I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart around my hand.”

You do.

The orgasm hits you like a shockwave—tightening every nerve, arching your back, mouth falling open in a wordless cry. His fingers don’t stop until your legs shake, until you’re trembling beneath him like a live wire.

When he finally pulls away, your thighs are wet and twitching, your chest heaving.

He kisses your temple. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

But you’re not done.

Your fingers fumble with the clasp of his belt. “I want you now.”

He freezes as you tug his pants down. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, thick and pulsing. You look up at him through your lashes, then down at his length, reaching for him. He gasps when your hand wraps around him—soft skin to skin.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper.

He groans. “I’m not. But… I am yours.”

You tug him closer. “Then show me.”

He slides into you slowly, with reverence, both hands braced beside your head. His bionic arm supports his weight with ease, letting his flesh hand stroke your cheek as he sinks deeper.

You both moan—finally, finally joined. The stretch is intense, but you take him easily, your body greedy for his weight, his heat, him.

Anakin rests his forehead against yours. “You feel like home.”

And then he moves.

His hips roll, thrusting into you with smooth, deliberate pace. The tension between you builds again—sweat, panting, the wet sound of bodies moving in perfect sync. His mouth finds your neck, your lips, your jaw—desperate and scattered.

“Say my name,” he begs, voice unraveling.

“Anakin,” you gasp. “Anakin—yes—”

He thrusts harder, deeper. His bionic hand grips your hip, holding you in place. It’s too much and not enough. You’re drowning in him. He groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a man whose soul is already half lost.

When you clench around him, tight and close to the edge, he loses control.

“Gonna come—can’t—stars, I—”

“Come inside,” you whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”

He growls and buries himself to the hilt, trembling as his orgasm rips through him. You feel it—his cock pulsing, his breath stuttering, your name a broken chant on his lips.

You come again just from the sound of it.

This one is quieter, deeper, your body clinging to his, pulling him closer. You ride it together, shaking, crying, gasping.

And then… stillness.

You don’t know how long you lie there with him, tangled together in the dark.

Anakin hasn’t moved. His breath fans warm against your shoulder as he presses soft, barely-there kisses to your skin—each one more like an apology than a reward. Your fingers rest in his damp hair, gently carding through the curls at his nape, grounding you both in something too real to name.

The war, the Temple, the galaxy—it all feels very far away.

Only this exists now. This moment. This impossible, forbidden peace.

He shifts just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, lashes long and dark against his flushed skin. He looks younger like this. Less like the war hero. Less like the Chosen One.

More like a man who’s just been loved.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.

Your lips curve. “No. You were perfect.”

His brow creases, and his gaze flicks toward the bionic hand still curled gently against your thigh. He flexes the fingers experimentally—checking, calculating. “I tried to be gentle,” he murmurs. “It’s… hard. Sometimes I forget it’s not like my other hand.”

You take it in both of yours.

His breath catches.

You guide the metallic fingers to your lips and kiss the cold knuckles—one by one. “You didn’t forget. Not once.”

He swallows thickly, the tension in his shoulders softening like melting ice. He doesn’t say thank you—but the way he closes his eyes as you cradle the prosthetic says everything.

Silence settles between you again. Not heavy this time, but tender.

He lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest. The sheets are barely tugged over your hips. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat fast but steady beneath your ear.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers eventually. But he’s still holding you.

“I know.”

“Jedi aren’t supposed to love. Not like this.”

You tilt your head to look up at him. “Do you?”

He hesitates.

Then—his thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as a breeze. “I think I always have.”

Your chest tightens.

You reach up and touch his face, your fingers tracing the scar beneath his eye, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

“Then let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.”

He nods—slowly. “Okay.”

You lay together like that for a long time, limbs entangled, breath synchronizing, bodies soft and sore and utterly spent. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder as his hand—his metal one—moves to stroke your side in slow, featherlight lines.

Not passion now. Not hunger. Just presence.

His voice is rough with sleep when he says, “I don’t want this to be the only time.”

You smile, lips brushing his. “It won’t be.”

He kisses you then—slow and sweet, like there’s no war to return to, no council to defy, no fate hanging over his head like a blade. Just you. Just this.

When you finally fall asleep, wrapped in him, the galaxy fades into nothing.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Anakin Skywalker dreams of peace.

[daydreamgoddess14]

The Menu Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Take Out

Well this kinda blew up a bit! Thank you so, so much for all the love, I think I've replied to everyone but if I haven't, feel free to shout at me! I LOVE hearing from you so if you want to scream about Bucky and the others, or just want to say hiii then my inbox is always open. I also accept prompts if there's anything you want to see in the future!

Today though, I think we should order take out?

Thunderbolts* / F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader brewing.

Word count: 1.8k

You made bread when you were angry. 

It kept your hands busy and gave you something to pummel. Bob sat at one end of the counter, reading, while you tipped the first batch of dough out onto the marble. You folded it together, gathering the clumps, and slammed it down hard.

Bob looked up.

“Is everything -”

“All good, Bob,” you said through gritted teeth. You picked up the dough, slammed it down again, and started pounding your fists into it, stretching and folding until it smoothed under your hands. Flour puffed into the air in little clouds. Bob stared at it, then wisely went back to his book.

Next to your bag, your phone vibrated against the counter. You wiped your hands, snatched it up, and glared at the screen.

“I’ll be right back,” you said softly.

The elevator took forever.

All the way down to the ground floor and out the glass doors. He was already there. His suit looked too crisp, too clean. The fit was still off, somehow, like he hadn’t earned it. You, in contrast, had flour on your shirt, your apron still around your waist, hair pulled up in a messy twist.

“You look… terrible,” he said.

“Thanks. Did you bring them?”

“Can we talk?”

“No. Can I have them?”

“Please?”

Over his shoulder, you spotted Yelena heading your way, and she wasn’t alone.

“I just want my keys,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “And then I want you to go.”

He stepped closer. “Please. Just let me talk?”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then just listen -”

“I don’t want to -”

“Girl!” Yelena’s voice rang out like a lifeline. “Didn’t know you even knew where the exit was.” She looped an arm over your shoulder, casually, but you could feel the steel beneath it. Her eyes flicked between you and the man in front of you. “Who’s this guy?”

“This is my ex,” you said tightly.

“Babe -”

“He was just leaving,” you cut in. “Weren’t you?”

Your ex sighed heavily, “yeah. Yeah I guess so. I just… wanted to explain.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t need an explanation for why you were fucking your assistant in my apartment. Kinda speaks for itself.” You said directly. It was worth it to see his eyes widen with guilt. You felt Bucky’s gaze switch to you but you continued to stare down your ex.

He held up his hands in surrender, your keys hanging from his index finger. Ava reached out and snatched them away, making sure to crush his finger in her grip as she did so.

“C’mon, let’s go and make some coffee,” she said to you quietly, her voice pulling you away from him. She kept her eyes on you, full of a tenderness you’d not seen from her before. “Bucky picked out the Argentinian beans that you like.”

You nodded and let them lead you back into the building and into the elevator.

With the doors safely closed, you all breathed a sigh of relief. You dragged the back of your hand across your cheek to check for tears, leaving a smear of flour behind.

“Well that was… shitty,” Yelena huffed.

“Did he really do that?” Ava asked, incredulously. You nodded, still looking at the floor.

“What a cunt.”

The deadpan delivery and unexpectedly harsh language made you laugh. It bubbled up from nowhere but once you’d started you couldn’t stop. Yelena sniggered. Bucky shook his head and tried to hide his smile.

You got back to your bread.

The dough gave under your fists as you pounded and folded, trying to work the tension out of your shoulders and into the gluten.

None of them went far that afternoon. The kitchen stayed busy with small talk and side glances.

Right on cue, Alexei made his daily voyage.

“What’s for dinner, honey!?” he boomed in a terrible American accent, grinning at his own delivery.

Yelena and Ava exchanged a look. You’d barely said a word since the elevator.

“She’s not cooking tonight,” Yelena said.

“I am cooking,” you muttered, opening the fridge with a sigh. “I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

“We’re going out,” Ava announced, standing.

“We are?” Bucky asked, eyebrows rising.

“We are,” Ava repeated, pointing between you and Yelena. “Girls only.”

“I drive the limo!”

“No limo, Alexei. Girls’ night,” Yelena declared.

You turned, already shaking your head. “No, I don’t - really -”

“No saying no,” Yelena cut in, already halfway to her room. “You need something to wear!”

She reappeared seconds later when you didn’t follow. “Hey! Let’s go!”

You hesitated, then caught the smallest shift in Bucky’s expression. Not pity, not concern. Just… interest. Quiet encouragement. Like maybe he wanted you to go have fun, even if he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud.

That helped, as did Bob’s motivating double thumbs up.

“You should have some fun,” he nodded.

“Ok,” you said softly, wiping your hands on your apron. “Ok, fine.”

When loud Europop started filling the tower, John was the first to complain.

“What the hell is going on? And what’s for dinner?”

“They’re going out,” Bucky explained without looking up from his book.

“Who’s they?” “They're having a girls’ night,” Bob clarified.

You reappeared thirty minutes later, somehow transformed. Yelena had wrangled your hair into soft waves and lent you a black blazer. Your usual jeans had been swapped for a miniskirt and heels you didn’t remember agreeing to but you certainly weren’t going to fight real life superheroes over.

You were too focused on the phone pressed to your ear to notice the hush that fell over the kitchen.

“No, like… at least one of everything. Just - whatever feeds four grown superpowered idiots, plus dessert. Extra rice. And those gorgeous little fried dumplings? Oh and some sweet chilli sauce please.”

You hung up and slipped your phone into your tiny borrowed purse. “It’ll be here in twenty minutes, it’s already paid for -”

“It’s… a lot of food,” Bob observed, clearly impressed.

“I know what you guys can eat,” you said with a smile. 

“You look…” Bucky began, but the words snagged somewhere in his throat.

You didn’t notice. You were already being tugged towards the elevator by Ava.

“Don’t microwave anything in foil, and please don’t let John add ketchup. Bye!”

The elevator doors slid shut with you inside, leaving Bucky staring at the empty space where you’d been.

John raised an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

Bucky just shook his head and went back to the fridge. “Nothing.”

You were right to order so much. Alexei had sampled everything before it touched a plate and despite Bob’s protests, John had wandered off with the ketchup bottle tucked under his arm. Bucky boxed the limited leftovers and stashed them in the fridge.

“For later,” he muttered, when Bob raised an eyebrow.

The apartment quieted down after dinner. Alexei put on an eighties action movie and complained throughout about the portrayal of the Russian bad guy. Bob fell asleep during it. 

When they moved off to their own rooms, Bucky stayed in the kitchen, elbow on the counter, picking at a leftover dumpling. He didn’t notice how long he’d been standing there until the elevator chimed.

Yelena’s voice echoed down the hallway and Ava giggled.

And then he heard your soft laughter, warm and loose from alcohol and friendship. You kicked your shoes off just inside the door and let out a breathy moan. 

“God, my feet!” You complained through giggles.

You tiptoed unsteadily into the kitchen, heels dangling from two fingers. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold and more than a couple of cocktails. 

Yelena went straight for the cold tap, Ava to the fridge.

“Yesss, leftovers!”

You stopped short when you saw him, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, leaning at the counter. Watching the door.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

“Hey.”

“You always wait up like this?”

“Just wanted to make sure you all got back ok.”

Yelena turned from the sink, her eyes narrowing.

“Have you been waiting up all night like someone’s dad?”

Bucky shrugged. “Not all night.”

Ava opened a container and moaned dramatically. “This woman’s talent knows no bounds. I would marry these dumplings.”

“I didn’t make them,” you reminded her.

“But you know where to get all the good stuff!”

Yelena eyed the plate next to Bucky. “You saved her food?”

“Of course he did,” Ava said through a mouthful. “He’s a tragic little gentleman.”

You giggled at her absurd suggestion that Bucky was little.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” you admitted.

He passed you the plate. You took it, and your fingers brushed his.

“You should stay,” Yelena said suddenly, eyes flicking between you both.

You laughed. “What, here?”

“You had a lot of tequila, it’s so late!” Ava added. “You’re not going home.”

“I made up the spare room,” Bucky said softly, eyes not leaving yours. “Just in case.”

Yelena let out a theatrical oooooh. Ava full-body cringed into the fridge.

You smiled, wide and surprised. “Yeah?”

He shrugged again, but there was nothing casual in the way he looked at you. Something in his voice made your stomach flip. “Like to be prepared.”

Yelena threw her arms in the air. “I cannot watch this. I need to sleep.”

Ava grabbed a dumpling and followed. “Use protection!”

You turned back to Bucky, who was very carefully pretending not to react while your cheeks were burning hot enough to fry an egg.

“God, she’s… I don’t think they understand the concept of a ‘spare room,’” you said softly.

“No, guess not,” he said, his voice just a little hoarse. 

You leaned back against the counter, dumpling halfway to your mouth. “Thanks for saving me some food.”

Bucky shrugged. “No big deal.” He hesitated before speaking again. “I heard what you said. When we were outside earlier. He was an idiot.”

You looked down at the plate. “Yeah. Well. Takes one to love one, I guess.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet. “You’re not an idiot, sweetheart.”

A soft silence settled between you.

He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “Spare room’s all made up. There’s pajamas on the bed. They might be a little big. Drink some water.”

You smiled, your heart catching somewhere behind your ribs.

“Night,” he said, already turning to go, giving you space.

You watched him leave, the gentle sound of his footsteps down the hall, and let out a slow breath.

The dumpling was cold, but it still tasted perfect.

Please note, may contain sugar. Don't forget to tip your hostess with reblogs and ALWAYS ask for second helpings!

Tagging on request: @doilooklikeagiveafrack @althea-tavalas @tellybearryyyy @delfitaylorsversiom131989 @maryevm

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp

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TW: cussing, early seasons Daryl, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies), firearms, kidnapping, canon level racism, Merle

Part 13

Dead Weight - Part 14

The hum of low conversation bounced between the concrete walls. A tension hung in the air thicker than the smell of cooked beans and bread.

The group had gathered—Rick, Glenn, Maggie, Carol, Hershel, Beth, and now you—clustered at the tables.

Merle Dixon sat on the far end, posture loose like he owned the place. His prosthetic clinked against the metal seat as he leaned back, grinning like a cat in a doghouse.

Daryl sat beside him, arms crossed, eyes trained on the floor. He hadn’t said a word since they'd walked in.

You moved quietly, two mismatched plates in your hands. A spoonful of canned beans, a slice of the latest bread you'd made, and the smallest sliver of tomato each. It wasn’t much, but it was what you had.

You placed one in front of Merle without looking at him. The second you slid toward Daryl, pausing just long enough to glance up at him. You didn’t smile.

But you did care.

Daryl glanced down at the plate, his brow furrowed. He didn’t speak, but his jaw clenched—just slightly—as if it hurt to accept kindness right now.

You turned away before he could say anything.

The room was quiet, save for the clinking of cutlery and low murmurs.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Glen said first, his voice tight, his arm still wrapped in a blood-stained bandage. “He took us. Held us. Let that Governor bastard hurt Maggie—”

“Didn’t lay a hand on her,” Merle drawled, mouth half-full. “’Sides, I ain’t exactly in the habit of torture. Just holdin’ folks for bad men who do like it.” He gave a wink toward Maggie. “No hard feelin’s, sweetheart?”

Maggie visibly tensed. Glen’s hand went for his knife.

Daryl stood, just a fraction. “Merle,” he warned.

Merle raised both hands—one flesh, one steel stump.

Rick stepped forward. “We can’t have him here. We can’t trust him. Hell, we didn’t even know he was coming back.”

You stood near the edge of the table, hands twisting together, head down. You weren’t looking for a spotlight. You weren’t even sure if you should say anything.

But your voice cut through the room anyway.

Soft. Quiet. But not uncertain.

"He saved my life.”

The table stilled.

You looked up, eyes not defiant but earnest. Honest. Your gaze drifted from Rick to Carol to Glen.

“I was outside. Clearing walkers. I got caught.” You looked down for a moment, swallowing your nerves. “I—I thought I was going to die. And then he showed up. Killed every one of them. Pulled me to my feet.”

Merle gave a theatrical bow from his seat.

You didn’t look at him.

“I know he’s done awful things,” you said softly. “I’m not saying we forget that. But he’s Daryl’s family.”

You glanced at Daryl, just once. His head was still down, but his eyes were on you—burning beneath the shadows of his bangs.

“You gave me a chance,” you added gently. “When I had nothing. No one. We could give him a chance too.”

Silence.

“Look im not saying we go play baseball with the man,” you tired again. “But one opportunity, one strike and he's out.”

Rick looked at you for a long beat, his jaw ticking.

“I know you all have reasons not to trust him. I get it. But if it were anyone else’s brother, we’d at least… try.” Your voice dropped a note.

“Daryl has someone. That should count for something.”

No one moved.

You could feel your own pulse in your throat. Your hands were clasped in front of you, a nervous habit.

You weren’t defending Merle.

You were defending Daryl.

He turned his head—just slightly. Looked at you from beneath the shadow of his messy hair, one eye catching the light.

You didn’t look away.

Rick’s expression was hard, but measured.

“You trust him?” he asked you directly.

You hesitated.

Then.

"I trust that he didn’t have to save me. But he did.”

A long, thick pause followed. You sat down again quietly, folding into yourself.

You hadn’t raised your voice, but it felt like you’d shouted.

Daryl shifted. His boots scraped against the floor as he stepped forward just enough to make himself visible again.

“She’s right,” he muttered. “He ain’t perfect. Hell, he’s the biggest damn headache I ever had. But he’s my blood.”

Merle barked out a laugh. “Aww, you gettin’ misty-eyed on me, baby brother?”

Daryl shot him a look. “Shut up, Merle.”

And there it was.

For the first time since he’d come back, Daryl looked at you, really looked.

His brow furrowed, with confusion. Like he didn’t understand why you’d do that—for him. Not when he’d left.

Rick didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no either.

The prison courtyard is quiet in the early morning light. The fog hangs low over the gravel, creating an ethereal barrier between your group and the walkers pressing against the outer fence.

Glen paces along the inner perimeter, his face still bruised and swollen from what Merle and the Governor's men did to him in Woodbury.

It's been three days since the rescue mission. Three days since they'd made it back.

Three days of uncomfortable silence as everyone processes what happened there.

One day of Merle Dixon living within these walls, kept separate in the entry room but still too close for comfort.

Glen stops his pacing when Daryl emerges from the cell block, crossbow slung across his back as always.

Tension rolls off Glen's shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

He's never felt so angry, so broken.

Not even after Atlanta, not even after the farm fell.

This confrontation has been brewing since they returned.

"Need to talk," Daryl says, approaching Glen with caution, the way he might a wounded animal.

The bruises on Glenn's face have deepened to a sickly purple-yellow, one eye still partially swollen.

The sight makes something twist in Daryl's chest—guilt, anger, shame.

Glen stops pacing but doesn't look at him directly. "About what?"

"Y'know what," Daryl replies, his voice low. No one else is in the courtyard this early, but the prison has a way of carrying sounds. "About Merle."

Glen's jaw tightens visibly. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit," Daryl counters, stepping closer. "You ain't said two words since we got back. To anyone but Maggie."

"What am I supposed to say?" Glen finally turns to face him, eyes burning with a mixture of pain and rage.

"That it's fine? That I understand? That I forgive him?"

Daryl winces slightly at the raw emotion in Glen's voice. "ain't askin' for that."

"Then what are you asking for?" Glen's voice rises slightly. "Because he's here now, inside our home, behind the same walls where my girlfriend sleeps. Where Carl sleeps. Where Rick's baby sleeps."

"He's m'brother," Daryl says simply, as if those three words explain everything.

Because in his world, they do.

"And what are we?" Glen challenges, gesturing to the prison around them. "What is this group to you ?"

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, his eyes dropping to the ground. "It ain't that simple."

"It is that simple," Glenn insists. "He beat me. He brought a walker into the room while I was tied to a chair. He was going to let the Governor—"

His voice breaks, and he takes a moment to compose himself.

"He let the Governor put his hands on Maggie while I listened from the next room."

Daryl flinches as if struck.

He'd heard bits and pieces of what happened, but hearing it laid out so starkly makes the bile rise in his throat.

"He didn't know what the Governor was gonna do."

"Don't," Glen warns. "Don't make excuses for him. He knew exactly what was happening. He just didn't care."

Silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. A walker snarls at the fence, drawn by their voices.

The sun continues its slow climb above the horizon, burning off the morning fog.

"He's changing," Daryl finally says, though the words sound hollow even to his own ears. "Trying too."

"We changed too, but we didnt start as monsters," Glen replies, his voice steadier now.

"He's blood," Daryl insists, an edge of desperation creeping into his tone. "M'family."

Glenn shakes his head slowly. "No. We're your family, Daryl. Me, Rick, Carol, Carl... all of us." He pauses watching Daryl's reaction carefully.

"We've had your back. We've risked our lives for you, and you for us. That's family."

Daryl's thumb worries at a loose thread on his crossbow strap, a nervous habit he's never quite shaken, he can't meet Glen's gaze.

"I know that. I ain't sayin'..."

"What are you saying then?" Glen presses. "That we should just forgive and forget? Pretend it never happened?"

"M'saying he deserves a chance," Daryl says, finally meeting Glen's gaze. "Just like everyone else got."

Glen laughs, a bitter sound that doesn't suit him at all.

"A chance. Right."

He gestures to his battered face.

"Is this what getting a chance looks like to you?"

"He was following orders," Daryl argues weakly. "The Governor—"

"Would you be making these same excuses if it had been her instead of Maggie in that room with the Governor?" Glen cuts him off, his voice deadly quiet now.

The question hits Daryl like a physical blow. He takes a step back, his face draining of color.

"Would you?" Glen pushes. "If she'd been stripped half-naked and threatened while your brother stood by and did nothing, would you forgive him?"

Daryl's breathing quickens, as he begins to pace, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

The mere thought of you in that situation, terrified and at the mercy of the Governor while Merle watched, makes something violent rise within him.

"That's different," he mutters, but there's no conviction behind the words.

"Why?" Glenn demands. "Because it's her? Because of whatever is happening between you two?"

Daryl's head snaps up, eyes narrowed. "Ain't nothing happening."

"Right," Glenn scoffs.

"Answer the question,"Glen presses when Daryl remains silent. "If the Governor had threatened her while Merle stood by, would you forgive him?"

The silence stretches thin between them as Daryl wrestles with the truth he doesn't want to acknowledge.

Finally, he exhales heavily, the fight seeming to drain from his body.

"No," he admits, the word barely audible. "I wouldn't."

Glen nods once, a small, sad validation. "Then don't ask me to do what you couldn't."

Daryl paces the empty watchtower, fingers twitching with the need to punch something, to release the storm churning inside him.

Glen's words echo in his head like a bad song he can't shake.

"If it had been her in that room..."

The mere thought sends a wave of nausea through him, followed by a surge of protective rage that terrifies him with its intensity.

He'd always known Merle was damaged—hell, both of them were.

Their old man had seen to that with his belt and his fists and his whiskey-soaked hatred. But Daryl had clung to the belief that somewhere beneath the racism, the violence, and the drugs was the brother who'd taught him to hunt, who'd occasionally, in rare moments of sobriety, shown him something resembling love.

Now that illusion is crumbling, forcing Daryl to face a truth he's been running from his whole life, Merle might be blood, but he might be poison too.

"Ain't nothin' happening," he'd told Glen about you, the lie bitter on his tongue.

Truth is, something's been happening since that morning when he'd seen you brake down over a walker and he awkwardly stood guard while you cried.

Something grew when you recognized the signs of abuse on him that no one else bothered to see.

Something shifted when he hallucinated Merle taunting him about his feelings for you in the forest.

But acknowledging that something means accepting vulnerability, and vulnerability has always equaled pain.

He leans against the railing, eyes scanning the tree line but not really seeing it.

What kind of man chooses strangers over his own brother?

What kind of man puts a woman he ain't even touched above family?

His father's voice, thick with contempt, surfaces from the darkest corners of his mind.

"Weak. Always were. Ain't no wonder Merle left you behind all them times."

Daryl's knuckles whiten as he grips the railing.

Maybe the old man was right.

But there's another voice now, quieter but persistent, that sounds suspiciously like yours. It whispers that maybe strength isn't about doing everything alone.

The thought is as terrifying as it is liberating.

Because if he admits how much this group matters, how much you matter, then he has to face how much he stands to lose. And loss has been the one constant in Daryl's life—the one thing he knows for certain will always comes.

Daryl makes a decision. He'll watch Merle, keep him in line, protect the group—protect you—even from his own blood if necessary.

He doesn't know what that makes him—traitor, survivor, or something else entirely—but for the first time in his life, he's starting to believe that being a Dixon doesn't have to define who he is or who he might become.

The day had faded into blue-grey shadows, the kind that made the world feel quieter than it really was. Outside the fencing, walkers still stirred—low groans and the occasional rattle of chain-link. Inside the prison walls, it was calmer, but no one truly relaxed anymore.

You leaned against the railing overlooking the yard, arms folded loosely. The concrete was cool beneath your elbows, the metal guard smooth against your palms.

You weren’t really watching anything. Not the trees. Not the watchtower. Just… letting the silence press into your chest.

The sound of boots scraping against concrete caught your ear, but you didn’t turn. You knew it was him.

Daryl came to stand beside you, not too close, but not far either. A shoulder’s length. His crossbow was slung across his back, dirt streaked across his arms.

His hair was still damp at the ends from having splashed water on his face before dinner.

He didn’t say anything at first.

The two of you just stood there for a few long moments, looking out at nothing, like the world was balancing on the space between you.

Finally, he spoke—gruff and low.

“Earlier, in the common room... what you said...”

You turned your head slightly. He wasn’t looking at you. His hands rested on the railing, knuckles scarred, fingers twitching like he wasn’t used to staying still.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered. “They don’t trust Merle. I get it. Hell, I don’t even know if I do sometimes.”

You tilted your head. “You’re his brother.”

That made his lips press into a thin line. His jaw flexed. “Don't make him good though”

A pause.

The night air carried the scent of rust and rain-soaked soil.

Then, something changed.

Barely perceptible.

You felt it before you saw it—the warmth of his hand shifting closer to yours on the railing.

His fingers moved in a twitchy, uncertain rhythm, like a man trying to approach a wild animal without spooking it.

And then, slowly… tentatively… his pinky brushed against yours.

You glanced down.

He wasn’t looking. He stared dead ahead, jaw tight, like the act of touching you burned through his defenses in real time.

And then his pinky hooked—gentle but deliberate—over where yours rested on the railing.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a brush of coincidence. It was intentional.

It said everything his mouth didn’t know how to.

He didn’t hold your hand.

He couldn’t yet.

But he wanted to.

After a breath or two, he pulled away slowly, cleared his throat, and stepped back.

“’Night,” he mumbled, already turning.

“Night, Daryl,” you whispered back.

He paused for a fraction of a second before disappearing, the prison swallowing him whole.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the rail, warmth blooming in the place where his touch had been.