#when everything you are belongs to the world

[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), female reader.

notes: i love this so much it’s insane

word count: 2.9 k

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

ten years ago…

The city was still asleep when he closed the door behind him.

No one saw him leave—not the landlord, not the neighbor who always smoked on her balcony, not the woman he loved, still asleep down the hall with the bedroom door cracked open just enough for the light to spill in.

Robby stood in that silence for a long minute, the chill from the hallway seeping into his bones like penance. Then he turned the key in the lock and walked away.

The air outside was the kind that burned in your lungs.

Pittsburgh was cold in the fall, but this was the kind of cold that made everything sharper—clearer. Unforgiving.

His bag was slung over his shoulder, his steps steady but slow, like maybe the weight of what he was doing hadn’t settled in yet. Or maybe it had, and he was just trying not to feel it.

He didn’t take a cab. He walked the ten blocks to the station with his hands in his pockets and his jaw clenched tight.

The city was gray and heavy, the sky the color of steel, and every street corner felt like it might shout her name back at him if he let his mind wander too far.

He had written her a note. It was short. Too short.

Something about needing to go. About not being who she thought he was. About not being enough.

He hadn't signed it.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Less to untangle.

She wouldn’t have to look him in the eye and see the mess of a man too afraid to stay. She wouldn’t have to see him crack apart under the weight of what he couldn’t say: I love you, but I don’t know how to deserve you.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?

He loved her. God, he loved her so much it made everything inside him ache. But love wasn’t always enough, and he was already unraveling—already halfway gone in ways that scared him.

She had plans. She had brightness. She talked about future things like they were inevitable—like there was a place in them carved out for him. Like he belonged.

Michael didn’t know how to belong.

And she—she kissed him like she believed he’d always come back.

He left like he knew he never would.

He remembered the way she’d pulled him close the night before, bare legs around his hips, her breath soft and warm against his skin. She kissed him like the world was still safe.

Like it was forever. Like it was just the two of them in that tiny apartment and the future didn’t scare her. She whispered something against his collarbone—something like don’t go far, something like see you in the morning—and he’d shut his eyes so tight it hurt.

She kissed him like she believed in him. And it broke something in him, because he didn’t.

After, she curled up against him and fell asleep fast, trusting him to stay.

He spent the whole night awake beside her.

Watching the ceiling. Watching her chest rise and fall. Memorizing the shape of her hand resting on his chest like she was anchoring him to something good. Something real.

And then, right before the sun came up, he kissed her on the forehead, like that could make up for everything he didn’t have the courage to say. He got up without a sound, packed only what he needed, left the note on the kitchen counter where she’d find it after coffee.

At the station, he stood on the platform with a coffee in one hand and guilt in the other. The train was delayed. Of course it was. The universe was cruel like that.

He didn’t cry. Not really. But his chest hurt in that splintered, hollow way grief lives in.

If she had woken up…

If she had asked him to stay…

He didn’t know what he would’ve done.

But she didn’t. And he left. He let the train carry him away from the only thing that had ever felt like home, trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing.

He never turned around.

And he never saw the light flick on in the apartment just moments after the train pulled away.

He never saw her wake up, heart hammering, reaching for the empty space beside her.

He didn’t see the light flick on in the apartment just minutes after the train pulled away.

Didn’t see her reach across the bed for him, only to find cold sheets and silence.

Didn’t see her walk barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, only to stop short at the note waiting for her like a knife on the counter.

She read it once. Then again. And again, like maybe the words would change if she stared long enough.

They didn’t.

And the life she thought she was building—the one she’d let herself believe in, with the man she’d trusted enough to love without hesitation—cracked down the middle, quiet and sharp.

There was no warning. No fight. No goodbye. Just an empty bed, and a note, and the sound of something breaking that she couldn’t name.

He didn’t know what she looked like in that moment.

Didn’t know the way she slid to the floor, back to the counter, note crumpled in her hand, trying to breathe around the hollowed-out space where he used to be.

He didn’t see her cry.

All he knew was that he had left.

And he hated himself for it.

five years later…

Michael hadn’t meant to come.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a few familiar faces. Just something to fill the silence that had started to feel like its own kind of punishment.

It wasn’t nostalgia, not exactly. Nostalgia required sweetness, and he’d scraped most of that out of himself years ago.

But the invitation had come anyway—some old friend from undergrad, or med school, or residency, someone he hadn’t seen in years but still had enough of his email to keep him tethered.

“Come by if you’re in town,” it said. “It’s been forever.”

It had been forever.

And Michael—idiot that he was—had found himself driving across the city through the soft December dusk, half hoping the offer had expired by the time he arrived.

Pennsylvania never changed much. It was gray and clumsy in the winter, still bitter enough to make your bones ache if you didn’t move fast enough. The streets were slick with slush. The streetlights glowed gold on the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, carolers sang just off-key.

But the house? The house was warm.

Not just in the literal sense—with its firelight flickering behind windows, the sharp glow of a chandelier, the steam rising from pots in the kitchen—but warm in the way that made your chest hurt.

Laughter spilled from the porch. Music floated through the cracks in the windows. He could see the silhouettes of coats being shrugged off, cheeks kissed, wine poured.

He parked across the street and left the engine running.

He told himself he just needed a minute. Just a minute.

And then—he saw her.

Through the window. Like a movie he had no right to watch.

She was wearing soft pink, not scrubs but something casual and delicate, like the inside of a seashell. Her hair was up. A few strands curled against her neck, the way they used to when she rushed from the shower and didn’t have time to dry it all the way.

She looked older—but in the kind of way that hurt, because it meant time had passed without him. Because it meant she had kept living while he had buried himself alive.

She was talking to someone, laughing. There was a wine glass in her hand. A freckle he remembered just barely visible near her collarbone. When she smiled—God, when she smiled—it twisted something in his ribs.

He should’ve left. Should’ve never come.

But instead, he sat there, drowning in it.

In her.

It had been five years.

Five years since he left.

Five years since she kissed him like she believed he’d come back.

And he had left like he knew he never would.

That last night haunted him. The way she had wrapped herself around him like she was memorizing him. The softness of her lips, trembling just slightly. The way her hands had lingered against his back, as if she could keep him there by sheer will.

She had whispered, “See you in the morning,” into the curve of his neck, her voice barely audible, casual like it meant nothing at all.

And he had kissed her like he believed he could make that true.

But it was like she knew what was coming, on some deeper level. Like her body had braced for it before her mind could catch up.

There was no morning for them. Not after that.

No safety. No stability. No staying.

He had packed too fast. Left without enough. Told himself it was better this way—for her, for them. That she deserved more than someone already half-destroyed.

It hadn’t mattered. It had broken her anyway.

It had broken him.

He looked away from the window, throat tight. A dog barked somewhere nearby. He couldn’t breathe.

Michael reached for the door handle.

Just do it, he told himself. Go in. Say hello. Apologize. Pretend to be someone who deserved to walk through that door.

But then he looked up again—just as she turned, laughed, leaned against the counter like she belonged there—and everything in him stalled.

Because she did belong there.

She looked happy. Or at least… okay. Stable. Surrounded by light and warmth and people who hadn’t vanished when things got hard. What right did he have to walk back in now, five years too late?

None. Absolutely none.

He dropped his hand from the door.

And drove away.

He didn’t see her turn back toward the living room.

Didn’t see the small boy—curly-haired, pajama-clad—pad over and raise his arms.

Didn’t see her scoop him up and nuzzle her nose into his cheek like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Didn’t see the boy giggle, and press his hand to her face, and whisper something that made her laugh even harder.

He didn’t see any of it.

All he saw was her silhouette, soft and golden, disappearing behind curtains as he turned the corner and left her behind again.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer.

He told himself she had moved on. That she didn’t need him. That he didn’t need her.

But as the city lights blurred past his windshield, as the ache in his chest settled deeper, more permanent—

Michael knew he was still lying.

To her. To himself. And to whatever part of him that still woke up some nights thinking she was there.

present day…

There was a rhythm to emergency.

You breathed in crisis. Bled urgency. Learned to function in the eye of the storm.

And Dr. Robby had made a home in the storm.

That morning had been like any other. Fast. Messy. Loud.

A cardiac arrest. A teen with a bullet in his shoulder. An elderly woman with a stroke mid-grocery run. The ER moved like it always did: fast and fractured.

Until it didn’t.

Until everything stopped.

The moment he heard her voice.

“Move! He’s crashing—give me the crash cart, and get respiratory down here, now!”

He froze mid-step, the trauma form in his hand suddenly weightless.

That voice. Familiar. Unshakable.

He turned toward the chaos at trauma bay two—and there she was.

Pink salmon scrubs stained with something dark. Her hair half pulled back, half falling out. Her hands fluttering between the boy on the gurney and the nurse trying to get a BP cuff on.

And her eyes—God, her eyes. Were wild, terrified.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not in this city. Not in this hospital. Not on this day.

She was yelling something about sats. Chest pain. A fall.

“He got hit—he was riding to school and some jackass blew through the stop sign—he wasn’t moving, he was cyanotic, I couldn’t find a pulse—so I just started compressions, I didn’t wait for the ambulance—”

Her voice cracked. “I was right next to him and I didn’t react fast enough, fuck—I should’ve seen it coming, I should’ve grabbed him—”

Someone—Whittaker, already gowned up—stepped in beside her. ��We’ve got him now. You have to step back, let us work.”

“He’s my son.”

The words cracked something in him.

The boy. Robby saw him clearly now. Pale. Unconscious. A small bruise blooming across his temple. Dark lashes stuck together from oxygen tubing, blood, and sweat.

He couldn’t look away.

Because something inside him twisted hard—like recognition, like guilt, like some ancient ache that had been sleeping for ten years and woke up screaming.

The boy looked like her. Same cheekbones. Same curve of the jaw. Even the soft dip in his left cheek, like it had been sculpted by memory. But the eyes—

They were closed now, but when they’d fluttered open briefly under the lights—

Brown.

Not hazel, not green. Not hers.

His.

It was a stupid thing to fixate on, maybe. But in that split-second, his brain flooded with it. The timeline. The math. Ten years since he left. The kid—what, eight? Nine?

The breath Robby took didn’t make it to his lungs. It caught somewhere deep in his chest, behind his ribs, sharp and sudden like broken glass.

He took a step back without realizing it, hand coming up like he might need to steady himself on something, anything. The edge of the trauma board. The counter. The wall.

He felt the air shift beside him before he heard the voice.

Dana.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just appeared at his side like she always did when things went sideways—silent, sharp, steady. Her eyes flicked from the boy to Robby’s face and back again.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, too low for anyone else to hear.

Robby didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to.

Because his mind was spiraling now. Backward. Forward. In every direction at once.

She hadn’t seen him yet. She didn’t know he was there. But that didn’t stop the crash. The sound of her voice cracked through him like a whip, and now this—this kid, with her face and his eyes—it was too much.

“I think—” he tried, then stopped. Swallowed hard.

Dana gently guided him toward the side wall, just out of the direct chaos. “Just breathe for a second. I’ve got it. I’ve got eyes on the board.”

“I need—” he started again, but his throat closed up.

“Hey,” she said, softer now. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. It was anything but.

Because standing there, watching that boy fight for breath, watching her fight like hell to keep him here, Robby felt everything he had buried start to claw its way to the surface.

The weight of the note he left.

The sound of the train pulling away.

The memory of her asleep, the light spilling into the room, her hand on his chest like she was anchoring him.

He’d thought that version of himself was dead. Buried under work and years and choices he couldn’t take back.

But now—now it was like the past had ripped itself open and demanded he look.

The room blurred for a second. He blinked hard. Tried to focus.

He heard her voice again, still panicked.

“Why the hell aren’t we intubating?! He needs to be intubated!”

Whittaker again, calm and unmoved. “He’s stable enough to scan. You can come with us if you stay out of the way.”

A voice behind his left shoulder now—one of the paramedics.

“She brought him in herself. Collapsed on the street. She didn’t wait for the ambulance—drove like a maniac to get him here. Said she didn’t trust the timing.”

He still hadn’t moved.

The whole world had narrowed to the sound of her breath, the strain in her voice, the way her hand shook as she pushed hair from the boy’s forehead.

Then—quiet. A new voice. Softer. Dana again, back in the room now.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s stable. We’ve got him.”

She exhaled for the first time.

Just once. Then pressed a hand to her chest like she needed to physically hold herself together.

And that’s when someone said her name.

Soft. Familiar.

The sound of it—her name—snapped Robby out of whatever fog he’d been standing in.

That was all it took.

He moved.

Through the flurry of techs and doctors. Past Mohan adjusting the IV, past Whittaker calling out a page to peds. His footsteps were too loud, or maybe the whole room had just gone silent when he stepped in.

She turned at the sound of her name.

And saw him.

For the first time in ten years.

The recognition hit like a punch. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… undeniable.

Her face went still.

Not surprised. Not angry.

Just raw.

As if she’d been bracing for this moment for years without knowing it.

He opened his mouth. Didn’t even know what he was going to say.

All that came out was her name.

And everything else fell away.

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[cupofteatoyou]

Dreaming in Blaugrana pt2

You didn’t move for a long time.

Not after the door closed. Not after her footsteps faded down the hall. Not even when the buzzing in your ears quieted enough for your own heartbeat to feel loud again.

You just stood there. Half-in, half-out. Of the suit. Of your lie. Of everything.

The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of everything she didn’t say.

You peeled the rest of the suit off slowly, like maybe if you did it gently enough, the shame would come off with it. It didn’t.

The Cat Culer head still sat on the desk beside you, grinning like it didn’t understand what it had done. Like it hadn’t broken something.

You wanted to shove it in the duffel. Hide it. Burn it.

Instead, you slumped into your chair and stared at the empty doorway, Like maybe she'd come back.

She didn’t.

And even if she did, you weren’t sure which part of you she’d be looking for—the mascot, or the lie.

You thought the worst part would be her finding out. The embarrassment. The exposure. But it wasn’t.

The worst part was knowing she wasn’t upset that it was you.

She was upset that it was you the intern.

Because that version of you—the one who ran cables, clipped mic audio, nodded silently while she barked directions—wasn’t someone she’d ever let close. Wasn’t someone she’d let in.

It wasn’t about the secret.

It was about where you came from.

You were staff. And in her world, that meant something. It meant distance. It meant professionalism and protocol and polite nods that never cracked into anything real.

You weren’t just behind a mask. You were behind a camera. Behind a badge. Behind everything she kept herself safe from.

Because around staff, Alexia had rules.

Around staff, she wasn’t a person—she was a product.

An image. A brand. A checklist of the right words and the right smile and the right lighting.

She gave interviews like a machine. Took direction without flinching. Let the boom mics dangle inches from her face without ever acknowledging the person holding it.

To staff, she was the captain.

To staff, she was untouchable.

And she liked it that way.

Because being “Captain Putellas” meant she didn’t have to be anything else.

She could shut the door behind her eyes and coast through every interaction on muscle memory. Professional. Polished. Distant. Safe.

And you broke that.

Not just as the mascot—but as you.

Because the whole time she’d been opening up to Cat Culer—laughing, venting, offering pieces of herself she didn’t give to anyone else—she hadn’t realized it was someone who already saw her when she didn’t mean to be seen.

Someone who’d filmed her on her worst days. Caught her quietest moments. Chosen what parts of her got shown to the world.

You weren’t a stranger.

You were staff.

And to her, that was the same as betrayal.

Because you weren’t supposed to be real.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

Not outside the suit. Not in her world.

And now?

Now she couldn’t figure out where you ended and the lie began.

You blurred the line.

And for someone like Alexia—who lived her life inside clean boxes, perfect soundbites, and tightly managed control—that wasn’t just uncomfortable.

was terrifying.

Because if she admitted the intern could be someone she’d fall for...

Then what else had she gotten wrong?

Then maybe the walls she’d built weren’t really walls at all.

Maybe they were windows. And she’d been seen this whole time.

You still showed up.

Not as often. Not with the same spark. But enough that no one questioned it.

The suit still fit. The paws still bounced. The tail still swung when you needed it to. But every time you pulled the head over your face, something in you flinched.

It wasn’t comforting anymore. It wasn’t safety. It felt like a lie.

And not the fun kind—the kind with pranks and silent jokes and wide-eyed kids tugging at your fur. No. It felt rotten now. Like wearing someone else’s skin. Like stepping into a character that no longer belonged to you.

Because being Cat Culer used to feel like freedom. Now it felt like hiding.

And the worst part? She didn’t even look for you anymore.

After that night, after the mascot head on the desk and the silence that felt too final—Alexia never brought it up again.

You saw her in passing. On the pitch. In hallways. In media rooms filled with lights and noise and tension so thick it held everyone hostage.

She nodded, sometimes. Once, maybe, she said hi. But it wasn’t for you. It was for the space you filled. The staffer. The silhouette. The role.

You weren’t the one she confided in anymore. That person didn’t exist. You weren’t you, either. Not really. Just something in between.

Because Cat Culer still danced at halftime and hugged kids and made Mapi snort-laugh on the sidelines. But every cheer felt heavier now. Every high five, more hollow.

You'd become a ghost wearing fur.

And the truth clawed at you more every time you put the suit on.

That you’d once meant something to her. That she’d laughed with you, shared with you, trusted you—not because of who you were, but because of who she thought you were.

And now? Now even pretending felt disgusting. Because she wasn’t falling for the mascot anymore. And she definitely wasn’t falling for you. It wasn’t just the silence.

It was the way things changed in small, invisible ways. Quiet shifts only you seemed to notice.

Alexia didn’t come to you during warmups anymore. Not to sit beside you. Not to nudge your shoulder. Not to talk about drills or bad boots or long days.

She used to look for you. Now, she looked through you.

Sometimes, she arrived early, trained hard, and left before you even zipped up the suit. Other days, she stayed late—but the second you stepped onto the pitch, foam paws flopping, tail bouncing like always, she’d suddenly remember a meeting. A lift. A stretch.

You could count the number of words she’d said to Cat Culer in the last three months on one hand.

And none of them had been for you. Not really.

Once, you joined Mapi and Patri on the grass for a mock drill—the kind where you were the “opponent” and everyone took turns sliding in to tackle you like chaos gremlins. The girls were cackling. Patri tried to fake a red card. Ingrid filmed the whole thing for Instagram.

You glanced up, heart flickering.

Alexia stood near midfield, arms crossed, watching. For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe— But when you tripped dramatically over a cone and flailed backward in your usual slow-motion death fall, she didn’t smile.

She turned away.

Walked straight toward the bench and didn’t look back.

Another time, you heard her on the sideline. Mapi was complaining about losing a passing game to the mascot, and Alexia—without missing a beat—just muttered:

“Stop letting the cartoon outplay you.”

Not “they’re good.” Not “they’re funny.”

Not you.

Just the cartoon.

Like you were nothing more than fur and foam and a dumb tail flopping in the wind.

And that stung more than silence.

Because at least silence could pretend it didn’t know you.

This? This was cold. This was careful.

And maybe worst of all—this was what boundaries looked like. Rebuilt. Reinforced.

You didn’t know what hurt more— That she couldn’t look at you the same way anymore Or that maybe she never would again.

It wasn’t just you who noticed. Mapi saw it too.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just started watching a little more closely. Her eyes would flick to Alexia whenever you entered a room. She’d go quiet when Alexia walked past without a word. Without a glance.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of the grass in full costume—legs stretched out, paws resting in your lap—when Mapi jogged over and dropped beside you with a sigh.

She didn’t say much. Just passed you an energy drink and pulled her sweatband off with a wince. Her knee was taped again. Same as always. You bumped her shoulder lightly with your foam arm. She smiled, distracted.

Then her eyes drifted across the field. Alexia was walking off. Alone. No wave. No playful jab. No shoulder bump. Just... gone. Mapi watched her for a beat too long.

“You notice it too, huh?” she muttered finally. You didn’t move.

Mapi didn’t look at you, just twisted the cap off her drink and stared straight ahead. “She doesn’t talk to you anymore. Not like she used to.” You stayed still. Silent.

“I mean, I get it. She’s not good with... this kind of thing,” she added, gesturing vaguely. “Feelings. Shit that doesn’t fit into her little system. Especially when it comes from someone she wasn’t expecting.”Another pause,Then, softer: “But still. It’s shitty.” Your chest tightened.

Mapi leaned back on her palms and exhaled hard. “She used to look for you, you know. Like, before anything started. I'd catch her scanning the field, waiting for the cat to show up. Like it made her day better.” She didn’t say it to be cruel. Just honest.

“But now?” she continued. “Now she sees you coming and turns the other way.”

You dropped your foam head into your hands, mask hiding your face even though she couldn't see it.

Mapi nudged your foot with hers. “Whatever happened… it’s eating both of you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. And she didn’t push.

She just sat beside you until the sun dipped low enough to paint the pitch in gold again. Until the others filtered off the field. Until you were the only ones left.

Then she stood, brushing grass off her shorts. And before walking off, she said it—low and certain: “She’s mad. But not at you.She’s mad that she let herself care.” And you just sat there, head in your paws, heart somewhere it couldn’t reach her. Not anymore.

You lasted a few more weeks. Not because you wanted to. Because you didn’t know how to stop.

You kept showing up like muscle memory. Like the act of being there might make something inside you feel right again. You filmed interviews with shaking hands. You sorted clip reels until your eyes blurred. You stood in the media room with your hoodie pulled tight, trying to shrink small enough that even the silence wouldn’t see you.

You laughed when Mapi joked. Nodded when Carla gave instructions. Played the part. But it was all mimicry now. Hollow.

Even the mascot didn’t feel like yours anymore.

Every time you reached for the suit, your chest clenched. The fur felt heavier. The paws, stiffer. The Cat Culer head, once something like safety, sat on its shelf like a stranger. Its smile looked smug now. Cruel.

You still wore it sometimes. But only when you had to. And every time, it felt a little more like punishment. Because no matter how good you were at pretending, she never came back.

Not like before.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you weren’t here for her. That this was still your job. But the truth was... it used to be more than that.

Cat Culer had given you belonging. Had made you feel like someone. Had carved out a space where you could breathe, even if it was through mesh eyeholes and three inches of foam.

Now it just felt like pretending to be a version of yourself that no longer existed. And being you—just you—wasn’t enough to stay.

So one quiet Friday, when the team was away for an away fixture and the office was nearly empty, you cleaned out your locker.

You didn’t leave a note.

No email. No message. No goodbye. Just silence. Because there wasn’t anything left to say. Not to the club. Not to the staff. And definitely not to her.

You didn’t want to explain yourself. Didn’t want to answer questions or sit through awkward sympathy or worse—understanding. You didn’t want to hand over a flash drive or leave behind a letter. You didn’t want to wrap it up in closure.

You just wanted it to stop.

So you walked away.

One morning, you packed your things from the locker flat you’d barely had time to decorate, and by the afternoon, you were gone. The uniform stayed in the locker, untouched. The duffel with the mascot suit still zipped and heavy in its corner. The lanyard probably got deactivated without anyone noticing.

And that was fine. That was the point.Because you didn’t want to be remembered. Not as the intern. Not as the mascot. Not as the girl she used to talk to. You wanted to be no one again. It was easier.

Now you made coffee.

Six-hour shifts behind a corner café bar, pressing espresso and wiping down counters while your coursework blinked at you from a half-broken laptop in the backroom. It was quiet, mostly. You liked quiet now.

There were no jerseys. No cameras. No mascots. No her.

You could breathe here.

No one cared who you were. No one stared. No one expected you to smile or perform or hold yourself together just long enough to get through another shoot.

Here, you were just another face in an apron. Another student trying to make rent. Another girl watching strangers walk past the window and wondering what it would feel like to be unafraid again.

And some nights, when you closed the shop alone and the world felt still in a way it hadn’t in months, you wondered if she even noticed you were gone.

If she’d said anything. If she missed the silence beside her. If she missed you—even if she know who you were.

But most nights, you didn’t think about her at all. You couldn’t. Because if you did, the ache would come back. The one that told you she almost saw you. And then chose not to.

You didn’t expect anyone to reach out. Not really.

You’d vanished so quietly, it felt like erasing yourself. Like closing a door behind you and pretending the room never existed. You assumed that once you were gone, life at the club would move on—faster than you did. Cleaner.

And mostly, it did.

Except for Mapi.

She found you a week later.

Not through some big dramatic search, but through the most Mapi way possible—an Instagram story.

You’d posted a blurry photo of your cappuccino art, not even thinking. No caption. Just foam and sunlight and a chipped ceramic cup. You barely had ten followers.

But she saw it.

Two hours later, she walked into the café like she owned the place. A hoodie pulled over her curls. Sunglasses. Casual as ever.

She didn’t say hi. Didn’t say I missed you. She just leaned on the counter, popped a piece of gum into her mouth, and said, “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

You blinked at her. “How did you—”

She held up her phone and tapped your post. “Amateur mistake. Next time, don’t geo-tag.” You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And just like that, she made herself a regular.

She started showing up every couple of days. Never in team gear. Always in that deliberately under-the-radar way that screamed don’t recognize me while still somehow drawing attention anyway.

She’d sit at the corner table by the window and call it her spot after the second visit. Always asked for the same drink—iced coffee, no sugar, oat milk—and always insisted she wasn’t here for you.

“Free coffee,” she’d say with a shrug. “That’s the only reason I show up. You owe me for years of emotional trauma.”

And sometimes, she’d stay for hours—sunglasses pushed up into her hair, ankles crossed, flipping through a magazine she didn’t read. Other times, she wouldn’t even order. Just walk in, ruffle your hair behind the bar, and walk out again with a smirk and a wave.

It was stupid. Pointless. Quiet. But it meant everything. Because she didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t ask about the club. Or the suit. Or Alexia.

She didn’t ask why your hands still trembled when you steamed milk. Or why you sometimes went quiet when certain songs came on the speaker.

She just kept showing up.

And that told you enough.

She wasn’t there for the coffee. She was there for you. Even if she’d never admit it out loud. And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe it—Maybe someone had seen you after all.

Late afternoon. Slow shift. You were wiping down the espresso machine when your phone buzzed in your apron pocket. You almost ignored it. Probably spam. Probably nothing. But something made you check.

It was a picture. No words, no explanation—just a glitter-covered digital flyer with Mapi’s face photoshopped onto a unicorn mid-gallop, a party hat tilted over one eye, confetti raining from the sky behind her. It said “MAPICHELLA – You’re Invited (Not Optional)” in Comic Sans.

You blinked. Then the second message came through:

MAPIII: "My birthday. You're coming."

Just like that. No greeting. No room for debate. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Your first instinct was to say no. To type something polite. Gentle. A soft excuse.

“Can’t make it.” “Busy that night.” “Hope it’s fun.”

But before you could craft your letdown, another message arrived.

MAPIII: "Don’t even think about saying no. I know where you work, remember?"

Of course she did.

You smiled, despite yourself, even as something tight coiled behind your ribs.

"I’m not really good at parties."

There was a pause. Not long. But long enough to feel the weight of it. Then…

MAPIII: "Good thing I didn’t invite you for your party tricks. I invited you because I want you there."

Simple. Blunt. Real.

And you hated how much it made your chest ache. Because it had been months. Months of you slipping away, letting the city swallow you, rebuilding your world with silence and coffee beans and textbooks. You hadn’t asked anyone to look for you.

But Mapi had. And she never stopped.

You stared at the screen, unsure what to say. Part of you wanted to ask who would be there. To calculate your risks. To figure out how much proximity to her you could survive.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you already knew. And even deeper—you knew it wouldn’t matter.

"Won’t it be�� weird?"

You didn’t specify. Didn’t say her name. You didn’t have to. Mapi replied almost instantly.

MAPIII: "You being not there is what’s weird.You showing up and eating cake like a half-functioning human? That’s normal. You’re my friend. Come."

Your throat tightened. You started typing another excuse, fingers shaking just a little.

But then the last message came in.

MAPIII: "If you don’t show up, I’m sending someone to drag you there. In your apron. With a to-go cup glued to your hand."

That got a laugh out of you. The kind you hadn’t felt in weeks—sharp, involuntary, genuine.

You didn’t text back. Didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either.

And that night, when your shift ended, you lay in bed with the party flyer still open on your phone, thumb brushing over the glitter filter like it might tell you what the hell you were supposed to feel.

Because part of you wanted to forget. Part of you wanted to stay buried. But part of you—stupid, fragile, stubborn—missed something.

Not the job. Not the mascot. Not even the past.

You missed belonging. And maybe—just maybe—you missed her, too. Even if you weren’t ready to admit it. You didn’t even want to come.

You’d told Mapi that. Twice. Maybe three times. She ignored you every single time.

So now here you were—pressed into the corner of someone’s apartment you didn’t recognize, wrapped in the softest hoodie you owned like it might shield you from the noise, the lights, the memories.

The party was loud. Overfull. Bright. Glittered with birthday balloons and half-empty bottles and a playlist that jumped between club bangers and chaotic throwbacks no one ever admitted to knowing all the words to. People moved like water—shifting, laughing, clinking glasses—and you were doing a decent job of blending in.

Until you weren’t.

“—and this one,” Mapi’s voice cut through the crowd like a spotlight, and your stomach dropped. You turned just in time to see her grinning like a troublemaker on stage, her drink raised, one arm gesturing straight toward you.she was drunk, no she was wasted. You know she didn’t meant to outed you, not like that.

“Faceplanted so hard in the Cat Culer suit during halftime once. I swear, if we’d had that on video, it would’ve gone viral.” The words hit before you could duck.

Someone turned.

Then another.

And then—

“Wait... you were the mascot?”

A few eyes widened. Jaws dropped. One hand literally slapped another person’s shoulder.

“No way.”

“Shut up. That was you?”

“Yo, I knew it. I knew you had to be an athlete under there. You were too good.”

“Okay, but like... you’re actually stupid hot. Why the hell were you hiding in a giant cat costume?”

You laughed—awkward and soft and not quite real. “Bad decisions. Mostly.”

Someone from the far side of the kitchen shouted, “Y’all, we’ve been tackled by a supermodel this whole time and didn’t even know?”

The teasing kept rolling.

“I swear, you danced better than half the squad.”

“You were better at interviews too, honestly. You had the drama down.”

“You did that backflip at the open house! I thought that was a stunt double!”

Compliments wrapped around you like confetti—bright, silly, kind.

But beneath all of it, something sharp pressed against your ribs.

Because not one person said, “Wait, weren’t you the intern too?” Not one, “You filmed that Barça documentary, right?” Not “Didn’t you do all the graphics during the Liga campaign?” Not even a faint, “Weren’t you the girl holding the mic at the tunnel?”

They didn’t remember that version of you.

The one who stayed late, edited their highlights, clipped their press quotes.

They remembered the cat. The chaos. The costume.

Not the person.

And you tried not to let it show, but your smile wavered. Just a little.

That’s when Mapi appeared beside you, like she felt the shift without needing to hear a word. Guilty was shown at her face.

She leaned in, voice low so only you could hear. “Hey. I’m sorry it’s just slipped” You looked at her. Didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Her smile faded—still warm, but quieter now. “You okay?”

You nodded, even though your throat was tight.

She didn’t push. Just stood there with you, shoulder to shoulder, holding space like it was second nature.

“They’re not trying to forget,” she said gently. “They just never knew where to look.”

Your eyes burned for a second too long. You blinked it away. And then—

You felt it.

That pull. That static in the air. The weight of someone’s gaze settling between your shoulder blades.

You turned.

And there she was.

Alexia.

Near the hallway, half-shadowed by a flickering string of fairy lights. Drink in hand. Still. Composed. And looking directly at you.

Your breath caught.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Her expression didn’t change. Not much. But her eyes—they were quietly wrecked in a way that no one else would’ve noticed.

Just you.

Because you’d seen them soft before. Lit up with laughter, with trust. You’d felt her shoulder brush yours in a silent joke, watched her smile like it belonged only to the cat who couldn’t speak.

But now?

Now she didn’t smile.

She didn’t come closer.

She just looked at you.

And in that one look—without a single word exchanged—you felt the full weight of the distance she’d built between you.

Not cold. Not cruel.

Just… unreachable.

And then she blinked.

And looked away.

And left.

Like she hadn’t been staring at the version of you she couldn’t quite face.

You swallowed hard and turned back toward the crowd, where the laughter hadn’t stopped. Where the music kept pulsing like nothing had broken.

But something had.

Not publicly. Not loudly. Just… quietly. Inside your chest.

Mapi was still next to you. She didn’t say anything this time. Just placed a hand on your back and left it there.

Warm. Steady.

And you didn’t have to say a word for her to understand. You were grateful And you were hurting. At the same time.

You were cornered by the snack table, balancing a plastic cup and a half-full plate of chips, when Patri appeared beside you like she’d been summoned by the scent of your awkwardness.

She leaned a forearm on the counter, too casual to be casual, and looked you up and down with a grin that didn’t hide what it was.

“Didn’t recognize you without the fur,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

You laughed, nervous but polite. “Yeah, I get that a lot tonight.”

“Right,” she said, eyes still on you. “It’s just… weird. You were funny as hell in the suit. And now you’re just…” She tilted her head, her grin sharp and easy. “Kind of stupidly cute. Unfair, really.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

She chuckled at your reaction. “Relax. I’m not trying to marry you. Just saying—if I’d known it was you under there, I’d have started flirting months ago.”

You smiled, the practiced kind. Friendly. Harmless.

“That’s sweet,” you said, trying not to sound like you were dodging it, even though you absolutely were.

Patri leaned a little closer. “Is it working?”

You laughed again, the sound light but distant. “You’re very charming.”

Once again, you felt it.

A gaze.

You didn’t have to look—you knew.

But you looked anyway.

Alexia stood by the far wall, pretending to be in a conversation that wasn’t holding her attention. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes weren’t.

They were on you. On Patri.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤWINTER FLOWERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Vergil Sparda x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It doesn’t begin with love.

You are human—fragile, fleeting, insignificant in the grand tapestry of time Vergil exists in. A being of flesh and warmth. And yet, somehow, you are still standing. Amid the chaos of a demonic incursion, surrounded by blood and bone, you don’t scream. You don’t run. You fight, with trembling hands and stubborn eyes.

That’s when he sees you.

Not for what you are.

But for what you could be.

Vergil watches from the shadows. At first, you’re nothing more than a fleeting distraction in his pursuit of power. But there’s something… different about you. Something that hooks into the raw, feral part of him—the part he’s buried beneath layers of Yamato steel and centuries of silence.

You remind him of his mother, in a way he resents.

You remind him of his humanity, in a way he hates.

And still, he watches.

The obsession grows in silence.

He never announces his interest. That would imply weakness. But you feel him. The air gets colder when he’s near. You dream of blue light. Sometimes, in battle, you swear you see a flash of his coat on the rooftop before the enemy falls to your feet, headless.

You think you’re going insane. You don’t know that he’s following you.

He learns everything—where you sleep, what you eat, the way your voice cracks when you cry alone, thinking no one can hear. He knows the names of every friend you’ve lost. He keeps a list of the men who flirt with you. He splitting them in half with Yamato.

He justifies it.

“You are mine. You just don’t know it yet.”

He begins to test you.

You start encountering stronger demons. Ones that know your name. Ones that bleed blue when you kill them. You think you’re being hunted—when in truth, you’re being tested. Vergil wants to see how far you’ll go. How strong you’ll become. Will you break, or will you grow?

Every time you survive, he grows more enthralled. You are not weak. You are almost worthy. Almost.

But not quite.

Not yet.

And then, you confront him.

Not because you figured it out. No. You walked into one of his traps like a lamb to slaughter, and instead of running… you drew your blade. Eyes fierce. Rage in your blood. You scream his name and challenge him. You accuse him of tormenting you.

And Vergil smiles.

The first smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

“You’ve grown.”

He doesn't deny it. He steps into the moonlight, and when you meet his gaze, you finally understand.

You try to leave.

Of course you do. Any sane woman would. But Vergil doesn’t allow loose threads. He appears again, this time in your dreams. Your shadow. Your heartbeat. His presence becomes inescapable.

You find notes written in ink on your weapons—warnings, riddles. You start seeing him in reflections. You wake with the scent of rain and blood on your sheets, but no sign of him. You speak his name and the wind answers.

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

He waits.

Until you break.

The world turns on you. A betrayal. A massacre. Your home burns. Your soul fractures. Everyone you loved is gone.

He appears in the ashes.

Not as a savior.

But as the one who made it happen.

“I warned you,” he says, tone calm. “You belong to me.”

You try to kill him.

He lets you.

You scream.

He listens.

You fall.

He catches you.

You're his now.

You used to dream of freedom.

Now, you dream of blue. Of rain falling like blades. Of a voice whispering your name, not with affection, but with possession. His voice. Cold, refined, unwavering.

Vergil doesn’t hurt you.

Not with fists.

Never with cruelty.

He hurts you the way winter hurts the last flower—by loving it too much.

He keeps you in a place that doesn't exist on any map. A temple made of broken stone and whispers, suspended in some limbo between worlds. Time doesn't pass here. You don’t know how long it’s been since the fire, the screams, the moment you fell into his arms.

He isolates you. But never out of cruelty. He believes no one is worthy of standing beside you—except him.

But you remember the way he looked at you.

Like you were the final piece of something he’d been building for centuries.

And that piece didn’t fit.

You try to speak of the people you lost.

He tells you they were weak. That you don’t need them. That he is all you need.

You try to cry.

He watches in silence, blue eyes unreadable, as if he’s studying the fracture lines in his favorite blade.

You start to forget your name.

He never calls you by it. Just “you.” “My flame.” “My echo.”

Sometimes, when he’s angry, “foolish girl.”

Sometimes, when he’s afraid to lose you, “mine.” Softly. Whispered like a prayer he never learned how to say.

He trains you, sharpens you, polishes you like a blade. If you fight him, he grows colder. If you kneel, he melts. If you cry, he holds you like a man holding the last piece of his soul.

You ask if he’d kill for you.

“I already have.”

You ask if he’d die for you.

“I won’t need to.”

You wonder if he ever really loved you.

You wonder if you ever really had a choice.

One night, you run.

You don’t know why. Maybe to feel the air in your lungs again. Maybe to remember what pain felt like on your own terms. You don’t get far.

He finds you in the forest, kneeling in the mud, your body shaking from the cold and the shame of it all. You expect rage. A lecture. Violence.

But he kneels too. And for the first time, Vergil looks human.

And then… he holds you.

So tightly, you can’t breathe.

So gently, you break.

Days become emptier.

He trains you harder. Talks less. Watches you more. You bleed in the name of becoming stronger, but you feel weaker. Smaller. You try to remember who you were before he claimed you. The way you laughed. The sound of your own voice. But those memories are fading, devoured by the storm that is him.

Sometimes, you catch him staring at you like you’re a ghost.

Like he knows you’re slipping.

Like he doesn’t know how to stop it.

You ask him, one night, if he would still love you if you became nothing.

“I would love you still,” he says. “Even if all that remained was ash.”

Because in the end…

Vergil doesn’t fall in love.

He consumes it.

And now you are part of him. A blade buried in the scabbard of his soul.

You were never meant to survive him.

But now, you will never escape him.

And deep down…

You don’t want to.

Because he's all you have.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[aphroditsdaughter]

AFTER HOURS

party p

paige bueckers x reader

sexual content, language, the hat stays on, save a horse ride a cowgirl

You watch her from across the bar, the music pulsing through your body like a second heartbeat, low and deep in your chest. It’s loud, thick with celebration and spilled liquor and voices raised just a little too high but it all fades. None of it touches you. Not when Paige is in the room.

God, she’s hot.

Not just “attractive.” Not just beautiful in some polite, acceptable way. No, she’s jaw-clenching, thigh-clenching, can’t-take-your-eyes-off-her kind of hot. She’s hot in a way that’s soft and dangerous all at once sharp jawline, collar popped, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veined forearms you’ve kissed more times than you can count. Her shirt clings just enough to her chest to tease what’s beneath, half untucked like she got dressed in a hurry—or like she let you undress her before she even walked on that stage. The Dallas Wings draft cap sits low on her head, tilted with just the right amount of swagger. That hat shouldn’t be sexy. But on her? It is. Everything is.

She moves like she knows it, too. Like the world just shifts a little to accommodate her. Number one overall pick. The kind of headline that makes strangers toast her name, eyes lingering, hoping for a smile, a touch, anything she might offer.

But she’s not looking at them.

She’s looking for you.

Her eyes cut through the noise, through the bodies and the chaos, and when they find yours, something in your chest stutters. That look low, hungry, intimate makes your pulse flutter in places too deep to name. Her lips twitch, just the hint of a smirk, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. And of course she does. She’s always knows.

You shift on your stool, suddenly too warm, too aware of the way her gaze lingers like a hand beneath your clothes. It’s not fair. The way she can make you feel undressed with a single glance. The way she stands there, sweat glistening at her collarbone, shirt clinging to her back, radiating heat and power like she’s never doubted herself a day in her life.

You want her.

Not in some abstract, distant way but in the sharp, breathless, aching sense that makes you forget where you are. You want her mouth, her hands, her weight, the sound she makes when she exhales against your neck.

She moves through the crowd like a slow-burning flame, every step a tease, loose-limbed and liquid with heat, adrenaline, and the golden burn of tequila. The air seems to ripple around her, the room itself bending in quiet reverence, parting to let her pass as if even the noise and bodies know better than to interrupt her momentum. She’s magnetic, untouchable, dripping with the kind of confidence that makes people turn just to feel the wake of her presence.

That smile—God, that smile—is already tugging at the corner of her mouth. It’s lazy, full of mischief, arrogant in the most intoxicating way. A little uneven, a little wild. It hits you low, sharp and sudden, like a hook behind your ribs pulling you toward her. You feel it in your chest, your stomach, your hips every place she’s ever touched, branded.

And you love her like this. No you’re undone by her like this. Flushed from the high, her skin warm with the thrill of a moment seized, a dream tasted and swallowed down. She walks like she owns the night—like she is the night—and every look she casts says she wants to spend all of it wrapped around you, breathless and burning.

She spots the two tequila shots in your hands and grins like you’ve just handed her something sacred like you’re offering worship at her altar. There’s a glint in her eyes now, playful and wicked, and then she’s closing the space between you with a kind of gravity, her body brushing yours like she belongs there.

She smells like heat and adrenaline—salt-slick skin kissed by sweat, the bite of cologne still clinging to her from hours ago, and underneath it all, that electric scent of celebration and something distinctly her. She leans in until her lips hover just beside your ear, breath warm and humid, a whisper of contact that tightens every muscle in your body.

“What’s that look for?” she murmurs, voice rough-edged from yelling over the music, from laughing too loud, from the press of your mouth on hers earlier—still raw from wanting, from not having enough.

You raise one of the shots, offering it like a dare. Slowly, deliberately, you bring your hand up and drag your tongue across the line of salt at the edge—slow enough to feel her watching every inch of it. Your gaze never leaves hers, locked in and dangerous. “That look?” you say, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “That’s for the hottest girl in the league.”

Paige laughs—low, husky, ruined in the best way—and it slips out of her like smoke curling from a lit match. Her smile darkens, dips into something hungrier. “Say that again,” she breathes, like it’s not a request but a command laced with desire.

Her fingers find the small of your back, a light touch that ignites, like she needs skin-to-skin just to stay grounded. Like she’ll combust if she doesn’t anchor herself to you.

You let the silence build, thick and taut with everything unsaid. Then your tongue flicks across your bottom lip, slow and sinful, before you lean in—your mouth nearly brushing hers. Voice low. Dangerous.

“The. Hottest. Girl. In. The. League.”

She groans—deep and low, like the sound’s been dragged from her chest against her will. It’s raw, hungry, like she wants to tear the words from your mouth with her teeth, taste every syllable, and swallow them down like something that belongs to her. Her fingers dig into your waist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to claim. Her gaze drops to your lips, slow and deliberate, and suddenly the bar vanishes around you. The lights blur into nothing, the music fades to a dull hum, and the crowd dissolves. It’s just her and you, suspended in the thick, electric air between two bodies that know exactly what they want.

She leans in, breath shallow and uneven, her mouth so close you can taste the heat of it. Her lips hover just shy of yours, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. “Keep looking at me like that,” she says, her tone rough with promise, “and we’re not gonna make it out of this bar.”

You don’t look away—not even for a second. Instead, you hand her the lime and salt like it’s a challenge, a dare wrapped in citrus and heat. “Who said I want to?” you murmur, voice steady, and tap your stomach in invitation.

Her eyes flare, slow-burning and ravenous. The corner of her mouth curves up, a dark smile playing at her lips. She gets it—oh, she gets it. And from the look in her eyes, she’s more than ready to play whatever game you’re playing.

You lie back against the cool, polished wood of the bar, the grain beneath you smooth and unfamiliar. The din of the room fades — the clink of glasses, the low hum of voices, the thump of bass — all of it dissolves into a distant blur. Your focus narrows to her. Just her.

She’s above you now, framed in the low light eyes dark, lips parted in a quiet, knowing smile. Her fingers move with deliberate care, trailing down your side, slow enough that your skin prickles in anticipation. She sprinkles the salt just above your hipbone, her touch feather-light, sending a ripple of heat across your stomach. You feel each grain land like a spark, each one a tiny burst of tension waiting to be set alight.

Then the tequila—cold as ice when she tips the shot glass, and the liquid cascades over your skin. You gasp softly at the shock of it, a shiver racing through you. It slides in a thin stream over the curve of your abdomen, settling in the dip above your navel. And then she leans in.

Her mouth touches you — hot, wet, soft. Her tongue flicks out, slow, deliberate, gathering the salt grain by grain. She moves like she has all the time in the world, savoring you, her lips pressing heat into your skin. She doesn’t rush. She lingers — her breath, her mouth, her presence and each second stretches out, suspended between your heartbeat and hers.

You feel her tongue trace the path of the liquor, following the chilled trail with molten heat. She kisses lower, tasting every inch, the drag of her lips almost too much to bear. Your stomach tightens, hips rising ever so slightly, involuntarily. When she reaches your navel, she pauses her lips pressing a single, lingering kiss there that makes you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

And then… lower.

Just enough.

Enough to make your thighs tighten. Enough to make your pulse trip over itself. Enough to make your fingers curl against the edge of the bar in a silent, aching plea.

Finally, she rises, her face inches from yours. Her gaze holds yours hungry, unspoken things crackling in the space between you. You offer the lime wedge between your teeth, but she ignores it. Instead, she kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Open. Her mouth finds yours with a sweetness that smolders — lips parting, tongues meeting, the sharp bite of citrus between you, mixed with tequila and heat and want. It’s a kiss that melts you, that says this is only the beginning. You can barely breathe through it, but you don’t want to. You only want her.

And it’s still not enough.

The room swirls back into focus, but it’s too loud, too bright, too crowded for what’s burning between you. You reach for her, fingers wrapping into the fabric of her shirt, tugging her closer with trembling urgency.

“Come on,” you whisper, lips brushing her ear, your voice a threadbare plea. “Get me out of here.”

The hotel elevator barely pretends at privacy. The second the doors slide shut, she’s on you — breath hot, hands everywhere, kissing you like she’s already unraveling. You’re pressed hard against the mirrored wall, her thigh wedged between yours, grinding just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. Her fingers are under your shirt, impatient, rough, dragging along your skin like she can’t get close enough, fast enough. When her fingertips brush just beneath your bra, you let out a soft, broken sound you didn’t know you were holding back.

She groans into your mouth, like the sound drives her wild. The elevator lurches to a stop, but you barely feel it. You stumble through the hallway, half-blind, your hands tangled in her shirt, her mouth never far from yours — biting, panting, needy. The door slams shut behind you and then she’s on you again, pinning you to the wall like it’s instinct, like she couldn’t bear the inches between you for another second.

Her lips are relentless your jaw, your throat, your collarbone — licking, sucking, biting, marking like she wants to claim every inch. Her teeth scrape along your neck and it’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s desperate. She’s not thinking. Neither are you.

You yank at her shirt and she buttons it down in a hurry, skin flushed and muscles tense. Your eyes can’t stay still — the lines of her body, the heat radiating off her, the way her chest rises and falls like she’s trying to breathe you in. Then she lifts you without effort, your body folding into hers like you belong there. And maybe you do.

You don’t know if the heat in your skin is from the bar, from the tequila, or from her. It doesn’t matter. She carries you across the room and drops you onto the bed like you’re something sacred — worshipped, needed. She follows you down without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open like she’s already lost in the idea of you.

And then she pauses just for a breath hovering above you with that look, wild and intense. Like she’s drowning in it. Like you both are.

“You know how proud I am of you, right?” you whisper, voice almost shaking, because your body can barely hold everything you're feeling.

Her eyes are dark, her voice wrecked. “Show me.”

And then she’s between your thighs.

Her mouth is molten as it glides lower along your stomach, every slow pass of her tongue drawing fire beneath your skin. She moves like she’s rediscovering you—each sweep deliberate, reverent—tracing invisible paths over flesh she already knows too well, yet treats like a new map every time. The air between you crackles, charged with memory and hunger.

Her fingers slip beneath the waistband of your skirt, nails grazing just enough to make your breath catch. You hadn’t noticed it riding up, only that the weight of it now feels intrusive, like an unnecessary barrier between you and the heat building where her mouth just left. You lift your hips in a silent offering, needing no command, and she accepts it with a slow drag of fabric down your thighs, knuckles brushing tenderly as she goes.

Her eyes never waver from yours. There’s something ravenous there, something worshipful.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” she whispers, the words rough and low, like they’re meant only for you—like saying them louder might shatter whatever sacred thing is building here. She’s said it before, a hundred times, in locker rooms, against closed doors, in the dark—but tonight, it lands differently. Tonight, it’s not a compliment. It’s a claim. It’s devotion. All that fierce, unstoppable energy—the drive that put her at the top of her game—now turned inward. Focused entirely on you.

And it feels like being chosen. Like being the only thing in her world that matters right now.

She parts your thighs with reverent hands, thumbs pressing gently into the soft flesh as she spreads you open like something sacred — something hers. When Paige settles between your legs, it isn’t hurried or hungry just yet. It’s worshipful. Patient. A slow unraveling. Her breath ghosts over your skin, warm and deliberate, and then her lips press a kiss to the inside of your knee — soft, almost chaste. But you know better.

She trails higher, leaving a line of heat in her wake, her mouth brushing, then sucking, the tender skin of your inner thigh. When her teeth graze just above the pulse there, sharp and teasing, your whole body jolts — back arching, a gasp slipping free before you can stop it.

She chuckles, low and amused, her voice a delicious rasp against your skin.

“You’re already shaking.”

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” you breathe, fingers curling in the sheets, knuckles white with the tension of wanting.

Her arm slides beneath your thigh, strong and sure, anchoring you to her. She pulls you in closer, deeper, and then — she tastes you. Her tongue is hot, slow, devastating — dragging broad, unhurried strokes over your clit like she has all the time in the world and every intention of making you feel each second of it. Your head falls back, mouth open in a moan that’s raw and real, the kind that breaks loose when pleasure blinds you.

One hand tangles in her now curls, the other clutching the sheets as if they’ll keep you grounded. You’re already floating — every nerve lit, your body thrumming with need.

Paige groans against you like she’s starved, like the only thing that matters tonight is the sound of you falling apart. Her cap is still on barely tilted from your tugging, the brim nudging against your belly with every movement. It’s dizzying, the way she devours you, tongue relentless, pressure perfect.

Then she shifts — faster now, tongue flicking in rhythmic pulses that make your thighs tense around her. You barely register her fingers until they’re sliding through your slick folds, teasing, spreading, then slipping inside — two of them, thick and slow. The stretch pulls a cry from you, hips lifting to meet the thrust as she curls her fingers just right.

“That’s it,” she growls, voice dark and wrecked. Her mouth stays on your clit, tongue circling, relentless, while her fingers fuck you deep and steady. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you lose it.”

And you do. With her name on your lips and your back arching high off the bed, you shatter loud, messy, every nerve splintering into pleasure as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. Still, she doesn’t stop. Paige holds you open, her mouth catching every twitch, every pulse, licking you through it until you're trembling, breathless, utterly undone.

When she finally rises, dragging her body up yours, her mouth is wet and swollen, her eyes wild with heat. She kisses you hard, messy and claiming, and when you taste yourself on her tongue, it turns you on in way you didn’t know possible. Something primal stirs in you, a second hunger, greedy and unashamed.

“I’m not done with you,” she whispers against your mouth.

You reach for her belt. “Good. Because I want to make the league’s number one pick scream.”

Still above you, flushed and cocky, but her breath comes in ragged little bursts now, hitching in her chest. Her pupils are blown wide, dark and lust-drunk, and her lips are slick — gleaming with a mix of your want and her hunger. You can feel her heat, see the way her bare chest rises and falls like a tide she can’t control. Her trousers hang dangerously low on her hips, teasing the soft line of skin just above. And somehow impossibly that crooked team cap still clings to her curls, wild and defiant, like her.

There’s something about the way she looks right now all swagger and softness, her beauty unraveling at the seams, wrecked and still just a little drunk on you — that strikes a match in your chest, something primal, something greedy.

“Lay back,” you murmur, your voice low and edged with command.

Her mouth quirks, cocky even now, like she’s about to throw something smug back at you but then you move. You crawl up her lap, your thighs straddling hers, and you settle your weight deliberately, purposefully. The look in your eyes stops her mid-breath. It says don’t

“You had your turn, superstar.” Your fingers go to her belt, slow and unhurried — teasing more than taking. “Now it’s mine.”

She groans low, guttural, and utterly wrecked — the sound vibrating through her chest as her head falls back, sinking into the couch cushions. Her lashes flutter like the wings of something trembling on the edge of surrender, and you take your time with the buckle, popping it open with a soft click that feels louder than it is in the thick hush between you. One hand slips beneath the waistband, fingers firm and deliberate as you tug her trousers down just enough to expose the swell of her hip, the elegant, aching line of the V that leads your gaze further down. Her skin is warm, smooth under your palm, and your touch turns possessive languid and claiming, like you already own her.

Her thighs twitch beneath your body, tension tightening them as she gasps, breath skipping and catching like she can't keep up with the pace you've set. You sit up higher, straddling her abs now, feeling the rigid strength of her core under your knees. She groans again, softer this time — breathy, almost desperate when the slick heat of your arousal glides against the flat plane of her stomach. The contact is enough to make her exhale through gritted teeth, eyes dark and hooded, hands tightening at her sides like she's fighting the urge to touch.

You drag your fingers slowly down, nails tracing each sculpted ridge of her abdomen. They flex for you, contracting under your touch, as though her whole body is leaning into the attention.

“You’re so needy,” you whisper, breath brushing against her jaw as your hips rock just enough to send a jolt of friction between you. She bites down on her bottom lip hard, eyes fluttering shut, jaw tense with restraint. “How long have you been thinking about me riding you, huh?”

“Since the stage,” she breathes, voice thick with heat, rasping like it’s scraped from somewhere deep. “Maybe before.”

You chuckle, the sound rich and knowing, dipping your head lower so your mouth can brush the shell of her ear.

“You really did it,” you murmur, more to yourself than her, letting your nails skim back up, raking lightly across her skin. “Number one in the league.”

Her body answers before her mouth does — hips rising, stomach quivering beneath you.

“Holy fuck…" Her breath catches in her throat, the words slipping from her lips in a soft, breathless moan.

You lean in close, your lips brushing against her ear as you whisper, "You like that?" Your hips roll with a slow, deliberate motion, pressing against the tight, sculpted muscle of her abdomen. Her skin is a molten heat beneath you, slick with the sweat of your shared passion, the sheen of your arousal mingling with hers. Every movement sends a wave of friction, the hard ridges of her body pushing against you in just the right way—perfect pressure, perfect sensation, as though she was made for this.

You feel the rapid beat of her pulse beneath your fingertips, the heat of her body rising to meet yours. You pull back slightly to look at her, the desire in your gaze unmistakable. "You like being used like this, Paige?"

Her eyes flutter, the words hanging in the air, charged with a quiet intensity.

She groans, eyes rolling back. “Use me. However you want.”

“You feel so fucking good,” you murmur, your voice low and filled with desire as you press closer to her, your body moving with a rhythm that’s all about pleasure. Each shift, each thrust is deliberate, taking your time to savor every moment. “All those workouts really paid off, didn’t they?” you whisper against her skin, your hands exploring her curves, feeling the strength and softness beneath your fingertips.

You grasp the brim of her cap, lifting it with a slow, deliberate motion before settling it onto your own head. A smirk tugs at your lips as you look down at her, catching the flicker of something intense in her eyes. You can almost taste the tension in her, knowing just how much this small gesture is driving her wild.

You brace your hands on her chest and start riding her harder dragging your clit along every contour of her abs, slick spreading across her skin, your thighs starting to shake from the way your body’s winding up again. The muscles beneath you flex every time she breathes, every time she reacts to the sounds you're making and the pressure against your clit is so perfect, so intimate, you’re already dizzy.

She’s watching you like she can’t believe it’s real. “You’re unreal,” she whispers. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

You pull her head up just enough to kiss her messy, deep, desperate as your hips grind down faster, harder, chasing the edge.

“Fuck— Paige—” you whimper, mouth pressed against her jaw. “I’m gonna—”

She wraps her arms around your waist and flexes, tightening her abs under you and the pressure sends you crashing over the edge with a cry, your body clenching, thighs trembling, soaking her stomach as you come hard against her.

You collapse onto her, both of you panting, stuck together with sweat and sex and pride.

She strokes your back gently, voice a lazy rasp in your ear. “Might’ve just made that my new favorite workout.”

You laugh, lips brushing her collarbone. “Get used to it, superstar. This is what being number one gets you.”

[mintyys-blog]

Hi am a really big fan of ur work and just read ur red lantern!reader and wanted to request a star sapphire!reader for main mark , full mask mark and viltrumite mark . like their reaction to her gaining her ring from her pure love for him .

HEADCANON | mainstream! mark, viltrumite mark, and full mask! mark x star sapphire! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

Main Mark Grayson

• When Reader is chosen by the Star Sapphire ring, Mark is shocked, but in awe. He didn’t realize how deeply she felt for him—it humbles him.

• He’s immediately supportive, even if slightly intimidated at first by how powerful the ring makes her.

• He teases her with lines like, “So…you love me enough to become a space warrior now?”

• The constructs her ring creates often include moments they’ve shared—like their first kiss, inside jokes, or even an idealized image of their future together. Mark finds it adorable and tear-inducing.

• He’s fiercely protective of her when others try to manipulate or weaponize her love. He knows how dangerous it is to have her heart used against her.

Scenario:

You’re mid-battle, shielding Mark from a deadly blast when the ring appears. It chooses you, your love for him burning so strongly it warps reality around you. Your body glows violet, and Mark calls your name in awe.

“By the stars… That’s because of me?”

“Because I love you, Mark. I always have.”

He kisses you right then, despite the chaos around you. Later, he holds your glowing hand in his, whispering, “We’re a hell of a team now.”

Full Mask Mark

• The ring choosing you throws him completely off. His emotions are buried beneath layers of violence and obsession, but you loving him so deeply? That breaks through.

• He becomes obsessed with the idea that you belong to him even more now. The ring is proof to him. You are his tether to something beautiful, something pure.

• He gets possessive. “If the ring chose you for loving me… then you’re mine. You always were.”

• He admires the ring’s power but is paranoid someone might try to steal you—especially the ring. He doesn’t like you using it to protect others.

• He might demand you show him your constructs. If they’re not all centered around him, he gets weirdly quiet and suspicious.

Scenario:

The first time you float down to him in violet light, surrounded by star-like blossoms made from your love, he freezes. His fists clenched, his mask staring straight at you.

“You… that’s because of me?”

“Yes. You—through everything—I still love you.”

“Then prove it.”

He steps into your space, hands gripping your waist. You manifest a memory—the first time he protected you, even in his most violent state. He breathes heavily, leaning in, whispering: “Don’t ever stop loving me. I won’t let you.”

Viltrumite Mark

• He’s speechless—absolutely stunned the ring would choose you for him. He doesn’t show it outwardly, but inside he’s shaking. That kind of love terrifies and excites him.

• He starts questioning everything—how could someone like you love him that much? It stirs guilt, but also gives him this twisted sense of purpose.

• Your love becomes a justification for some of his actions. “You knew what I am, and you still love me. You can’t take that back now.”

• He wants to see what you’ll do for that love. Will you stay with him, even if he conquers worlds? Will your ring let you fight against your own kind?

• He watches your constructs with awe and suspicion. Love is not a Viltrumite value—but yours? He starts to believe it’s the strongest power of all.

Scenario:

You arrive on Viltrum, shining bright, surrounded by flowing tendrils of violet that shield you from the coldness of their empire. Viltrumite Mark flies up, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“A love ring?” He looked confused beyond measure.

“It chose me because of what I feel for you.”

“You shouldn’t. Not after what I’ve done. But… if the universe acknowledges it…” he trailed off.

“My love doesn’t erase your crimes. But it is real.”

He floats closer, the mask of the warrior cracking for a moment as he brushes his hand along the glow of your ring. “Then stay. Rule with me. Love me—make me stronger.”

[shaiyasstuff]

in between | sylus

synopsis : You were kids once—mud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said he’d never change. He lied. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus

part one

He hadn’t meant to walk through the door.

He told himself he wouldn’t. Told his mom he had things to do—anything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.

But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didn’t have the language for.

And when you opened the door—

He forgot how to breathe.

You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.

You looked distant.

Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.

Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.

And he supposed he was.

He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.

But he didn’t.

Everything looked the same—your mom’s dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plate—but it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.

When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,”the words felt foreign in his mouth.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “You practically grew up with Y/N.”

And that’s when it started.

The tightening in his chest.

He glanced at you. Just for a moment.

You flinched.

It was subtle—barely noticeable to anyone else—but he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.

It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.

He said nothing.

What could he say?

That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldn’t even move?

He didn’t know how to explain the fear. The way he’d watched himself become the person he swore he’d never be—and then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting he’d already lost you.

The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time he’d fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.

You didn’t laugh.

You smiled, a tight little thing that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.

He stared at his plate.

He wanted to leave.

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were sitting across from him.

Not when every second was another echo of the past he didn’t know how to let go of.

Then your father said it.

We’re moving.

And the world tipped on its axis.

Your mother’s hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said you’d gotten a full scholarship.

That you were leaving.

That this place—this table, this town—would soon be behind you.

His mother turned to him, smiling. “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

His head lifted.

And your eyes met his.

He saw it all in a heartbeat.

The hurt. The history. The question.

Do you still care?

He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.

That he didn’t know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.

That everything he’d pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.

Instead, he swallowed it down.

“‘Grats,” he said.

Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.

He didn’t dare look at you again.

Because he knew—deep in the pit of his chest—that if he did, he might fall apart.

—•

“Welcome to your first class of Art History…”

Your new lecturer’s voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.

You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.

New city.

New campus.

New beginning.

And yet, you felt hollow.

The kind of hollow that textbooks couldn’t fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break you—but present enough to remind you of what once was.

Class ended in a blur—names you wouldn’t remember, voices that didn’t belong to anyone yet.

You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.

Your new home wasn’t far. Your parents had moved again—closer this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.

You weren’t sure if anything could make it easier.

The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.

You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.

It had been a year.

A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say something—but didn’t.

Since you told him you were moving on.

You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.

The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.

It was a day like this when you last saw him.

You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didn’t know what to say.

If he still wasted his time chasing things that didn’t matter.

If he remembered you.

If you were still just someone.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!”

You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.

“Jeez. Watch it, my ears,” you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.

“Sorry!” your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.

Then another voice came through, gentler.

“Hey. How’s your first day?”

Zayne.

You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.

“Yeah, it was great,” you said dryly. “New faces and strangers. Always fun.”

They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you again—back in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.

And just like that, the ache in your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not gone.

But not unbearable, either.

You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts drifted—uninvited—back to that night.

The night where the ache finally spilled over.

The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.

But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight you’d carried alone for too long.

You remembered the way he didn’t flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.

The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.

Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a moment—only to return with a popsicle.

Your favorite flavor.

You didn’t even know he remembered.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words to mean everything.

Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.

“I’m sorry, Zayne,” you whispered, voice thin and barely there.

You didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t have to.

He understood.

I can’t love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.

He looked at you for a moment, quiet.

And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.

“I know,” he said softly.

And that was it.

No bitterness. No disappointment.

Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in pieces—offering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.

“Zayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,” she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.

You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldn’t contain, while Zayne—patient and unbothered—quietly did all the heavy lifting.

“I’m happy for you guys,” you said, and you meant it.

Not long after that night at the park—the night you fell apart in Zayne’s arms without needing to explain—something between them had shifted.

It was sudden.

So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, you’d nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.

But you weren’t bitter.

Not even a little.

You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just… oddly relieved.

You were happy for them.

Truly.

They deserved something soft. Something steady.

And as for you—

You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.

You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet moments—without clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.

Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.

No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didn’t have.

Just space.

To breathe.

To feel.

To heal.

And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to college,” you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.

On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.

“I’m going to be an influencer. Don’t need a degree to go viral, babe.”

You laughed, the sound soft, fond. “Sure. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.

You smiled.

These were the moments that felt easy—untouched by everything you’d left behind.

“Okay, I’m almost home,” you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. “Miss you guys. Talk soon.”

Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and then—

Silence.

The call ended.

And you were alone again.

But for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Just… different.

A stillness that came after the storm.

“Honey, how was your first day?” your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.

She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.

Her embrace was warm and familiar—steady in the way only a mother’s could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.

You groaned. “I spent two hours on that.”

“Oh, look at you,” she teased, smiling. “Already talking back to your mother.”

You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasn’t new and she knows exactly where everything was.

She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.

Cheesecake.

The good kind.

She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.

“So,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “any cute college boys I’ll be meeting soon?”

You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.

“Mom. Don’t be gross.”

She laughed—soft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.

And maybe it was.

A small part of you was grateful for it.

Because after everything, this—your parents, home, cheesecake—felt safe.

And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.

“Class was ‘aight,” you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. “Though… I do miss our old place.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

You missed more than the house.

You missed the memories carved into its walls.

The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.

The front porch swing at his house, where you’d both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.

The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say his name.

Didn’t admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back there—still ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.

You weren’t going to admit you missed him.

Not out loud.

Some feelings were quieter than words.

And some losses hurt more when spoken.

—•

He didn’t plan to pull you away.

He didn’t even know what he’d say.

He just saw you—standing there, laughing beside someone else—and everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.

So he did what he always does.

He acted without thinking.

He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.

You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

“What the hell?”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.

You looked…

God, you looked like everything he used to know.

“You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he cut you off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it.

But because he already knew.

He knew what he’d done.

He just wasn’t ready to hear it from your lips.

Then your finger jabbed into his chest.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice was shaking.

So was he.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim. You don’t get to act like you weren’t the one who walked away.”

And you were right. Every word.

Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.

For a second, just a second, the air shifted.

You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.

With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.

“How long has it been?” you demanded. “How many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldn’t bother to reply?”

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But his throat closed around the truth.

He saw every message.

He wanted to reply.

But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.

And he hated himself for it.

You turned away. He thought you were done.

But you weren’t.

“Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.

“You’re not them,” he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You couldn’t have been further from the truth.

You scoffed. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what were you, really?

The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didn’t answer.

The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.

The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasn’t.

He wanted to say everything.

That’s what you were.

You were everything.

But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.

And then—

A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.

A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.

One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.

“Yo, Sylus,” he called, his eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.

Waiting. Again.

You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.

And he?

He was always too scared to give it.

So the smirk slid onto his face—automatic, defensive, false.

He heard himself say, “No she’s… just someone.”

The moment it left his mouth, he knew.

He knew he’d just ripped something fragile to shreds.

He knew your silence would come next—not because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.

Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just… tired.

“Just someone, huh?” you said, voice light but hollow. “I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

Then you stepped around him.

And he didn’t stop you.

Not because he didn’t want to—

But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.

Because he didn’t know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.

So he stood there.

Frozen.

They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.

But he didn’t hear them.

Didn’t move.

Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatter—quietly, irreversibly—inside him.

You weren’t his anymore.

He wasn’t sure you ever were.

But more than that now, he wasn’t even sure he had the right to miss you.

His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. “Come on, man—coach wants us there for the farewell speech.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not now—but they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.

The clearing faded behind him.

You were gone.

He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse—one last look—but all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.

Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.

So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.

“Alright,” he said, voice light.

And just like that, he followed them inside.

Leaving the truth—and you—behind.

That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.

Your contact was still there.

Still saved under the name Kitten.

Still untouched.

Still yours.

His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call button—so close. Too close.

He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.

But he didn’t know what he would say if you answered.

Didn’t know if he even had the right.

I’m sorry felt too small.

I miss you felt too late.

So he didn’t call.

His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.

It still smelled faintly like your room—like something warm, like something that used to feel like home.

He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing you’d kept—until now.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.

Cursing the silence.

Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.

And started being a stranger who hurt you.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

You had said it so clearly, so firmly—like a full stop at the end of a sentence he’d refused to read for years.

But he heard it.

Not just the words, but everything underneath.

The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadn’t said.

And he saw it too.

The way the light in your eyes dimmed—not from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, only lingers.

His chest ached.

His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he hadn’t.

And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.

“You think we’d still be friends when we go to high school?”

Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didn’t know what distance felt like yet.

The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ran—not toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.

Back then, he’d linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.

“I promise,” he’d said. “We’ll still be friends.”

A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.

“I won’t turn into a jock,” his memory added, almost bitterly now.

A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someone’s hallway.

And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

His pace slowed.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t realized what you meant in the moment. Hadn’t heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didn’t meet his when you said it.

But now?

Now he knew.

You weren’t used to being ignored.

You weren’t born expecting to be left behind.

He made you that way.

With every unanswered message.

Every silence.

Every time he turned away when he should’ve held on.

He made you used to him being gone.

And now that you were leaving—

He had no one to blame but himself.

And now, he was left with nothing but regret.

Heavy. Constant.

The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t see you again.

That maybe it was better that way.

He didn’t deserve another chance—not after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were ‘just someone.’

But then—

He turned the corner.

And there you were.

Just standing there.

Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirt—like you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.

His breath caught.

Everything else stilled.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

And he let himself look. Just for a moment.

God, you were still you.

But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you weren’t hurting—he knew you were—but because you had made peace with the hurt.

Moved through it.

Past him.

Then your eyes met his.

It was like being cracked open in silence.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, uncertain—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

“H–Hey.”

You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“How long?” he asked. It came out too fast.

You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.

“A week.”

A week.

Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.

Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.

And he hated that he couldn’t stop it.

But he nodded. Looked down.

“I—” you started, and he straightened.

You paused, choosing your words with care.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His heart stuttered.

You looked at him when you said it—really looked. And he knew.

You meant it.

And that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.

“I’m going to move on now,” you added, voice quieter. “A new life and all that.”

He wanted to say don’t.

He wanted to reach for you.

To take it all back. To beg.

But the words never made it past his throat.

“I hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.”

And you smiled. Soft. Final.

Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.

Let him pass.

Let him go.

He turned to watch you—hoping, foolishly, that you’d glance back.

But you didn’t.

Because you were no longer waiting.

You were no longer his.

And he…

He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost you—

Not in one moment,

But in all the ones where he stayed silent.

“Sylus, I’m open!”

The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.

“Thanks,” Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.

He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.

It had been a year.

A year since you left—without goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.

His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re killing it today,” he said between pants. “I can barely guard you. You’re a machine.”

Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just small.”

“Fuck off,” his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.

Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.

Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.

This was simpler.

This was better.

At least on the court, he didn’t have to think about you.

His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.

“You still haven’t contacted her, huh.”

It wasn’t a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.

Sylus stilled.

The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.

“No.”

Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldn’t undo.

His friend let out a breath, not surprised. “You should’ve just told her from the start, man.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.

He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”

Any other day, Sylus would’ve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.

But not this time.

This time, he didn’t say anything.

Because this time, he knew.

He knew his friend was right.

He glanced at his friend—same look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didn’t used to be his.

Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. “I know,” he murmured.

His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. “Come on. Break time’s over.”

Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.

Where it was easier to run than to feel.

—•

Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.

The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

“Sylus has been doing great! He’s actually trying out for a local team soon—”

His mother’s voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.

He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.

She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.

Like he hadn’t spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.

Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.

“What about Y/N? How’s she doing over there?” she asked casually, her voice bright.

But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.

His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a little—just enough to catch the faint sound of your mother’s voice through the speaker.

“She’s doing well. First day went great, she’s upstairs studying now—”

That was all he caught. But it was enough.

Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.

You’d moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.

And yet his heart twisted all the same.

Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.

Did you still look the same?

He pictured you—brows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.

The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.

Were you smiling now?

Were you lighter—freer—now that he wasn’t in the picture?

He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.

Maybe you were happy.

Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didn’t know how to hold you right.

“I’m just saying, man—if you hadn’t let Colin’s bullshit get to you, you wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

His friend’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylus’ room.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frame—

You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.

He exhaled, voice low. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Yeah, well… there’s no point sulking over it now. It’s been a year.”

Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friend’s voice carried on, unfazed.

“I mean, weren’t you the one who said you promised her? That you’d never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.”

Sylus’s jaw tensed. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you?”

A scoff crackled through the speaker. “Dude, I’ve been cutting you slack. Any less and I would’ve dragged your sorry ass to Y/N’s front door years ago.”

Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.

His friend was right. He didn’t need to hear it again to know.

Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belong—it all started to matter more than how you felt.

And the worst part?

He knew.

He’d known for a long time now.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Not when you were already gone.

His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrest—the one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.

It still sat there, untouched.

The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remained—something like old warmth, something like grief.

Just memories now.

Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.

And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he should’ve said years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

Soft. Barely audible.

Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.

But it’s too late for apologies now, isn’t it?

Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.

[piroulinewafers]

𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞-𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: caleb x fem! reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: caleb cuts her steak into perfect little bites, because loving her means fussing over everything.

caleb had gone all out.

he wasn’t just trying to impress her—though, if he was honest, he loved the way she’d looked around the dining room with those wide, doe eyes, her small hand tightening around his sleeve like she didn’t quite belong there. that wasn’t true, of course. In caleb’s eyes, she belonged everywhere good. and tonight, he was going to make sure she remembered that.

the restaurant was absurdly fancy. all crystal chandeliers and velvet-backed chairs, the kind of place with quiet violin music and waiters who looked like they’d trained at royal courts. but caleb didn’t blink. he'd walked in like he owned the place, his hand on the small of her back, keeping her close.

“i got us the best seat,” he murmured into her ear, guiding her to a candlelit booth tucked in the corner with a perfect view of the city skyline. “you like it?”

she nodded, too shy to say much, but the smile tugging at her lips was enough. She was wearing a dress he’d picked out—just for tonight—something soft and flattering, something that made her look like she belonged in that glitzy world. he hadn’t stopped looking at her since they left the apartment.

when the waiter came around, caleb didn’t even let her glance at the prices.

“she’ll have the pepper crusted ribeye—medium. oh, and you said you wanted those mashed potatoes on the side too, hm?” he said smoothly, eyes locked on the poor man like he was delivering state secrets. “i do hope you remember our earlier conversation as well, yes?”

the waiter blinked. nodded quickly. disappeared.

of course, she didn’t need to know that he had personally gone out of his way to tell the chef to make sure her order was perfect, that if any sort of food she didn’t like so much as touched her plate, he’d personally have his subordinates deal with the staff. he knew it was too much, but for her? he didn’t care at all. 

she let out a little, awkward laugh behind her hand. “gege… i think you scared him off…”

caleb just propped his elbow on the table, a lazy smile on his face as he admired her, chin in the palm of his hand. “he looked like the sorta guy who would try to sneak in a green bean. i don’t trust him.”

“and if you wanna milkshake after this,” he said, casually straightening his fork, “i’ll get you every flavour they’ve got, line ‘em up like a tastin' platter.”

her eyes widened. “you don’t have to do all of that!” 

he gave her a lopsided grin. “but i wanna.” 

dinner arrived like a work of art—her steak plated just right, mashed potatoes like clouds, everything perfectly arranged with not a green thing in sight. but before she could reach for her fork, caleb slid out of his seat and came over to her side.

“let me,” he said, kneeling just a bit, nudging gently into her side like he always did when they were kids and he wanted her attention. he took the steak knife and cut slow, precise slices, turning the plate just so she could reach the best pieces first.

“don’t want you messin’ up your dress,” he murmured, nudging the fork into her hand with a smile. “or chokin’ on a big bite. can’t have that. not when I finally got you to wear this pretty thing.”

“i-i’m not clumsy… you’re treating me like a child, caleb…” she huffed, cheeks warm with the teetering of a pout on her face.

he could only chuckle as he turned his attention to her plate, angling it so that the steak faced him better. the knife in his hand caught the candlelight, bright against the dark grain of the meat. he pressed the blade in gently, slicing down in a slow, practiced motion. not too fast. he didn’t want to tear the sear. he wanted every bite to be perfect. she deserved perfect. 

one by one, the cuts came, clean and precise. he was quiet as he worked, brows furrowed in a deep focus, like this was the most important thing he’d done all week. and maybe it was. not the mission reports piling back in his office. not the simulation drills scheduled for the early morning. this— making sure her steak was easy to eat, tidy, manageable— felt far more urgent. 

she was watching him with a half-embarrassed, half-affectionate sort of expression, her fingers curled loosely in her lap, shoulders drawn in as though she was trying to shrink under the weight of his attention. but she wasn’t stopping him. letting him do what he always did— fuss, hover, take care of her like it was what he was put on this earth to do. 

“you always do this,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “people are staring.”

“let them,” caleb said without looking up. he carefully wiped the edge of the blade with a napkin before setting it down. “you think i care what anyone thinks?”

her face went warm again, and he smiled, satisfied. 

he reached for her fork next— then hesitated. 

just for a moment, he imagined it.

her sitting there, eyes wide and lashes fluttering, while he held the fork up to her lips. feeding her like she was royalty, and he was just some devoted knight, kneeling at her feet, simply grateful just to be close. maybe she’d laugh, duck her head, say he was being ridiculous. maybe she’d roll her eyes, open her mouth anyway. trust him enough to let him care in that quiet, intimate way.

the thought made his heart twist. but he didn’t do it. not yet. 

instead, he placed the fork neatly beside her plate and leaning in, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “there, cut into perfect little bites. princess sized.”

“i’m not a kid, caleb.”

“no,” he said with a soft grin. “but you’re mine to fuss over. that part’s never changing.” 

she gave a huff of exasperation, stabbing a piece of steak with more force than necessary— but she was smiling, trying not to show it. 

he looked up at her then, still crouched beside her chair, one knee on the floor, and something in his chest ached at how sweet she looked in the candlelight. like something soft and golden. like the girl who used to fall asleep on his shoulder after too many cartoons, still somehow his, even here, in this glittering palace of a restaurant.

“you like it?” he asked quietly, not the food, but everything. the night. him.

she nodded. “i do.”

caleb could only grin, taking a piece of her steak and popping it into his mouth, before he settled back into his seat, heart full and warm.

for her? he’d do this every night. he didn’t care how much it cost, every cent of his belonged to her.

and when he had nothing? he would still be wholly hers, completely. 

a/n: i've been strangely motivated as of late... we'll see how long this lasts... in the meantime, i've opened requests for those who are interested ^^

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Ninth House

☉ Sun in the Ninth House You aren’t satisfied with simply existing, you need to understand why you’re here. There’s a fire in you that refuses to settle, that keeps pushing you toward something bigger, brighter, more meaningful. You want to find yourself in faraway places, in deep conversations, in the stretch of becoming more than what you were handed. You’re chasing purpose, not applause, and you’ll keep going until you find the truth that makes you feel alive.

☽ Moon in the Ninth House You’re searching for a belief you can rest inside. For a truth that doesn’t just sound good, but feels like home. Your soul needs more than logic, it needs faith, vision, wonder. You carry your questions like prayers, hoping the sky will answer. And even when you don’t know where you’re going, you keep walking, because something in you believes there’s a place where your spirit will finally exhale and say, “This. This is where I belong.”

☿ Mercury in the Ninth House You need to understand everything. Not in a shallow way, but deeply from the inside out. You question the world like it’s a puzzle you were born to solve. You chase philosophies, languages, systems of thought, not just to be right, but to feel anchored. You want your mind to roam, to leap into unfamiliar places and come back changed. For you, knowledge isn’t a destination, it’s a journey that turns questions into doors.

♀ Venus in the Ninth House You fall in love with what expands you. With cultures, ideas, and people that open something inside you you didn’t know was closed. You long for beauty that feels eternal, love that feels like a philosophy, not a performance. You want to be inspired, not just wanted. And wherever you go, you’re hoping to find something that mirrors your own ideals, something that feels like poetry and truth at once.

♂ Mars in the Ninth House You are driven by a need to go beyond. There’s a restless spark inside you that pushes you toward experiences that shake your limits. You’d rather leap than wait. You chase intensity in the form of expansion, not chaos, but challenge. You don’t want safety, you want aliveness. You want to feel the wind against your face and the thrill of standing at the edge of what you once believed was possible.

♃ Jupiter in the Ninth House You live with your arms open to the sky. There’s a wild optimism in your bones, a belief that life is meant to be more than survival. You seek experiences that lift you, teachings that grow you, paths that widen your world. You trust in something higher, even when you don’t know its name. And wherever you go, you carry the quiet knowing that the universe is not working against you, it’s calling you forward.

♄ Saturn in the Ninth House You want to believe, but you need to build your belief from stone. You don’t trust blindly, you test every truth until it earns your loyalty. Your path to meaning is not fast or easy, but it’s real. You may carry doubt like a shadow, but that doubt carves you into someone solid. When you do find what you believe in, you hold it like a vow. Not loud, not flashy, but lifelong.

♅ Uranus in the Ninth House You were never meant to walk anyone else’s path. You don’t just question the rules, you rewire them. You search for truth in the cracks of tradition, in the sparks of rebellion, in the freedom to think and live for yourself. You don’t want a map. You want the thrill of making your own way. And if your beliefs shake others... GOOD. That means you’re still alive.

♆ Neptune in the Ninth House You’re not looking for answers, you’re looking for wonder. For the feeling of dissolving into something divine, something infinite. You want to believe in more than what you can touch. You long for dreams that stretch beyond this world, for connections that feel cosmic. Sometimes you drift, sometimes you get lost, but even in the fog, you trust that your soul knows the way.

♇ Pluto in the Ninth House You don’t just want purpose, you want to be transformed by it. You are drawn to truths that shatter, to teachings that undo what you thought you knew. You crave meaning that burns through your bones and leaves you reborn. You are not afraid of the darkness that comes with seeking, you know that real understanding often requires letting go of who you were. And you’re willing to go that deep.

[breezyblossoms]

You never expected to love someone like Xaden Riorson.

Not because he wasn’t worthy of love—no, gods, he was. More than most. Fierce and loyal, intelligent and powerful. He moved like shadows and storms, spoke like a man carrying the weight of too many ghosts. He was intimidating, magnetic, and untouchable. And yet, somehow, your heart didn’t find him through fear, or longing, or loneliness. It found him because he saw you.

He didn’t meet you and try to fix you. He didn’t reach for you out of pity, or obligation, or convenience. Xaden chose you, again and again, quietly, fiercely—like war choosing a weapon. And when you gave him your heart, he held it like it was sacred.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because I needed someone,” you whisper one night, when it’s just the two of you lying beneath a sky split with stars and silence. His arm is wrapped around your waist, calloused fingers tracing idle lines against your ribs.

“I know,” he murmurs. His voice is low, graveled, reverent. “You fell in love with me despite everything.”

You smile into his chest, fingers brushing the scar that cuts across his skin—a story he once told you with more vulnerability than he shared with most. “I fell in love with you because you make me feel like I belong somewhere.”

His grip tightens just slightly, protective, grounding. “You do belong. With me.”

And it’s that simple.

No games. No proving. Just mutual, unwavering gravity. A love that doesn’t take, but gives. A love that feels like finally breathing in a place you didn’t know you’d been holding your breath.

You didn’t fall in love because you were lonely.

You fell in love because when Xaden Riorson looks at you—really looks at you—you feel like the only person in the world who’s ever truly been seen.

And gods help anyone who tries to take that from you.

⸻

You shift slightly against his chest, your fingers tracing the edge of his scars like you’re memorizing them—every line, every story. He doesn’t flinch. He never does with you.

“You’re not easy to love, you know,” you whisper, not to wound him, but because he needs to hear the truth sometimes. The real kind. The kind that doesn’t sugarcoat.

He huffs a laugh, low and rough. “No shit.”

“But I never wanted easy,” you continue, lifting your head to meet his gaze in the dark. “I wanted real. And that’s what you are, Xaden. Raw and unrelenting and real.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, like he’s not sure what to do with the gentleness you offer him. Like he’s still learning how to hold it without breaking it. But he tries. For you, he always tries.

“I didn’t think anyone could love me the way you do,” he admits quietly, like the words cost him something. “Not with everything I’ve done. Everything I still have to do.”

“I don’t love you in spite of those things,” you say, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “I love you because I know them. Because I know you. And you never make me feel like I have to earn your love in return.”

He sits up a little, just enough to press his forehead to yours. The stars spill silver light over his face, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet ache in his expression.

“You don’t have to earn anything, viessa.” His voice is barely a breath. “You already have all of me.”

And gods, when he says it like that—so certain, so sure—it settles in your bones like truth. You know he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you, not like you’re fragile, but like you’re everything.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, Riorson.”

He smiles. Not the smirk he gives the world, the one laced with sarcasm and charm and sharp edges. No, this one’s softer. Warmer. A smile only you ever get to see.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tucking you back against his chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” And as the wind rustles the trees beyond your campfire, and the distant breath of dragons echoes in the night, you know something with absolute clarity:

You didn’t fall in love with Xaden Riorson because you were looking for love. You fell because something in his soul called out to yours—and yours answered like it had been waiting for him all along.

⸻

Flashback: Second Year at Basgiath

It’s late.

The kind of late where the halls are empty, the lanterns flicker low, and the only sound is your breathing as you wrap your injured hand in a strip of cloth that’s already soaked through with blood. You should’ve gone to the med ward.

You should have.

But the sting of failure still burns deeper than the open wound—because you’d gone toe-to-toe with another rider in sparring, one of Weren’s squad, and lost focus. One slip. One misstep. One sharp blade through your palm. And you hadn’t wanted to be seen like this. Vulnerable. Angry. Bleeding.

So instead, you slipped away, sat alone in a darkened corridor tucked between the training rings and the barracks, and tried to fix it yourself.

“You’re shit at bandaging,” a deep voice drawls. You flinch. Your head snaps up just as Xaden Riorson steps out of the shadows, arms crossed, eyes unreadable—but focused entirely on you.

“Thanks for the input,” you mutter, biting back your embarrassment. “Didn’t realize you were lurking in every hallway now.” He steps closer, kneels down in front of you. “I wasn’t lurking. I was watching the sparring matches.” “Then you saw me lose.”

He shrugs, like that part’s irrelevant. “I saw you get distracted. There’s a difference.”

You blink at him, surprised. “You think I was distracted?” “I know you were.” His eyes drop to your hand. “Let me see it.”

You hesitate.

This is Xaden. The Xaden who everyone either fears or follows. Who walks around like he doesn’t owe anyone anything and dares them to challenge him. The one with the weight of a rebellion on his shoulders and a death sentence carved into his back.

But still, somehow… you trust him.

You extend your hand. He takes it carefully, without a word. His touch is gentle—gentler than you expect—and he pulls a clean cloth from his pocket, one you hadn’t noticed. Dips it into a nearby water barrel. Begins wiping away the blood.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says quietly. “But it’ll scar.” “Doesn’t matter.” “It does.” His thumb brushes the edge of your hand, steadying it. “Every scar matters.”

You glance up, and your eyes meet. And that’s when it happens. That moment you start to fall.

Not because he’s handsome—though he is. Not because he’s strong—though he’s that too. But because of the way he’s looking at you.

Like you’re not a soldier to command. Not a name on a roster. Not a piece of strategy. Like you’re a person. Someone worth noticing. Worth seeing.

He finishes the bandage with a final, practiced tug and knot, then holds your hand just a moment longer. “You fight harder than anyone I’ve seen,” he says. “Just don’t forget to fight for yourself, too.” You nod, a little stunned. “Thanks.”

He stands. Looks down at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “Next time, don’t hide. Come find me.” And then he’s gone.

You sit there in silence, staring at the place where he’d been kneeling, the warmth of his hands still lingering on your skin.

You hadn’t been looking for anyone. You hadn’t needed to be saved. But in that moment, you felt seen. And that—that—was the beginning. You didn’t realize it then, not fully. But that was the first time your heart whispered, him.

⸻

Y/N – A Few Weeks Later

You tried not to think about that night. You told yourself it meant nothing—just a moment of decency. A rare flash of kindness from the brooding, too-sharp-for-his-own-good squad leader who usually acted like the entire world was a burden on his shoulders. But it stuck with you.

The way he’d looked at you—really looked at you. Like you were more than a body built to fight and survive. Like you mattered beyond your stats and your signet.

And now, you feel it in every passing glance across the sparring mats. Every time your name is called and his gaze lingers. Every time he watches you—not critically, but like he’s measuring something.

You train harder. Fight better. Talk less. You try to shake him from your thoughts like a bad habit. Because you know what it means to get attached in this place. People die. Bonds break.

And Xaden Riorson? He’s not safe. He’s not simple. He’s not the kind of boy girls fall in love with and live to tell the story.

But still…

You hear his voice in your head when you fight—don’t forget to fight for yourself, too.

And every time he passes you in the hall and nods just barely in your direction, like you share some unspoken secret, you feel it again:

You didn’t mean to fall. But gods, it’s already too late.

⸻

Xaden – His Moment

He notices you before you ever notice him. Not in the way others do—he’s not watching your stats or the way your dragon circles above the watchtower like she owns the sky. He notices the way you move. The way you carry silence like armor and sharpen your words like blades.

He notices you when you choose not to speak, even when you could. When you stay after training to help clean up shattered weapons no one else bothers with. When you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when he walks into a room. And then, the night of your injury, when you’re sitting there—bleeding and alone and refusing to go to the med ward—he sees something that punches straight through the steel cage he keeps around his heart.

You’re just like him.

Stubborn. Guarded. Wounded in places no one else sees. But you don’t ask for anything. Not attention. Not help. Not even recognition. And that’s what gets him. Because most people want something from him. Fear. Favor. Power. But you? You just want to stand on your own.

And after that night, he starts watching closer. He notices how you always take the hardest path just to prove you can. How you hide your exhaustion under layers of sarcasm. How your eyes burn with something wild and defiant—something that looks an awful lot like survival.

And for the first time in a long time, Xaden Riorson starts wondering if maybe… just maybe…

You’re his exception.

He doesn’t let himself feel it—not all at once. That would be dangerous. But it grows. In the way his breath hitches when you smile at someone else. In the way his tone softens when he says your name.

In the way his heart beats harder every time he sees you walk away—because some deep, desperate part of him already knows: he’ll chase you if you go.

⸻

Weeks Later

The tension between you and Xaden becomes a quiet thing. It hums in the spaces between words. In every brush of his shoulder when you pass in the hallway. In the way his eyes linger just a second too long during briefings, like he’s memorizing you without realizing it.

He doesn’t touch you—not really. But his presence always settles too close. Always one step from brushing your hand when you walk side by side, always one breath from something more.

And you feel it—gods, you feel it—in the pit of your stomach every time he says your name in that low, rough voice, or when he looks at you from across the sparring ring, jaw tight, gaze unreadable.

There’s a moment one night, when you’re walking back from a late patrol. The skies are cloudy, the path dim, and the air thick with coming rain. You’re both quiet, breathing the same air but pretending it doesn’t mean anything.

Then, without thinking, you reach for his arm when your foot slips on the gravel. His hand snaps out to catch you. Warm fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, steady, gentle. And for a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

You’re standing too close. You feel it in the air—charged, tense, hungry.

Xaden’s eyes drop to your lips. Just for a second. Your breath stutters.

But then… he lets go.

“We should keep moving,” he says quietly.

And you hate how much you miss his hand the second it’s gone.

⸻

The Collision

It happens during a storm. The rain lashes the training grounds, and most cadets have retreated inside. But you—you needed the chaos. You needed to feel something real. So you’re outside, soaked to the bone, fists flying in a sparring match that’s long past over.

Until Xaden finds you.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he snaps, striding into the rain like it’s nothing.

You throw another punch, ignoring the way your body aches. “What do you care?” “I care,” he growls, grabbing your arm mid-swing. “More than I should.”

You freeze. His grip is tight. Not hurting—but solid. Like he’s grounding you. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Skipping meals. Sleeping in the archives. What the hell are you doing, Y/N?”

“I’m surviving,” you hiss, yanking your arm free. “Same as you.” “No.” He steps closer. “I’m watching you disappear and pretending like it doesn’t gut me every time.”

His chest is rising and falling hard. So is yours. Rain drips from his hair. His jaw is clenched. His eyes are fire.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper. “Not when you keep pretending this—whatever this is—doesn’t exist.”

“I’m done pretending.” He takes your face in his hands—tentative at first, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t.

He kisses you like he’s been holding back for years. It’s fierce. Desperate. Messy with rain and the ache of every moment you almost kissed and didn’t. And when you finally break apart, both of you breathless and shaking, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You don’t have to fall,” he says, voice raw. “I already have.”

[bambi-lamb]

seeing green

Summary: So maybe you made a not-so-great choice... in your defense, it was fun at the time. But now, looking at Wanda's raised eyebrow and dark smile, maybe you shouldn't have tried to make her so jealous. Hindsight is everything.

Tags: wanda maximoff x f!reader, 18+, smut, edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, fingering, dacryphilia, oral sex, cunnilingus, mommy kink, mean mommy wanda!!

WC: 1,266

A/N: was hit by a spark of irritation— i mean, inspiration, today

You pant loudly in the living room, gasping for breath. The curtains are drawn, only a thin shaft of light spilling onto the rug and one arm of the couch.

Wanda is leaned leisurely back against the couch, smiling darkly up at you as you cry out. Her hand stops for just one moment, and she hums softly as you twitch in her grasp.

"You sure you don't want Avery here instead, detka? You certainly seemed to be having a good time with her."

"No, no— no mommy just want you don't want her please— pleaseplease please let me come," you whine, squirming in Wanda's lap. She allows it for but a moment before her free hand clamps down on your hip again, holding you still.

"Really? I don't think I believe you…"

Wanda licks her lips, tracing soft, slow circles around your clit with the pad of her finger.

"Please, mommy. Don't want her, just want you. Just want mommy," you plead desperately, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

"Hmm," Wanda hums, tutting softly when you whine again. "I don't know if I believe that, detka. You were all over her." Her voice dips dangerously, eyes flashing. You can tell she's displeased, and you flush; she's not wrong—you had been basically attached at the hip to your newest work friend Avery.

Normally, you wouldn't spend so much time with her, but it had been at least a little bit fun to see the way Wanda's jaw worked through her displeasure, and you'd enjoyed the dark glare she'd kept leveled on you the entire night. It sent shivers down your spine, knowing how much she wanted you, and so maybe you'd pushed it a little too far, leaning into Avery heavier or laughing a little brighter than you normally world.

It's not fun now as Wanda stops for probably the 6th or 7th time in a row, bringing you down from the edge of your orgasm and holding you still as tears drip down your face.

"You look so pretty, detka," she murmurs, leaning forward to lick away some of your tears.

You inhale sharply, feeling more tears spill over as she chuckles in the back of her throat.

"Regretting it now, honey?" she coos softly, thumb still pressed to your swollen clit.

"I'm sorry, mommy," you whimper, trying your best attempt at the saddest puppy-dog eyes you can manage, but she doesn't budge.

"Oh, pretty girl, you should've thought about that before you decided to spend the night flirting with Avery." Wanda hums dismissively as you whine and start crying again.

"No use crying over spilled milk, baby," she chuckles. "What's done is done. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you try another little stunt like this one."

"Please, mommy," you beg, wracking your brain for anything you can possibly say to appease Wanda. "Please, I belong to you, mommy."

Wanda looks at you sharply, interest piqued as she tilts her head slightly.

You chase the tail end of your declaration eagerly, perking up as you continue babbling.

"I'm yours, mommy, please. I just want you. I'm all yours."

Her thumb restarts its slow rhythm against your clit, and you nearly sob with relief, chasing the feeling as your mouth runs on and on without a single thought.

"Belong to mommy, please, just for mommy, all yours."

Her thumb is firm against your clit, and you shiver at the stimulation — it's too much and not enough all at once, and you yelp softly when she begins rubbing faster. Her entire hand is dripping wet, no thanks to you, but she just keeps looking up at you, encouraging the deluge of words flooding out of you.

"Please, mommy, please let me come, please."

Just as you reach the very edge, Wanda stops again, and you feel the tears restart without warning, pouring down your face as you whimper desperately.

"Tell me who you belong to again, baby," she coos, brushing your tears away with her thumb this time.

"You, mommy, please," you whine. "Belong to you."

"Then how come you were basically sitting on Avery's lap the whole night, huh?"

You sob softly, tears drip-dripping unstoppably now.

"Because I wanted to make you jealous, mommy," you hiccup, whining when Wanda presses down on your clit.

"And have you learned your lesson, detka?"

You nod fervently, abashed and apologetic. Wanda hums absently, but her thumb starts moving again, and you melt into the touch.

"Please, mommy, I belong to you," you profess eagerly, tears still flowing.

"It's okay, detka, I know. Be a good girl and tell me again, why don't you? Whose girl are you, hm?"

"Your girl, mommy," you hiccup softly, moaning when she loosens her grip on your hip and lets you start to rock against her finger.

"Again, detka, say it again," she whispers, eyes sharp and intense.

"I belong to you, mommy. I'm all yours. Please."

"One more time, baby, I just wanna hear you say it one more time and then you can come, okay?"

Wanda looks nearly feral, her pupils blown as she leans into your space, her thumb rubbing fast, tight circles over your clit. You can't help but shiver, gushing against her hand again as your orgasm fast-approaches.

"I'm yours, Wanda," you murmur, softening as you see her breathe a shuddery sigh of relief. You also lean forward, drawn to her magnetic allure, and meet her in the middle for a feverish kiss.

"Mine," she mumbles as she nibbles on your bottom lip, thumb rubbing furiously over your clit.

You jolt back, crying out as she drives her index and middle finger into your cunt, working double-time in an effort to make you come.

"Come for me, baby. You can come now," she's murmuring into your neck, but you can barely tell she's saying anything at all, the vibrations of sound a distant consideration as your vision whites out completely.

When you come to again, she's rearranged you entirely so you're lying down on the couch. You have a moment to just blink and breathe as sound and feeling returns to you, and as soon as you can feel your fingertips again, you whimper.

Wanda, tucked between your thighs, is licking softly at your cunt, dark green eyes intent on your expression.

You tremble your way through another orgasm, shivering as she crawls up the length of your body to settle herself on your chest.

"You did such a good job, detka," she murmurs softly, leaning up for a soft kiss.

"Felt good," you whisper in return, blushing lightly when she grins into your neck.

She reaches up to run her fingers through your hair, and sits up momentarily to reach for a blanket that she promptly pulls over top of both of you. As you lie on the couch, you hear Wanda's breath slowly even out, and your eyes begin to droop.

Clearly, though, she isn't really asleep, because you hear her voice, softer and more hesitant, float up.

"You don't actually like her that much, do you?"

You smother your grin against the top of her head and pull her up for another kiss, this one longer and warmer.

"No, I don't," you reply easily, watching the way the crease between her eyebrows smooths over and she finally seems to relax.

"I love you and only you," you murmur softly. "You're my favorite person."

She hums contentedly and presses a kiss to your chin.

"I love you too, detka."

She sits up momentarily, squinting at you suspiciously.

"But don't do that again."

[tacobacoyeet]

crack in the door | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: i have maternal instincts for patrick zweig in the sense that i want to bear his children. had an idea and had to get it out literally tonight

warnings: SMUT 18+, pregnancy mention, not proofread

There’s a knock at the door that doesn't belong to Sunday.

You know the rhythm of your mailman’s hands, the two quick taps of the UPS guy, the heavy slap of your neighbor’s fist when he’s locked himself out again. But this—this knock is soft. Hesitant. Like it doesn’t want to be heard.

You set Levi’s plate down—half-eaten grilled cheese, blueberries arranged in a smiley face—and pad over barefoot. You glance through the peephole.

And your heart stutters.

Patrick.

You haven’t seen him in four years, and yet, there he is, standing in the yellow hallway light like a memory that refused to stay dead. The light buzzes above him, casting long shadows across the floor, washing him in a hue too warm for how cold it feels. Your stomach flips. Your knees lock. Seeing him again is like stepping into a dream with teeth—familiar and sharp all at once. He looks older—leaner, scruffier, more hollow around the eyes. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His hands twitch at his sides, curling and uncurling, like he's not sure whether to knock again or bolt down the hall and disappear.

You open the door slowly. The air between you is thick and sour with things unsaid.

He speaks your name like a confession. Soft. Sacred.

Your voice doesn’t come. Your stomach tightens. Your throat burns.

And then, behind you—

“Mama?” Levi’s voice, high and curious, drifts out from the kitchen. “Mama, where’d you go?”

Patrick’s entire face changes. He stiffens, like someone just knocked the wind out of him. His eyes—those same eyes that used to kiss every inch of your skin—dart past you.

And then he sees him.

Tiny feet padding across hardwood. A flash of soft brown curls and wide, blinking eyes. Your son. His son.

“Is that—?” Patrick breathes, but the question dies on his lips.

You step halfway in front of Levi, like instinct, like muscle memory. Like heartbreak.

“His name is Levi,” you say. “He’s four. He likes dinosaurs and peanut butter and books with flaps. He’s shy at first but never stops talking once he starts. And he thinks thunder is just the sky saying 'I love you' too loud.”

Patrick’s mouth parts. Closes. Opens again.

“I—” He’s not crying, but his voice sounds like it wants to be. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Silence.

“Mama,” Levi whispers, wrapping his arms around your leg, looking up at Patrick with open, trusting eyes. “Who’s that?”

Your heart breaks cleanly in two.

You look at Patrick. Let him drown in it.

“That’s no one, baby,” you lie. “Just someone I used to know.”

---

Patrick always used to knock on your window, never your door.

The first time he did it, you thought it was a rock or a branch. The second time, you nearly screamed. The third time, he was already halfway in your room, grinning, breathless, tasting like cigarettes and strawberry gum.

“You should really lock your window,” he said, pulling you in by the waist.

“You should really stop breaking in,” you answered, but your smile gave you away.

Those were the good days. The days when he was still fire and promise and you believed you were the only one who saw the man behind the racket. When he played like he had something to prove and kissed you like he had something to lose.

When the world hadn’t taken his shine yet.

You lay together in your tiny bed, limbs tangled, the night soft around you. He whispered dreams into your collarbone. You traced his jaw with your fingertips like a prayer. He said he’d win for you. Said you made everything feel less heavy.

And you believed him.

Even as the losses came. Even as the press called him a burnout. Even as he lashed out, shut down, pulled away.

Until one night, you held up a stick with two pink lines, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

“I can’t be this,” he said. “I can’t be someone’s dad when I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore.”

You begged him to stay. You told him love would be enough.

He left anyway.

The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. You stood there, frozen, stick in hand, the silence ringing louder than any scream.

It wasn’t just the leaving. It was what he took when he left. The belief that things could still be okay. The sound of his laugh echoing through your walls. The security of two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink.

He didn't say goodbye. He didn't say I love you. He just looked at you like you were the one hurting him, and walked out like he had somewhere better to be.

You didn't sleep that night. You laid in the bed where he used to lie, and wondered what was so unlovable about needing him.

In the weeks after, you didn’t tell anyone. You couldn’t say it out loud, not yet. Not until you had something to show for all the ache.

You kept your hand over your belly every night, like a promise. Like maybe, if you held it long enough, the ache would shift into something softer. You whispered into the darkness what you never said aloud: that you hoped the baby wouldn’t inherit the hollow. That you prayed they would never learn the weight of being left. You imagined holding them for the first time, imagined the sound they might make—laughter, a cry, a breath taken for the first time and given to you. Some nights, your palm rose and fell with the gentle flutter of movement beneath your skin, and you let yourself believe that maybe you weren’t completely alone. That maybe something was listening.

If he wouldn't stay, you would.

The pregnancy was not kind. Morning sickness that didn’t stop in the morning, aches in places you didn’t know could ache, and a hollow, gnawing loneliness that settled behind your ribs like mold. There was no one to rub your back when the cramps came. No one to hold your hand at appointments. You learned to read ultrasound screens like maps to a place you were terrified to reach alone.

You taped the first photo to the fridge and stared at it through tears. A blurry, black-and-white smudge. Proof. Anchor. Punishment.

You bought a secondhand crib off Facebook Marketplace and put it together yourself, swearing softly when the screws wouldn’t line up. Painted the walls a soft sage green, not because you liked it, but because it felt like the kind of color people chose when they still believed in peace.

At night, you whispered to your belly. Told him stories about heroes. About bravery. About love that stayed.

You never said Patrick’s name aloud, but some nights, when the air was too still and the weight of it all was too much, you dreamed of him walking through the door. You dreamed of forgiveness. Of soft apologies and strong arms and maybe’s that could still be real.

And then you’d wake up alone. And cry in the shower where no one could hear.

You didn’t get flowers when Levi was born. There was no one pacing outside the delivery room, no hands gripping yours through contractions, no voice telling you it was going to be okay.

But you did it. You screamed him into the world, heart breaking open and filling all at once.

And when they placed him on your chest, tiny and warm and blinking up at you like you were the only thing he knew—

That was the first time in months you remembered what it felt like to be loved without conditions.

Motherhood came at you like a tidal wave: no warning, no mercy. The nights were the worst. Not just because of the crying, but because of the silence in between. When the world went still and you were left alone with your thoughts, your fears, your memories. You held Levi in your arms like he was both shield and sword.

You learned the patterns of his breathing, the way his body curled into yours like he’d been there before, in another life. You learned to eat with one hand, sleep with one eye open, cry without making a sound.

The first time he smiled, it was crooked—just like Patrick’s. It hit you so hard you had to sit down. You laughed and sobbed into his blanket and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just muscle memory. A coincidence. Nothing more.

But everything reminded you of him. The curve of Levi’s jaw. The way he furrowed his brow in sleep. The quiet intensity in his gaze when he was focused on something—like building blocks or pulling the cat’s tail. He was made of you, yes. But he was stitched together with pieces of a man who had vanished.

You tried to be enough. Every bath time became a ritual. Every bedtime story a litany. Every scraped knee a prayer.

You never let Levi see you cry. You waited until he was asleep, until his breaths came soft and steady, until the lights were out and the apartment felt like a stranger’s house. Then you let the grief in. Let it climb into bed beside you like an old friend.

There were days you hated Patrick. Hated him for leaving. For making you strong when all you wanted was to lean. For making you lie when Levi asked why he didn’t have a daddy like the other kids at the park.

You always said the same thing: "Some people take a little longer to find their way."

And then you held him tighter. Because you knew—when Levi looked at you like you hung the stars, when he clapped after you made pancakes, when he said, “Mama, I love you more than dinosaurs”—you knew you’d do it all again.

Even the heartbreak. Even the waiting.

Even the door that never knocked—until today.

---

He comes back on a Tuesday. You’re still in your work-from-home clothes—soft pants, yesterday’s sweatshirt, hair twisted into something barely holding. Levi is at school, and the silence in the apartment feels like a held breath.

When you open the door, Patrick’s hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His eyes flick up, then down, like he’s not sure where to look. He’s shaved. Mostly. Still looks like he hasn’t slept.

“I didn’t want to do this in front of him,” he says.

You nod once. Then step aside.

He walks in slowly, like the space might bite. You close the door behind him and lean against it, arms folded. He turns in the center of your living room, gaze moving across the walls like they might tell him what he missed. There’s a drawing Levi made of a green scribbled dinosaur taped beside the thermostat. A tiny sock abandoned near the coffee table. A photograph on the bookshelf—your smile tight, Levi’s toothy and bright.

Patrick presses his lips together. Doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches between you like a string pulled too tight, fragile and humming with things that might snap if touched. He stares at the walls, the crumbs on the floor, the drawing of a green dinosaur taped beside the thermostat like it’s a museum relic of a life he wasn’t invited to. Every breath he takes feels like it costs him something.

You don’t either.

He turns to you, finally. "I don’t know where to start."

"Start with why you’re here."

His jaw flexes. He looks down, then up again. "Because I never stopped thinking about you. Because I thought leaving would protect you. Because I hated the version of me I was becoming, and I didn’t want him to ever know that man."

"You don’t get to talk about him like you know him."

The words come fast. Sharp. You weren’t planning to say them, but they’re out before you can stop them. Patrick flinches like they cut deep.

You swallow. Try again. Quieter.

"You left. And we stayed. That’s the only truth that matters."

Patrick nods. Doesn’t argue.

"I want to be in his life," he says. "If you'll let me. I—I know I have no right to ask. But I’m asking. Anyway."

You look at him for a long time. Long enough for your throat to ache. For your eyes to blur.

You think about Levi’s face when he colors in the sun yellow every time. The way he runs down the hall with his shoes on the wrong feet. The way he says, mama, mama, look, like you’re the only one in the world who ever truly sees him.

You nod, once. Slowly.

Patrick’s breath catches.

"You’ll start as a stranger," you say. "You’ll earn your way back in. Brick by brick. Word by word. I won’t let you hurt him."

"I won’t," he promises. And you almost believe him.

You point to the couch. "Sit. I’ll make coffee."

And he does. And you do. And for the first time in four years, the apartment doesn’t feel quite so haunted.

---

The change is slow. Measured. Like the seasons shifting before the trees notice.

Patrick starts showing up more often. Not just when he says he will, but earlier. With snacks. With books for Levi. With hands that fold laundry without asking. Sometimes you find your dishes already washed. Sometimes he takes the trash out without a word.

You don’t trust it. Not at first. Not really.

But Levi laughs more. Sleeps easier. Starts drawing pictures of three people instead of two.

Patrick never pushes. Never raises his voice. Never tries to reclaim what he left. He plays the long game—quiet, consistent, present. And that consistency starts to chip away at your defenses in places you didn’t know were still cracked.

You catch yourself watching him. The way he kneels to tie Levi’s shoes. The way he listens—really listens—when your son talks about dinosaurs or clouds or how loud the sky can get when it’s excited. You hear the soft laugh in Patrick’s chest when Levi calls thunder a love letter. You feel it in your bones.

You try not to let it in.

One afternoon, while Levi is still at school, Patrick asks if you want to take a walk. Just around the block. Clear your head.

You almost say no. Almost slam the door of your heart before it even creaks open. But you grab your coat anyway.

You walk in silence. Leaves crunching underfoot. He stays a step behind, like he doesn’t want to crowd your space. The wind cuts sharp through the collar of your jacket.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I should’ve stayed.”

You stop walking.

He keeps going for a few steps before he notices, then turns around.

“I know that’s not enough. I know it changes nothing. But I did love you. I still—” He stops himself. Looks away.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

You press the sleeve of your jacket to your eyes, angry at the weakness, angry at the memory of who you were before. Angry that some part of you wants to believe him.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper. “I can’t survive loving you twice.”

He takes a step closer. Doesn’t touch you.

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll love you from a distance if I have to. I’ll show up. I’ll keep showing up. I just—needed you to know.”

You shake your head, stumbling backward. The tears come harder now. Not the gentle kind. The ragged, breathless, body-buckling kind.

You don’t even remember falling to your knees, but suddenly you’re on the ground, sobbing into your hands. All of it—years of holding it together, of being strong, of never letting anyone see the mess—it all spills out.

And then he’s there.

He doesn’t touch you. Not right away. He kneels beside you, his hands palm-up on his thighs, waiting. Quiet. Steady. And somehow, that’s worse. That he’s learned how to wait. That he’s here.

You want to scream at him. You want to collapse into him. You want to run.

But mostly, you want to be held.

And after a long moment, you let him.

You wake up the next morning expecting silence.

It’s muscle memory now—waking before the sun, padding into the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and heavy limbs, bracing for another day of doing it all on your own.

But the apartment doesn’t greet you with emptiness.

There’s the soft clatter of dishes in the sink. The low hum of someone speaking—gentle, amused.

You freeze in the hallway, bare feet pressed to cold tile, heartbeat thudding in your throat.

And then you hear it.

Patrick’s voice. "Okay, buddy, but the cereal goes in first. Not the milk. Trust me on this one."

Levi’s giggle echoes like sunlight in a room too small to harbor his birghtness.

You move forward slowly, quietly, until you’re standing just beyond the edge of the kitchen. Patrick is crouched beside Levi at the counter, helping him pour cereal into a chipped blue bowl. He’s still in yesterday’s hoodie, hair a mess, barefoot like he belongs there.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too focused on Levi, steadying the carton as milk splashes too close to the rim. There’s something soft in his posture. Something heartbreakingly domestic.

Levi notices you first. "Mama!"

Patrick straightens immediately. His eyes meet yours. There’s a flicker of panic there, quickly masked.

"Morning," he says, voice quiet.

You nod, swallowing down whatever this feeling is—this lump of disbelief and longing and something dangerously close to hope.

"I didn’t want to wake you," he adds. "Levi asked for cereal and… I thought I could help."

You look at your son, cheeks full of sugar and joy.

You look at Patrick, standing in your kitchen like it’s sacred ground.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like running.

---

The days start to stack.

Patrick picks Levi up from school on Fridays. He folds the laundry you forget in the dryer. He learns how you take your coffee without asking and starts leaving it on the counter—right side of the mug facing out, handle turned the way you like it. He hums sometimes when he cleans up, soft and aimless. It makes your chest ache.

You fall into rhythms again. Not like before. Slower. Cautious. But real.

One evening, he stays later than usual. Levi’s fallen asleep on the couch mid-cartoon, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in one arm. You’re washing dishes. Patrick dries.

Your hands brush once.

Twice.

By the third time, neither of you pulls away.

You look up. His eyes are already on you.

Something lingers there—warm and pained and dangerous.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he speaks first.

“I miss you.”

The plate slips from your hand into the sink. It doesn’t break, but the splash feels final.

“I can’t,” you say quickly, too quickly.

“I know,” he says. “But I do.”

You dry your hands and turn away, pressing your palms flat to the counter to steady yourself, trying to remember how to breathe like you used to—before he walked back in.

“You don’t get to say that to me like it means nothing,” you whisper. “Like you didn’t leave. Like I didn’t have to scrape my life back together alone.”

“I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Then stop acting like you do.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “You think I haven’t punished myself every day since?”

You spin around, suddenly angry. “And what, I’m supposed to forgive you because you feel bad? Because you missed a few birthdays and now you want back in?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not supposed to do anything. But I’m here. I’m not running this time.”

“You broke me, Patrick.” Your voice cracks. “And now you want to build something new on the ruins like it’s nothing.”

He’s in front of you now. Too close. The space between you charged, buzzing.

“I don’t think it’s nothing,” he says. “I think it’s everything.”

Your breath catches. The air shifts.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups your jaw.

And you let him.

Because the truth is, you’ve wanted this. Wanted him. Even if it terrifies you.

His lips brush yours, tentative, like a question. When you don’t pull away, it deepens. He kisses you like he remembers. Like he regrets. Like he’s starving.

You back into the counter. His hands find your waist. Yours find his hair. You pull him closer.

It’s messy. It’s breathless. It’s years of anger and ache colliding in one impossible kiss.

When you finally break apart, his forehead presses to yours.

“I still love you,” he breathes.

And you close your eyes.

Because maybe, just maybe, you still do too.

---

He kisses you again, harder this time.

But it’s different now. Slower. Like mourning. Like worship. He takes your hand, and you follow, barefoot through the dark.

The two of you stumble back toward the bedroom, the one you once shared, where his cologne used to cling to the pillows and laughter used to live in the walls. Now it smells like lavender detergent and your son’s shampoo. Now it holds the weight of everything that’s happened since.

He kicks the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and the silence that follows is thick with ghosts.

You lie down first. He joins you like he’s afraid the bed might refuse him.

Your mouths find each other again, and it’s like no time has passed, and also like every second is a wound reopening. His kiss is deep, aching, soaked in apology. You pull at his hoodie, and he helps you out of your clothes with hands that remember everything—every freckle, every scar, every place you used to let him in.

He touches you like you might slip through his fingers again. Fingers grazing your ribs like a benediction, lips following like he's asking forgiveness with every breath. The inside of your knee, the curve of your belly, the dip of your collarbone—he maps them all like he’s afraid you’ve changed, and desperate to prove you haven’t.

When he finally sinks into you, it feels like grief.

He gasps like he’s never breathed without you.

You wrap your limbs around him like armor. Like prayer. You hold on because if you let go, you might disappear.

He moves like he remembers. Slow. Deep. Devotional. Not trying to make you come—trying to make you stay.

Your eyes lock. His forehead rests against yours. And it’s not lust anymore. It’s penance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice threadbare. “For everything I lost. For everything I made you carry alone.”

Your fingers press to his jaw, tremble against his cheek. “You don’t get to be sorry now,” you breathe. “But don’t stop. Please… don’t stop pretending this could still be real. Don’t stop making me feel like I’m not the only one who kept the light on.”

You fall together like a storm collapsing. No crescendo, no clean ending. Just trembling limbs and bitten lips and all the years that weren’t spoken finally breaking open between you.

After, he doesn’t move. You’re tangled up, forehead to collarbone, his thumb brushing soft circles into your spine like he’s trying to say everything he can’t.

You don’t speak. Words feel too small.

You fall asleep in the bed where he first kissed your shoulder, in the bed where you cried alone, in the bed where you dreamed he’d come back.

And this time, when you wake up, he’s still there.

His eyes already on you.

Like he never stopped looking.

---

The morning light is soft, gray around the edges. You blink slowly, still tucked against him, your body sore in ways that feel almost sacred. There’s a pause before reality settles, before memory floods back in. His chest rises beneath your palm. He’s warm. Solid. Still here.

You sit up gently, careful not to disturb the quiet. But Patrick stirs anyway, eyes still on you like he was never asleep.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly.

You nod. Swallow. You don’t trust your voice yet.

There’s a beat. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what last night meant. Just watches you, eyes soft, full of something he doesn’t dare taking the risk of naming. Something close to hope.

You slip out of bed and grab your robe, tying it loosely as you move through the morning light. You half-expect him to vanish while your back is turned, but when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still sitting there, eyes trailing after you like they never stopped.

You make coffee with shaking hands. The kitchen smells like warmth and cinnamon, the candle you forgot to blow out last night still flickering quietly on the counter. You pour two mugs, unsure if the gesture means too much or too little.

When you return to the bedroom, Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt tugged over his head, hair wild from sleep. He looks up like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

Instead, you hand him the mug.

He takes it like it’s sacred, fingers brushing yours with a hesitation that feels reverent, his gaze catching on yours with something close to disbelief. Like he’s afraid the mug might vanish if he holds it too tightly.

And then, footsteps.

Tiny ones.

The soft shuffle of socks against hardwood. A bedroom door creaking open. Levi’s voice drifting down the hallway: “Mama?”

Your breath hitches.

Patrick stands quickly, not panicked but present, like he knows this is delicate. You move toward the hallway just as Levi turns the corner, hair a mess of curls, pajama shirt twisted from sleep. He rubs one eye and stares at you, then at Patrick behind you.

He blinks once. Steps forward.

And then, small and serious:

“Are you gonna be my daddy again?”

You exhale like someone just punched the air out of your lungs.

Patrick lowers to a knee, eyes level with Levi’s. “Hey, buddy,” he says, voice soft, unsure.

Levi looks at him like he’s made of starlight and storybooks. Like he’s a wish come true.

Patrick’s throat works. “I… I’d really like to be. If you want me to.”

Levi nods, serious, like it’s a very important decision. Then he climbs onto the bed and curls himself into your side, tiny fingers finding Patrick’s hand.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

But when Patrick squeezes Levi’s hand, and Levi doesn’t let go, something in you cracks open.

And for the first time, the pieces don’t scatter.

They start to fall into place.

---

Later, after breakfast is made and half-eaten, after Levi has gone back to coloring at the kitchen table—his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration—Patrick lingers by the sink, coffee mug long since empty.

You wash dishes beside him, quiet.

“I used to lie,” he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “To everyone. About why I left. About what I was doing. About you.”

You pause, fingers wet and soapy in the sink.

He keeps going, eyes fixed on a spot just above the faucet. “I told people I wasn’t ready. That I needed time. That I didn’t want to hold you back. But the truth is… I was scared. Not of being a father. Not really. I was scared of what you’d see when everything in me started to rot.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought if I stayed, I’d make you miserable. That you’d look at me one day and see someone you pitied. Someone who used to be something. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t take that.”

The silence blooms, wide and brittle, as Levi hums softly in the background, his small voice painting innocence across the sharp edges of the truth hanging in the air.

“I would sit outside playgrounds,” Patrick says, his voice thinner now. “I’d watch kids run around and wonder if any of them were mine. I used to see this one boy who had curls just like Levi’s. And I’d imagine what it would feel like if he looked up and called me Dad.”

You stare at the bubbles in the sink. They pop, one by one.

“I thought I was punishing myself by staying away,” he says. “But it was cowardice. It was me choosing the version of pain that didn’t involve looking you in the eye.”

You set the dish down. Turn off the water. And you say nothing, because there’s nothing to say. Because guilt is not a gift, and grief is not a currency. But hearing it—letting him say it—somehow makes it heavier.

And still.

You don’t ask him to leave.

But you do walk outside.

The morning has shifted. Clouded over. You sit on the steps, arms wrapped around yourself, the chill crawling into your sleeves. You hear the door creak behind you and then close softly. He doesn’t follow. He knows better.

There’s a lump in your throat the size of a fist.

You think about all the versions of yourself he never met. The woman in the hospital bed, sweat-soaked and screaming, holding Levi against her chest with shaking arms and blood beneath her nails. The woman who sat awake at three a.m. night after night, bouncing a colicky baby in the quiet because there was no one else to pass him to. The woman who pawned her violin, sold the gold bracelet her grandmother gave her, whispered I’m sorry to her own reflection just to keep the lights on. The woman who smiled at Levi even when her eyes were raw from crying. The woman who learned how to fold pain into lullabies and grief into grocery lists. You became a mosaic in his absence—sharp-edged and shining. You held yourself together with coffee spoons and lullabies, with baby monitors and the ache of resilience. You wore your grief like a second skin, stretched tight and stitched through with hope you never admitted aloud.. And now he wants to stay. The one in the hospital bed. The one who learned how to swaddle with trembling fingers. The one who sold her violin to pay for rent. The one who laughed, even when it hurt, because Levi was watching.

You think about what it cost to become someone whole without him.

He didn’t get to see the becoming.

And now he wants to stay.

You close your eyes. Rest your forehead on your knees. Breathe.

Footsteps approach. Small ones.

Levi climbs into your lap without a word. He curls into you like he did when he was smaller, like he’s always known how to find your center.

“Do you still love him?” he asks.

You press your lips to his hair. “I don’t know what to do with it,” you whisper.

Levi’s voice is soft. “Maybe we can love him different now. Like a new story.”

And something inside you breaks.

Not the way it used to.

Not shattering.

Cracking open.

You look toward the door, and through the window, you see Patrick still standing there—his forehead resting against the frame, like he’s praying to the quiet.

You don’t run to him. You don’t forgive him.

But you do stand.

And this time, when you open the door, you leave it open behind you.

Just enough to tell him… ‘try again.’

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Epilogue - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

ik this is like an abrupt ending but i feel like 40 chapters is a good ending point😭 also i hope y’all catch on to who the name honors :)

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 1.40k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The house is different now.

Not louder. Just… softer.

There’s a quiet hum to everything—like the whole place has shifted its breath to match hers. You move slower. Speak lower. Listen harder. Every corner of your life has been bent gently around the rhythm of someone new.

Louiza is two months old today.

You woke up to her tiny fists stretching above her head, her face all scrunched and warm from sleep, making that little huffing sound she does when she wants to be picked up but refuses to cry for it. You swear she’s already got her father’s temperament—stubborn, proud, easily offended by silence.

Haymitch calls it “having standards.”

You call it perfect.

Right now, she’s curled on your chest, her whole body no heavier than a sack of flour, one chubby hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. Her hair’s a perfect mix between yours and Haymitch’s, soft as breath, and her lashes are longer than anything that small has a right to be.

You rock back gently in the old chair by the window. The same chair Haymitch used to collapse into after long days in the garden. The same chair Soot used to claim as her throne. Now it belongs to her.

To Lou.

And you would give her the whole world if she asked.

Outside, the village is green and alive—gardens blooming, clotheslines dancing in the breeze. You can hear the faint sound of Peeta’s voice from across the way, probably scolding Katniss for carrying something heavier than she promised she would.

The kitchen smells like Haymitch’s coffee.

You don’t know where he is right now, but you know he’ll be back any second. He always comes back.

Especially now.

The door creaks open just a little, soft on its hinges. You don’t look up.

You don’t need to.

You hear the familiar shuffle of his boots, the quiet scrape of the floorboards as he steps into the room. He always walks slower now—like he’s afraid the sound of his feet might wake her.

He crosses to you without a word.

Leans over the back of the chair.

And with all the tenderness in the world tucked behind a grumble, presses a kiss to your temple.

Then another to the crown of Louiza’s head.

“She breathing okay?” he murmurs, low like it’s a secret.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper back.

He nods, like he agrees but still needs proof. His hand ghosts over her back, checks the warmth of her skin through her little sleeper. He presses two fingers gently under her chin—just enough to feel her breath puff against them.

You watch the way his shoulders ease.

“You do know she’s not made of glass,” you say softly.

“She’s got your cheeks,” he mutters, still watching her. “That’s reason enough to be cautious.”

You snort quietly. “You cried over her sock this morning.”

“I did not.”

“You said—‘look how damn small it is, it’s disrespectful.’”

He straightens slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still think that’s true.”

You smile, tilting your head to look up at him.

His hair’s a little longer now. His face still carries the lines it always has, but there’s something different behind them now—something rested. Softer.

He leans down again and presses another kiss to your forehead. “Want me to take her?”

“She just fell asleep.”

“Even better,” he whispers, already reaching.

You carefully shift Louiza into his arms, her cheek smushed softly against his shoulder the moment she settles. His hand spans the entire length of her back. He sways a little without thinking. Just rocks her. Instinctive.

“Hey,” you say, still watching him.

He looks up.

You smile. “You’re good at this.”

He rolls his eyes, but his voice is quieter when he says, “She makes it easy.”

And for a moment, you just watch him stand there in the golden light, your daughter curled safe in his arms, everything quiet except for the wind outside and the steady beat of a heart that finally has something to protect.

Louiza only lasts another ten minutes in Haymitch’s arms before she starts to squirm—nose scrunched, tiny fists flailing like she’s had enough of peaceful dreams and would like to be included in the activities now.

You look up from where you’ve settled on the edge of the couch and smile. “Someone’s ready.”

Haymitch shifts her carefully, one hand cradling her head. “Think she’s up for some fresh air?”

You grin. “Only if you carry her.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He lets you dress her in one of the little cotton rompers Katniss stitched by hand—soft blue, with tiny white stitches along the collar and cuffs. It’s simple and sturdy and slightly uneven at the seams, and you think it might be your favorite thing she owns.

Haymitch watches you fasten the buttons and murmurs, “You look proud of yourself.”

“She didn’t even cry,” you whisper back.

“Neither did you, for once.”

You swat him gently. “Careful, old man.”

He smirks. “Easy, honey.”

By the time the three of you step out onto the porch, the sun’s mellowed into something warm and golden. There’s a breeze moving through the trees, gentle and steady, rustling the leaves like a lullaby. Haymitch has Louiza tucked against his chest, one big hand splayed protectively across her back.

She babbles once, soft and sleepy, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

The village hums around you—quiet and familiar. Someone’s hanging laundry three doors down. You catch the smell of something baking. Kids are laughing in the distance, a little flock of them running down the road with hand-made flags tied to sticks.

You walk slow.

Wave at the woman two houses over who always gives you clippings from her garden. She waves back and coos at the baby.

Peeta’s voice calls from his porch. “If she says her first word before Katniss and I have one, I’m going to scream.”

“She already did,” Haymitch calls back.

Peeta gasps like it’s a personal betrayal.

“She said ‘glrrbh,’” you add.

“Genius,” Haymitch says, nodding solemnly.

Katniss appears in the doorway and just mutters, “You’re both idiots.”

You grin as Louiza squeals, flailing her hands toward the sound of familiar voices.

Haymitch shifts her again—gentle, steady, close like he can’t help it—and hands her to you.

“Think we’re doing alright?” he asks quietly.

You glance at the porch steps, the homes, the people waving. The warmth in your chest. The ring on your finger. The baby in your arms.

You nod.

“We’re doing perfect.”

Peeta’s already holding the door open by the time you reach their porch.

“Come in,” he says, like it wasn’t already obvious, like you don’t do this at least three times a week. “We’ve got bread. And leftover soup. And, for some reason, cake?”

“Celebrating?” Haymitch asks as he steps inside behind you.

“Katniss didn’t murder a man at the market today,” Peeta replies. “I think that deserves something.”

Katniss, already walking toward the kitchen, mutters, “He said my herbs were overpriced.”

“You nearly threw a bundle of thyme at his head.”

“He deserved it.”

You laugh, adjusting Louiza against your chest. Her hand’s fisted in your shirt again, her eyes wide now and curious, tracking the movement around her.

You settle into the corner of their worn old couch, sinking into the cushions like you’ve done a hundred times. Haymitch sits beside you and stretches his arm along the back, fingers brushing lazily against your shoulder.

Katniss and Peeta move around the kitchen like muscle memory—bread warming in the oven, bowls placed on the table, quiet teasing passed back and forth like a second language.

Lou lets out a soft sigh and nestles in tighter.

And for a moment, you don’t speak.

You just listen.

To the people you love more than anything. The life you didn’t think you’d get. The man beside you who chose you over and over again, even when it scared him. The baby in your arms who sleeps like she knows she’s safe.

There’s no noise in your head.

No ache in your chest.

No fear that this is temporary.

There’s only this warmth. Laughter. The clatter of dishes. The curl of Haymitch’s fingers at your shoulder. The quiet rise and fall of Lou’s breath.

This is what you survived for.

And you realize, as your heart swells with it, soft things do survive.

[cupofteatoyou]

And Then There Was You

She doesn’t even have to touch you for your body to burn.

The first time it happens, you’re kneeling at the edge of the pitch, fiddling with a tangled cord, trying to look busy while the players finish drills under a sun-soaked sky.

You hear her before you see her—low laughter, clipped footsteps, a sharp whistle that cuts across the field. And then she passes you.

María León.

Your eyes flick up without thinking. And the world tilts.

It’s not the sharp line of her jaw or the way she moves like tension coiled around grace. It’s not her voice, though it’s the kind that would carry through fog, the kind you’d recognize even in sleep.

It’s what happens inside you.

Your chest pulls tight, like your heart skipped ahead without asking. Like some unseen thread had been yanked—hard—and now you're aware of every inch of your skin. A flush spreads along your spine, heat crawling up the back of your neck.

She doesn't look at you. She doesn't even slow down.

Still, something inside you shifts.

You blink, swallow, tell yourself it's adrenaline. The new job, the pressure, the weight of being around legends every day. That must be it.

But deep down, something older whispers this is different.

And it is.

Because it happens again. And again. And again.

A week later, you’re walking down the tunnel, trying not to trip over the mic cables looped around your shoulder, when you hear footsteps behind you.

They slow.

Your name is called—softly. Not hers. Not yet. But you feel her before you see her. Like the static hum before a storm. Like the echo of a dream you can’t quite remember.

You turn the corner and there she is. Laughing with Ingrid. Leaning into her side, eyes crinkled, relaxed.

She doesn’t notice you.

But your whole body does.

Your stomach turns. Not in a jealous way. Not really. It’s not about Ingrid. It’s the way your chest reacts like it’s been struck. The way your knees go weak like her happiness somehow hurts. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and it carves you open anyway.

You get out of there fast.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of half-heard voices and blurred footage. You forget to eat. Your skin buzzes like you've touched something you shouldn't.

You’re still trying to convince yourself this is nothing.

But nothing doesn’t feel like this.

Mapi notices quickly.

She always has good instincts—about the game, about danger, about people.

But with you, it’s more than instinct.

She feels it the second she sees you—really sees you—standing behind the camera near the training ground, hair half-tucked into a hoodie, eyes focused anywhere but on her.

Her breath catches. Her balance stutters, just for a second. Enough that Alexia glances over. She covers it with a laugh. Keeps moving.

But something inside her has already shifted.

She doesn’t need time to realize what it means.

Her body tells her first. Her senses flare, all at once. You’re not just a presence—you’re a frequency. One she feels vibrating through the air when you walk past. A warmth at the base of her neck. A scent that clings to her even hours after you’re gone.

There’s no denying it.

You’re hers.

But the second she recognizes it, she buries it.

Because she’s already in love with someone else.

Ingrid is good. Ingrid is safe. She’s kind and steady and warm. Mapi knows the sound of her laugh and the pattern of her breathing. She knows how Ingrid likes her coffee and how she tucks her feet under the blanket on cold nights. Mapi loves her.

And still—her body turns toward you like it’s never belonged to anyone else.

So she doesn’t say anything.

She pretends.

She tells herself it’ll pass. That she’s just overwhelmed. That she can ignore it the way she’s ignored everything else that ever threatened the things she loves.

And for a while, she manages.

She keeps her distance. Keeps her eyes down. Keeps Ingrid close.

But her body betrays her every time.

You start avoiding her.

You don’t even make the choice consciously at first. You just stop lingering near the pitch. You take your lunch at odd hours. You switch your media shifts whenever you know she’ll be around.

You stop breathing when she enters a room. And start holding your breath the moment she leaves it.

But avoidance doesn’t erase the feeling.

Because even without words, without touch, without acknowledgment, something binds you to her. It curls in your chest when she's near. It throbs when she walks away. You feel it in the silence. In the air. In your bones.

And it hurts more than anything ever has.

Because you’re certain she doesn’t feel it.

She doesn’t look at you like you look at her.

Or so you think.

Mapi notices.

She notices everything about you now. Not because she means to—but because she can’t help it.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're flustered. The way your fingers tremble slightly when you pass her a mic. The way you avoid her gaze like it hurts to meet it.

And it does hurt. She knows. Because it hurts her too.

Every time she sees you pull away, her chest tightens. Every time you laugh at something someone else says, she wants to be the reason for it. And when you look at anyone else with even a hint of softness, her throat burns.

But she doesn't act on it.

Because acting on it would mean breaking something she promised she’d protect.

So she keeps pretending.

And the pretending is starting to splinter.

One night, long after training, you linger near the tunnel. The sky is bruised blue, the stadium nearly empty, the hush after hours making everything feel too loud.

Mapi walks past you, slowing just a little.

You feel it before you see her. That hum. That pull. That ache.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

But as she walks by, your eyes meet for just a second too long.

And for the first time—you see it.

She knows.

Whatever this is, however impossible, however unspoken—she feels it too.

But then Ingrid calls her name from the parking lot.

And Mapi blinks, steps away, and keeps walking.

You’re left standing there, heart in pieces, chest hollow, every part of you screaming with the truth

She knows.

And she won’t choose you.

Mapi lies awake that night.Her body is tired. Her heart is not.

You’re not there.

And you should be.

She sleeps beside someone else, but it’s you she dreams of.

staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Her hands are clenched beneath the blanket, jaw tight, chest aching in that strange, buried way it always does after she sees you.

Ingrid is curled up beside her, one arm resting lightly over her waist. She’s already asleep—steady breaths, skin warm. Familiar.

It should calm her.

It used to.

But tonight, the warmth doesn't reach her bones.

Her skin still buzzes from that second—that look—in the tunnel. You’d glanced at her like the air had disappeared, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

And it nearly pulled her under.

Now, lying here in the dark, that single moment feels louder than anything that came before it. It won’t leave her. It vibrates beneath her ribs like something alive.

She doesn’t want this. She didn’t ask for it.

And still—it’s there.

You are there.

She slips out of bed when she can’t take it anymore.

Ingrid doesn’t stir.

The apartment is quiet, heavy. She doesn’t bother with lights. Just moves through the dark, hoodie thrown over her tank top, hair tied up messily. She ends up in the kitchen, hands pressed to the counter, forehead bowed.

Her chest won’t stop tightening. Her breath keeps catching.

She feels like she’s breaking from the inside out.

The kettle starts humming before she realizes she’s turned it on. Her body’s moving out of habit. Her mind is miles away—back in the tunnel, back in the sound of your laugh, back in that one second where her heart said go and she stayed frozen.

She doesn’t hear Ingrid at first.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”

Mapi stiffens. Turns slowly.

Ingrid stands in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, hair mussed, eyes heavy with concern that’s starting to fray at the edges.

Mapi clears her throat. “Just couldn’t shut my brain off.”

Ingrid steps further into the room. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then—“Is it football?”

Mapi wishes it were. She’d give anything for it to be that simple.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then nods. “Something like that.”

Ingrid just watches her.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately,” she says softly. “Not just tonight. For a while.”

Mapi doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t want to say anything at first. I figured… pressure. Fatigue. Noise.” Ingrid’s voice cracks faintly. “But it’s not that, is it?”

Mapi swallows hard. Her hands curl around the edge of the counter.

“Mapi.”

She doesn’t want to lie. Not to Ingrid. Not to the girl who helped her breathe again after the worst year of her life. But the truth feels sharp in her throat.

Ingrid’s voice drops. “Is there someone else?”

Silence.

It sits there between them like a wound.

“I haven’t done anything,” Mapi says quickly. “I haven’t touched her. I haven’t said anything.”

Ingrid doesn’t flinch at the word her, but her grip on the blanket tightens.

“That’s not the same as nothing,” she whispers.

Mapi’s eyes sting.

“I didn’t choose it. I didn’t want it.”

“But it’s happening,” Ingrid says. Not a question. A quiet devastation.

Mapi nods, barely.

Ingrid exhales. It sounds like it hurts. “How long?”

Mapi hesitates. “Since the beginning.”

She can’t bring herself to say more. Can’t explain the way her skin vibrates when you’re near. The way her heart breaks in her chest when you laugh and she’s not the reason. The way she knew—knew—before either of you had spoken more than five words.

Ingrid steps back slightly, her voice suddenly shaking. “You love her?”

Mapi’s voice cracks. “I don’t know what this is.”

“But it’s not me anymore, is it?”

That breaks her.

“Ingrid, I still love you,” she says, stepping forward. “I do. I just—I don’t know how to stop this thing I never wanted.”

Ingrid’s eyes fill but she blinks it away. “You’re already gone, Mapi. You just haven’t left yet.”

Mapi flinches like she’s been slapped.

She wants to deny it. To fix it. To reach for the safety she’s known. But her hands stay by her sides, limp.

Because the truth is still there, buried in her chest.

You.

And she can’t lie her way out of that.

Ingrid breathes in slowly. Then turns without another word.

The door to the bedroom clicks shut behind her.

And Mapi stays standing in the kitchen, alone, staring at the cup of tea she never finished.

Mapi should be focused.

The drill is simple. High tempo passing. Fast touch. Quick release. Alexia calls out rotations from the center of the pitch. The rhythm is sharp, controlled. Everyone’s locked in.

Except her.

Because you're there.

Far off, near the bench. Half-hidden behind the dugout wall. Hoodie pulled low, body curled inward, hands moving over your laptop like you’re trying to disappear into it. Like you don’t want to be seen.

But Mapi sees you anyway.

She always does.

And it hits her again—deep, sudden, like a fault line cracking wide open beneath her ribs. That ache. The one that lives in her chest now. The one that flares every time you're near and never fully fades when you're gone.

You haven’t looked at her once.

And that’s what undoes her most.

Because you used to.

You used to glance at her like it hurt to. Like your body couldn’t help it. But now? Nothing. Not even a flicker.

You're shielding yourself. Keeping distance.

And it’s her fault.

You’re trying to be small. To stay hidden. And she knows—she knows—she’s the reason you’re folding yourself in like this.

And still, she can’t look away.

Not even for Ingrid.

Not even for the girl she promised herself to.

Ingrid notices.

She's standing at the sideline, arms folded across her chest, pretending to follow the drill. But her eyes aren’t on the ball. They're on Mapi.

And she knows.

She’s known, in pieces, for a while now. In the silence. In the pauses. In the way Mapi's hands have stopped reaching for her under the blanket. In the way her voice softens when she walks into a room that you're already in.

But now it’s written in her posture.

In the way Mapi leans toward you without even meaning to.

In the way her whole body orients itself like you're gravity.

She watches her girlfriend—not watching her at all.

Watches her instead fall apart in quiet glances toward the girl trying her hardest not to exist.

And it breaks something in Ingrid that she’s been holding together with both hands.

Because this isn’t a crush.

This isn’t doubt.

This isn’t something they can talk through over tea and compromise.

It’s you.

And it’s real.

Training ends.

Players begin peeling off the pitch in waves, sweat-slicked and half-laughing, heads thrown back. Mapi stays behind a few seconds longer, crouching down to retie her boots—anything to delay what she knows is coming.

But Ingrid waits.

She’s quiet the whole walk to the locker room.

Waits until they’re alone.

The door clicks shut. The sounds of laughter fade behind walls. And Ingrid stands in the center of the room, arms at her sides, spine straight.

And then, calmly—too calmly—she asks:

“Are you in love with her?”

Mapi freezes.

The question is soft. Almost casual. Like it costs nothing to ask. But it lands like a hammer.

Her heart stutters. Her breath stings her throat.

“Ingrid—”

“Don’t lie,” Ingrid cuts in gently. Not angry. Just… tired.

Mapi’s head bows. Her hands tremble where they hang by her sides. She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

Ingrid exhales a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. More like disbelief wrapped in pain. “It’s her, isn’t it? The girl on media. The one you pretend not to see.”

Mapi’s throat tightens. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Ingrid interrupts. “But that doesn’t matter.”

Silence drops between them like a curtain.

“I loved you, Mapi,” Ingrid says. Her voice is shaking now. Not loud. Just breaking. “And you loved me, too. But lately it’s felt like I’m standing in front of you and you’re looking past me—through me—trying to find something else.”

Mapi presses her lips together. She can feel tears threatening behind her eyes.

Ingrid steps forward, hands trembling. “Do you even realize how often you look at her?”

Mapi stays still.

“Every time she’s in the room,” Ingrid whispers. “Even when she’s across the pitch. Even when she’s not saying a word. You look at her like…” She trails off.

“Like what?” Mapi whispers, almost afraid to ask.

Ingrid blinks. “Like you don’t know how to exist without her.”

Mapi turns her face away. One tear escapes, and she doesn’t bother wiping it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice hollow. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Ingrid says. Her voice is heartbreak wrapped in kindness. “But you’re not mine anymore.”

Mapi wants to argue. To say she’s still here. That she hasn’t gone. But she knows it wouldn’t be true. Because her heart has already left the room. And it’s following someone else.

Mapi doesn’t go home after training.

She doesn’t answer her phone either—not when Ingrid’s name flashes across the screen for the third time, not when a teammate texts asking if she’s okay. She drives. Not toward anything specific. Just away.

Away from the weight of the locker room.

Away from the look in Ingrid’s eyes.

Away from the moment that shattered everything she thought she’d been holding together.

When she finally pulls over, it’s in some empty side street, quiet and tree-lined, the kind that’s barely lit. The car hums around her. Her hands stay on the wheel, knuckles white, breath shaking.

She lets her forehead drop against the leather.

She doesn’t cry. Not yet.

She just… breaks quietly.

Because she hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

She didn’t mean to hurt Ingrid. She didn’t mean to fall for someone else. She didn’t mean for your face to take root in the softest part of her chest and refuse to let go.

But it did.

And now there’s no going back.

She’s already lost something. Let go of someone. Broken something sacred.

And still, her hands are steady when she turns the car around.

The city is dark as she drives. Familiar streets blur past her window, but she doesn’t see them. She only sees your face. The way you looked in the tunnel. The way you never looked at her again.

She thinks of how quiet you’ve been.

How careful.

How much you’ve held in.

And still, you’ve never turned away from her as completely as she deserved.

She pulls into the back lot of the training facility, the one staff use when they stay late. Her stomach churns when she kills the engine. For the first time in days, she doesn’t hesitate.

She needs to see you.

Not tomorrow. Not later.

Now.

The building is mostly dark.

Just one strip of lights on, leading to the media wing. She follows them.

Her boots echo down the hall. It’s the only sound in the whole place—until she rounds the corner and sees you.

You’re at your desk, bathed in the blue light of your monitor. Shoulders hunched. Still in that hoodie. Still tucked small like you’re trying to disappear.

You don’t hear her at first.

She watches you for a second—just a second. Breath caught in her throat.

And then she knocks once, softly, against the doorframe.

You turn.

The moment your eyes meet, your expression crumbles.

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

She takes a slow step into the room.

You sit up straighter. “Mapi?”

Her voice is soft. “Can I come in?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She shuts the door behind her. Doesn’t lock it. But the world outside disappears anyway.

[yerkyokuler]

“Can You Step Out?”

Jude Bellingham x Reader

Warnings: postpartum, insecurity

Genre: angst and fluff, obviously

Word Count: over 3k , sorry 🥲

Thank you so much for the like on my first post, it means the world! Let me know if you want a part 2!

⸻

The living room was filled with the low hum of a lullaby toy, something soft and twinkly that looped endlessly as Percy kicked his chubby legs in the playpen. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, golden light across the floorboards. You’d opened the windows earlier to let in the late afternoon air, and now a gentle breeze fluttered the sheer curtains. The house smelled faintly of baby lotion and Jude’s cologne—woody, musky, warm. Safe.

He was crouched down by the playpen in his white T-shirt��simple, fitted, sleeves rolled a little to show the muscle along his arms, black trousers hugging him just right. He was laughing at something Percy had done, something so small you probably would’ve missed it—a wrinkle of the nose, a gurgle of joy—but Jude looked at him like he’d just invented the moon.

You were in the bedroom, rifling through your side of the closet, trying to find something—anything—that still felt like you.

Tonight was supposed to be nice. Your first real evening out alone since Percy was born seven and a half months ago. You had a reservation. You had a sitter. You had Jude, so excited about it he’d played music while ironing his own shirt like it was prom night.

But now, standing in your bra and jeans, you were holding a dress you used to love and staring at it like it belonged to someone else.

Your body wasn’t the same. You knew that. You’d carried life, delivered him, fed him. But the way your hips had shifted, the way your skin stretched, the way your stomach now had a softness it never used to—it made the idea of this dress suddenly unbearable.

It felt like pretending. Like you were squeezing yourself into a version of yourself Jude hadn’t signed up for.

You heard him coming down the hall, his steps familiar. You quickly clutched the dress to your chest and called out, voice more brittle than you meant it to be.

“Can you—um… can you step out? I just wanna change.”

He stopped in the doorway. Confused at first. You saw the hesitation cross his face.

“Oh—yeah, of course,” he said, voice light. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… I’m good. Just gimme a sec.”

He lingered a moment. Then nodded, flashing you a quick smile. “Alright. Shout if you need help with the zip, yeah?”

You shut the door gently after he turned away and leaned back against it. That smile of his—it always made things worse when you were holding onto feelings you didn’t want to share. It was too kind. Too easy to believe in.

⸻

Down the hall, Jude walked back to the living room slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. You’d never asked him to step out like that before. Not even once. You’d always been pretty open, even when you weren’t feeling your best. Which meant…

Something was off.

He knelt back down beside Percy, who was now gnawing on a rubber giraffe like it owed him money. “What’s up with Mummy, hmm?” he asked softly.

Percy blinked up at him with those wide brown eyes—the same ones Jude saw in the mirror every morning—and let out a happy sigh that sounded like a whistle. Jude ruffled his dark curls, but he kept glancing toward the bedroom.

He thought about the dress you were holding. The one he loved seeing you in—the way it made your eyes look even brighter. But maybe you didn’t love it anymore. Maybe it didn’t feel the same.

He sat back, resting on his hands, and looked at the wall for a while. Listening. Thinking. Trying to remember the last time you talked about how you felt—about your body, about all the changes. He’d been so wrapped up in loving Percy, in making sure you had help and rest and food and warmth… but had he stopped looking? Had he stopped seeing you?

⸻

You gave up on the dress. It was too tight around the ribs anyway. Everything felt too snug. Like your body didn’t belong to you.

You pulled on a different outfit—looser, easier. Still nice, but safer. You paused in front of the mirror and adjusted the top, your fingertips brushing your soft stomach. Your chest. The stretch marks that traced your hips now like rivers.

The words came out in a whisper before you even meant them to.

“Doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

And when you turned to grab your earrings, there was a knock at the door.

Soft.

Gentle.

“Babe?”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“…Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Then sighed. “Yeah. Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and Jude stepped in, careful, like he knew he was walking into a place that felt delicate.

His eyes fell on you, and they softened instantly. But not out of pity. Not sadness. Just love.

“Hey,” he said.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hey.”

He didn’t rush to touch you, didn’t barrel in with solutions. Just stood there, watching you with a kind of patient quiet. “You don’t like it?”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. I just… I thought I did. I don’t know.”

His brow furrowed gently. “Is it the dress or… something else?”

You tried to brush it off. “It’s dumb. Doesn’t matter.”

His voice didn’t waver. “Matters to me.”

You looked away, your throat tightening. “It’s just… I don’t feel like myself. Not really. And I don’t know what you see when you look at me, but it’s not what I see anymore. And I didn’t want you to see me standing there like that—looking weird and stretched and just… not me.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Jude’s eyes didn’t leave you once. He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of you.

“Can I say something?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, blinking quickly.

He touched your arm gently. “You say you’re not you… but all I see when I look at you is exactly who you are. The woman I love. The mother of my son. The person who carried him and loved him before I even knew what he’d look like.”

He paused, reaching for your hand. “You look at yourself and see stretch marks and softness and changes. I look at you and see the person who gave me the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You made him. You made Percy. Every bit of you that changed… it changed because of love. Because of life. And that’s not something I’ll ever want to unsee.”

Your eyes burned. “You say that, but—”

“I say that because I mean it,” he interrupted gently. “And I see you. Still. Always.”

You sniffled, laughing once, watery. “You’re making it really hard to be mad at my own body right now.”

He grinned. “Good. Your body deserves better than your anger.”

You leaned into him then, and his arms wrapped around you instantly. Strong. Familiar. Warm.

He kissed your temple. “You smell like my shampoo.”

“I used it ‘cause I ran out of mine.”

He pulled back to look at you, eyes playful. “You sure you didn’t use it just so I’d spend the whole evening trying not to climb over the dinner table?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Jude.”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “You’re my wife. I can’t be a little obsessed?”

He leaned in, nosing at your jaw. “You have to know you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Like this. Right now. Exactly as you are.”

You melted under his words, forehead resting against his. “Thank you. I needed that more than I knew.”

“You’re allowed to not love everything right away,” he murmured. “But just know—I love it. I love you. And I want you to feel like you again. Whatever that looks like. Even if it means trying on every outfit in the closet until we’re late.”

You smiled, and this time it reached your eyes. “You’re not even mad?”

He raised a brow. “You kidding? You could wear your old dressing gown from uni and I’d still be staring.”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “Now that’s a lie.”

He stepped back, eyes running down your figure with a smirk. “Nope. But this?” he added, pointing to your current outfit. “This is doing things to me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the way he looked at you—like you were something holy—it stayed with you. From the playpen, Percy let out a squeal. You both turned, and Jude’s face lit up again.

“I think he’s cheering for you,” Jude said, grabbing your hand and pulling you gently toward the door. “Or maybe for himself.

He did get your good looks, after all.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder as you walked.

“He has your eyes,” you whispered. “And your smile.”

Jude laughed. “Good. He’ll need ‘em. Especially with the way I plan on embarrassing him in front of his future dates.” You both paused at the doorway, watching Percy roll over with determination.

Jude’s arm slipped around your waist.

“You ready to go?” he asked.

You looked up at him, then down at your son, then back at yourself in the hallway mirror.

Maybe you weren’t exactly who you used to be. Maybe that was okay.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I am.”

And as Jude leaned down to kiss you again—slow, certain, grateful—you finally let yourself believe him.

[stefanmikaleson1864]

Just a little Touch

A/N: Please Bear with me y'all this is my first one in a while so im getting my feet wet again i really hope you all like it and enjoy it ! :)

Tag: @lostinfandoms-butitsokay

Frank Langdon X Reader

Y/N’s POV

Working as a paramedic was something that was kind of sprung on you. You weren’t really sure what you wanted to do with your life.

Then one day while you were stuck at community college you stumbled in a job fair. 

Your now cap was there and he called you over.

He didn’t have a lot of people at his table and he told you he wanted to look like he was being cool and had a following which made you laugh.

He had a table full of medical supplies and fire equipment. It drew you in right away. 

You guys talked for what seemed like hours and it really intrigued you. The thought of being to help someone else in their worst moments. Trying everything you can to make it a little more better. 

You loved your work family they had quickly become more than just a work family and more like a regular family.

They were there for you in every important moment and even every hard moment. 

They always gave you the best advice to and some of it you took and some of it you ignored.

Like one of the pieces you ignored was to not get involved with the Dr’s and the workers in the Emergency rooms. The people you worked with everyday. 

The day you walked into the ER and saw a bright eye brown haired intern on his very first day you knew it was going to be all over for you then. He looked like someone who belonged on TV and not the ER. 

He was running around like a chicken with his head cut off. He looked sheet white and he couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. You couldn;t help but just sit there and watch him your eyes were just glued. 

He looked over at you and saw you watching him and smirked over at you

. Damn you got caught is what you immediately thought. When he walked over to you, your stomach felt like a damn zoo it was rumbling all around. 

He walked over and walked right over to your face and just stood right there and followed your eyes with his. 

He just smiled up at you and your cheeks were bloodshot red. You wanted to just run away but your feet were glued to the ground. 

“Hi I’m Frank and who are you” He asked in a cocky voice. 

“I’m Y/N nice to meet you mmm let me guess your the new nurse” You said trying to get under skin. 

Which it clearly worked because he looked slightly annoyed at you. 

“And you, your cleary the new house maid” He said looking up and down at your obvious Paramedic Uniform. 

“I clean up nice but no sadly not the house maid nothing against one of the backbones of the hospital” You said smiling. 

“How nice do you clean up” Frank said in a amusing tone. 

“Wouldn’t you like to find out pretty boy” You said snapping back. 

 “Maybe I would” he said giving you a sly smile. 

**

That conversation was 4 years ago time really does have a crazy way of flying by so fast. By the end of both your crazy long shift that day he asked you out to celebrate his first day which you gladly accepted. 

It was a instant connection between the two of you. Everything just made sense and the world had a way of just standing still when you were with him.

He asked you to marry him a year to the date of you two meeting. 

The bar he rented out and he decorated it and played nothing but your favorite songs he really had a romantic side one that he kept hidden from others.

Working together most people would have found it hard and stressful considering the high stakes jobs the two of you had.

But you guys were like a machine what happened at work stayed there and you guys could always check in on each other throughout the day. 

Which helped more than you both knew. It would always give you that check back in that moment of i can breathe again. 

That’s not to say it could just as much take you away from your work to.

The way you both worried about each other when it was extra hard. A day like today which at first seemed like a normal day. 

But you knew you should never think like that before. It was ending your shift and you were ready to go home.

You were tired and you wanted nothing but take out and to take a long bath maybe alone maybe with your husband if you were nice. 

But life had other plans when you got a mass alert there was a shooter at the pitt fest. Everyone knew then it was all hand on deck and one hell of a night. 

You went straight into work mode not thinking about anything else just clearing your head and putting your entire energy into that call. 

You and your partner had worked together for years so you knew you knew you had a good support to help. 

Once you reached there it was a disaster. Fans screaming and running and workers everywhere.

The other first responders took off full steam ahead. You just dove in feet first.

Hours had passed and you didn’t realize it. You were up to your knees in traumas and just soaked in blood.

Other ambulances had gone to transport but you all stayed on the scene. Knowing you were needed there. 

You didn’t even get a moment to step away and breathe; it was just like an assembly line. One after another, an end not in sight you thought. 

****

Frank’s day was hectic from the start. With a new batch of interns and a med students

. He was busy with the non stop hectic life of the ER. He did get to see you twice today which made it easier. 

He always loved the sight of you the slight touch of his arm or even being able to lay eyes on you was plenty good enough for him. 

His day was also winding down to a close and he was grateful. His headspace was pretty much the same as yours a nice easy relaxing night. 

But then just like that fate stepped in and crushed it.

When he heard about the incoming Mass casualty event his first thought was why, and how where they going to keep up.

But once those thoughts went away he thought about you. 

He knew you were going to be there of course you were. It was your job but still the pit of his stomach couldn’t settle and his nerves felt like it was going to burst out of every part of his body. 

He took a moment while everyone was getting ready to step into the quiet of the breakroom.

He got some coffee and sat down. He pulled out his phone buzzing already with the news of what happened. 

Nothing from you which made him even more worried. He pulled up your name and sent a “ I love you” simple but with all the heart and love behind it. 

Before he put his phone away he just looked at a picture of the two of you. It was his lock screen and it was taken at the beach.

The two of you that you made him take glowing in the sun and not a care in the world. He would give anything to be there with you in that moment. 

Just as he put his phone away the first trauma rolled through and he quickly got up like a solider heading into battle. 

Just like your night hours had gone by but unlike you he noticed. He kept looking over at the door and just hoped and prayed he would get a quick look at you.

But nothing and every hour that had gone by he felt more and more anxious and sick. 

His co workers noticed and they wanted nothing more than to comfort him but they couldn’t right now and they all wanted to , they all wanted to check in with their families but they also knew his situation was different. 

They knew you were in an active dangerous situation right where the shooter was.

They couldn’t even begin to imagine the extra burden to carry along with everything else they were already dealing with. 

Frank was in between at the patients at the moment. Just got done with one and was headed over to the next one. 

He took the moment to step around with the hopes he would catch you or at least anyone who worked with you. 

He walked all around the ER and couldn't even make it outside without being called back by someone. He was hopeful everytime he did his laps.

But nothing and the pitt in his stomach just kept growing and the tiny little fire in his brain and he couldn’t put it out. 

He just wanted to run to the locker room and grab his stuff and go to you. Every muscle in his body was pushing and pulling him that way.

DR Robby just happened to look up at the young resident. He wanted nothing to go over there and comfort him. He was running all around sweat dripping.

He was also shaking a little dog who got caught in the rain

Franks face was also showing everything he was feeling. Fear, Sadness, Loss and worried shitless.

He knew nothing he would say would make this better though and that’s what killed him. He was supposed to the person everyone could rely on.

He also even debated on sending him home but he could't it was rude it was wrong but he needed the help he could't afford to loose him.

The best thing he thought was the power of distraction it was the only weapon he had.

“Frank we got a incoming over here he’s got a GSW to the chest, bleeding and he’s gonna need a crank you got it” Robby yelled out. 

Frank shook his head a moment and then looked over at robby and just shook his head yes and dove right into the patient. 

Frank knew though that no news was also the best news. That if you weren’t being rolled in here on a stretcher or he wasn’t being pulled aside by a man in a white collar shirt you were okay. 

That’s what he told himself that’s the only thing that was given him a tiny piece of comfort.

He desperately right now just craved your touch. He would give anything to hear your voice in the hall with a upcoming trauma.

A touch of the arm to let him you were there. 

He pushed all that down that for the moment. His patients needed him, his team needed him and he needed the best possible DR for them. 

Frank tried he really did, he though the was doing an okay job at hiding everything.

He was knee deep into patients and he just went one after another. But now it was gearing towards the end. 

The fire in his brain though it just kept growing along with the pitt in his stomach. It felt like it was over taking him. Like he couldn’t breathe. 

The weight was just to much for the young resident to bare and he didn’t know how he was going to keep from breaking. 

They finally said no more traumas and everyone felt like they could finally breathe for the first time since the shift began.

Frank was sitting at the Nurses station his head in his arms just needing to close his eyes for a moment. 

He didn’t even notice Dana had walked over and placed a hand on his back and started rubbing small circles on his back. 

“Hey you okay need to sit down a sandwich maybe” Dana asked in her usual mothering tone. 

“No No im good” Frank said. Not even being able to lift his head up the thought seemed like it might kill him at the moment. 

Dana walked in front of him and she knew what was really going on but she didn’t wanna bring it up and upset him.

She knew he just needed a moment and he would be okay. Of course he would and you would be to. 

“Hey why don’t you get some fresh air Nurses orders” She said smiling at him and gently pushing him off the nurses station. 

He took the hint and got up taking him arms and stretching them behind his head.  He just sighed and walked away she was right he always was. 

He walked out and didn’t say anything to anyone. It felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders

. At one point he didn’t even know if he was going to make it outside. 

Once he did the fresh air felt amazing. Just being able to feel the fresh air in his lungs and his skin was free was from the hospitals cold demeanor. 

He sat down on the bench his feet were crying out in pain. He didn’t even care though, he just kept scanning the parking lot.

Every time a ambulance pulled up and it wasn’t you it was like someone was taking his heart and stomping all over it. 

He kept checking his phone to. Nothing which now was getting him worried.

No more traumas no more cases why couldn’t you have taken a moment to text or call. So he took the initiative and called and of course nothing. 

He didn’t even notice his hands were shaking until he brought down the phone from his face.

He felt a overwhelming simulation in his body and he just had to get up and walk around. His whole body was just shaking and he couldn’t stop it. 

Everyone around him was just passing him by all running on nothing if it was any other day the strangers outside would have stopped him but today it looked normal. 

He couldn’t even take it anymore it was just thoughts and thoughts passing through his brain. Certainly the worst had happened and they were backed up in letting him know. 

He thought about what he wanted to say to you one more time. He loved you,

he was grateful for you. He wanted to smell your signature scent, he wanted to kiss you softly and even hard. 

Running all around he thought he was going to pass out he could feel it.

His knees were shaky and he couldn’t breathe and he was still shaking all over

. He had no choice but to just sit on the ground and try and center himself. 

His head was in his lap and he was just self soothing at this point. The noises around him had gone silent. 

When suddenly a warm familiar hand touched him. It instantly pulled him back to earth and he didn’t even need to look up and see who it was. 

He lifted his head up so fast he stood immediately on his feet. His blue eyes matching yours and he couldn’t even control the weight of his body. 

He just grabbed on to you and pulled you in tight. He didn’t say a word he barely looked at you. He crushed you but you either could care less. 

For the first time in 4 hours he took his first breath all nigh and god it felt good. 

“I love you , I love you”. Was all Frank kept saying it was all he could get out. 

God he needed this , God he needed you

**

Y/N POV

God the night was a absolute mess.

No matter what you did you couldn’t even take a moment to process everything that was happening.

It was like you were in override mode. You thanked god for adrenaline because otherwise you would be dead right now. 

You were assigned to stay on the ground it was all hands there. There was some ambulances 

That was taking patients but there was an overflow of people who could be treated and the scene was too unstable to move right away. 

The hours were long but fast it felt like they were also just flying by to. You thought about Frank nonstop.

You were wondering how he was handling the Pitt.  You knew the trauma he was dealing with and you needed him so damn bad. 

Just to be able to hear his voice and to touch him. Your body longed for him and it was like you were missing a big part of yourself. 

Finally after 4 hours of being there you all were released to go. You asked for your partner to drop you off at the hospital.

Your anxiety through the roof the whole time. Not knowing how frank would be. 

When the ambo pulled up you saw him sitting on the ground shaking and your entire heart broke.

You barely came to a complete stop when you opened up the door and ran out. 

You ran over to him placing a hand on his arm. He didn’t even look up he just jumped so fast which scared you a bit but then he pulled you in tight.

He was holding you so close that if he let go you were going to be gone. 

You didn’t say anything though you both needed it so you nestled right back into him.

The strong scent of the hospital just laid all over him like a coat and it usually bothered you but today it didn’t. 

You both stayed like that for a while.

When you pulled apart he didn’t waste any time before he leaned in and kissed you hard.

You felt the butterflies entering your stomach for the first time all day you felt at peace. 

After the kiss broke you placed your hand on his face. And he leaned into it 

“Hey come on let’s go home im starved and i need a long bath” You said. 

“How about Chinese and we soak and eat at the same damn time” He said 

“There is no where else I would rather be” You said. 

You walked into the parking lot over to his car and waited for him to gather his stuff and come out. 

When he did he ran over to the car like he was afraid he was going to be dragged back in. 

You both got in and he instantly grabbed your hand and squeezed it. He speed off fast and you melted into the seat closing your eyes. 

His touch soothed you so much the one you craved all day was finally here. God you loved him and you were so grateful on nights like these you had him. 

He thought was thinking the same damn thoughts about you. How lucky was he to have you by his side days like this he needed his best friend. 

You both knew how lucky you were to be going home together to be able to say those words to feel this moment. 

[auroralwriting]

𝓊𝓈.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: does he regret the secret of you?

warnings: no warnings for this story

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

gracie abrams songfic challenge

You meet Finnick by the shore, always.

The sun's barely peeking over the horizon, the waves hush against the sand, and the air still smells like salt and promise. It’s early enough that the rest of the district is asleep or pretending to be, which gives you these precious minutes alone, just you and Finnick. Just the two of you, before the world wakes up and remembers who he is.

You’re sitting on the rocks, legs pulled up to your chest, when he comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. A comforting feeling, something you only trusted him to do.

“You’re late,” you tease.

“I brought breakfast.” He holds up a paper bag with two flaky pastries, slightly squished from his run over. “Peace offering?”

You turn your head slightly so your nose brushes his. “Depends. Did you get the sweet one?”

He kisses your cheek. “Always.”

You take the bag and tug him down beside you. The world is still golden and quiet and yours.

Everyone in the district knows Finnick Odair. Of course they do. He’s the Capitol’s golden boy, the youngest victor in history, a name whispered with awe and fear and a tinge of envy. But you know him differently. You know him when he’s not trying to be charming, when he forgets the way he’s supposed to carry himself like a weapon. You know him when he’s barefoot and laughing, when he cries in your arms, when he dreams out loud about a future that might never come. When you’re swimming in the sea and running barefoot down the stony pathways of four.

And somehow, against all odds, you’re his. In secret. Not because you’re ashamed. Because it’s safer that way.

If the Capitol knew—if Snow knew—he would destroy you just to remind Finnick who he belonged to. So instead, your love lives in the spaces between. Glances across the square. Notes tucked into fishing nets. A second pair of footsteps behind the cliffs. And mornings like this one, where time bends just enough to make room for you both.

“You’re staring,” Finnick says, and when you look over, he’s grinning at you with one brow raised.

“Can’t help it,” you say, leaning into him. “You’re prettier in the morning light.”

He laughs, the sound warm and real. “You’re the only person alive who says that to me like it means something.”

You thread your fingers through his, fitting together with practiced ease. “That’s ‘cause when I say it, it does.”

The waves crash louder, a seagull swoops above, and Finnick watches you like you’re the only constant in a life full of chaos. “You ever think about running away?” he asks quietly, like he’s not supposed to even speak the thought out loud.

“All the time,” you reply. “But I don’t think we’d make it past the district border.”

He nods. “I know. I just… I think about it more now. About you and me and a little boat and no one knowing our names.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “I like the sound of that.”

He turns to face you, suddenly serious. “If I ever get the chance to go, I’ll take it. And I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he says. “I don’t want this life forever. I don’t want to keep pretending. I want us.”

Your heart pounds so loud you’re scared he’ll hear it. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “Then I’ll wait for you. I’ll always wait.”

The months go by like pages turning too fast.

Your love is all little things. Late-night walks on the pier. Pressed flowers in your pockets. Hidden kisses behind nets and market stalls. He braids tiny shells into your hair and says you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and you tell him he talks too much, but you kiss him like you believe it.

And then.. everything changed.

When they announced the Quarter Quell, your heart dropped before his name was even drawn. You knew. You knew Snow would never let him go. Not after all he’d endured. Not when Finnick’s smile was still the Capitol’s favorite currency.

You had braced yourself for goodbye. But instead, miraculously, inexplicably, they came for you. District 13.

President Coin said it was for your safety. Someone had told them of Finnick Odair's secret lover and how he needed her--you. But you weren’t stupid. You knew the truth: it was to keep him tethered. To keep him sane. To remind him what he was still fighting for.

Finnick didn’t know you’d been brought to District 13, not at first. You were underground, in hiding, protected and silenced and surrounded by strangers in gray. But when he stumbled out of the hovercraft after being rescued from the arena, bleeding and trembling and half-alive, they let him see you.

They didn’t expect him to fall to his knees when he did.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you were a ghost, hands trembling as they hovered inches from your face. Like he was scared you’d disappear again. That he’d imagined you like he had so many nights in the Capitol, when loneliness felt like it would kill him before Snow ever could.

You took his hands and pressed them to your cheeks, kneeling in front of him slowly, like he was some wounded animal. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here.”

He sobbed into your neck. And from that moment on, you didn’t hide anymore.

In District 13, you sleep in the same bed. It’s not like before, no ocean breeze or tangled nets or kisses by moonlight, but it’s real. It’s a borrowed bunk in a metal room, and still, somehow, it feels like a palace. Because it’s yours. Because he’s yours.

He wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. You don’t ask what he’s dreaming of. You already know. So you curl around him, press your lips to the side of his neck, and hold him until his shaking stops.

He always says the same thing: “You’re my only safe place.”

Sometimes, he says it with tears still drying on his cheeks. Sometimes, it’s whispered against your shoulder like a prayer. And you believe him. Because you feel the same way.

In District 13, people glance sideways at you in the beginning. You don’t care. Let them stare. Let them wonder if you’re scared out of your minds. Let them wonder who had possibly caught Finnick Odair's attention. It didn't matter, because it was finally real to you.

But there’s nothing fake about the way Finnick pulls you into him during the middle of strategy meetings, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s bored out of his mind but perfectly content as long as you’re there. There’s nothing fabricated about the way he holds your hand in the cafeteria line, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You could be grabbing bread and water and he’s still brushing his thumb over your knuckles like you’re made of something divine.

You catch people smiling sometimes. Not the cold, calculating kind. The soft kind. The kind that says: oh, this is real.

He kisses you in the hallways. He steals kisses like he used to, quick and sly, like you’re both teenagers again, but now it’s in full view. You’ll be talking to Gale or Katniss, and Finnick will just walk by, press a kiss to the side of your mouth like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and keep walking like it didn’t leave you flushed and dazed.

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him once, when he does it in front of a crowded room.

“You love it,” he grins, hands already slipping around your waist.

“I do,” you admit, letting him press his forehead to yours. “God help me.”

He kisses you like the world has already been saved.

When the war ends, and the world opens back up, Finnick refuses to go anywhere without you. It’s not a protective thing, it’s a need thing. A love thing.

You rebuild a life together near the coast, in a village that smells like freedom. You sleep tangled up like driftwood, limbs always brushing. You wake up to his lips on your cheek, his voice murmuring some half-sung melody he’s writing in his head. And when you leave the house, together, always together, people don’t bat an eye when he threads your fingers together like it's second nature.

Because it is.

You go to markets and he picks out your favorite fruit without asking. You read on the beach and he lies with his head in your lap, humming under his breath. You take walks along the shoreline, and he insists on skipping rocks even though he’s absolutely terrible at it. He’ll pretend to pout until you kiss him. It works every time.

He kisses you so often it becomes a rhythm. A punctuation. A language.

And he loves being yours publicly. After years of being forced to wear a mask in the Capitol, after years of fake smiles and someone else’s hands, you are his truth. You are the thing he never had to fake.

He tells people stories about you, often unsolicited.

“She makes the best tea,” he says to a wide-eyed kid in town. “Once she brewed a cup that knocked me out for eight hours straight. Slept like a baby. Woke up drooling on her shoulder.”

He grins at you like you hung the stars.

You roll your eyes. “It was chamomile, Finnick.”

He shrugs. “Magic.”

Sometimes you find yourselves just watching each other.

You’ll glance across the room and find his eyes already on you. Like he’s always checking, just to make sure this is still real. You’re sitting on the dock one evening, feet in the water, his arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders.

“Remember how we used to hide behind that net stall?” he murmurs, pointing down the shoreline.

You smile. “We got caught so many times.”

He laughs, tipping his head back. “That one time your braid got tangled in the ropes—”

“—and you tried to play it off like we were just admiring the craftsmanship.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offended. “It was a fine net.”

You laugh until your sides hurt. And then you lean into him, quiet, hearts beating in sync. “We don’t have to hide anymore,” you say softly.

He kisses the side of your head. “We never will again.”

“Do you regret it? The secret of us?” You asked.

Finnick shook his head, “I never regret any of our moments together.”

You’re the kind of couple people talk about in stories now. Not because of the war. Not because of the Capitol. But because of how good your love is. How whole. How loud and soft and lasting. They see the way Finnick looks at you like you’re his whole world. The way he tucks flowers behind your ear and doesn’t care who’s watching. The way you press kisses to the corner of his mouth every time you say goodbye—even if it’s only for a five-minute errand.

They say love in Panem never lasts. But you and Finnick? You’re the exception. You’re always touching. Always close. Always choosing each other. Not just in secret. Not just in private. But in every room. Every day. Every lifetime you’re lucky enough to share. And gods, are you lucky.