#young detonator

[ggukivrse]

JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content, car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[anthropoetics]

love is stored in the pen & paper: poems

being boring, wendy cope

intifada incantation: poem #8 for b. b. L., june jordan

thursday, james longenback

history student falls in love with astrophysics student, keaton st. james

the demon, mikhail lermontov

four friends catch up over pasta, amy kay

sonnet 18: shall i compare thee to a summer's day, william shakespeare

litany in which certain things are crossed out, richard siken

the eyes of the poor, charles baudelaire

stop me if you've heard this one before, kaveh akbar

conversation with a rock, wisława szymborska

the joy of writing, wisława szymborska

can in an empty apartment, wisława szymborska

blind fish, yusuf komunyakaa

the crane, javier peñalosa m.

train to agra, vandana khanna

landscape with a blur of conquerors, richard siken

warming her pearls, carol ann duffy 

what resembles the grave but isn't, anne boyer

what the living do, marie howe

gretel, from a sudden clearing, marie howe

death with dignity, kaylee young-eun jeong

keeping quiet, robert bly

i go back to may 1937, sharon olds

the encounter, louise gluck

outhouse, rachel mckibbens

the end of poetry, ada limón

i felt a funeral, in my brain, emily dickinson

how to watch your brother die, michael lassell

boston, aaron smith

laura palmer graduates, amy woolard

upon learning that some korean war refugees used partially detonated napalm canisters as fuel, franny choi

monet refuses the operation, lisel mueller

flare, mary oliver

tomorrow is a place, sanna wani

shoulder, naomi shihab nye

snowdrops, louise glück

hammond b3 organ cistern, gabrielle calvocoressi

the night dances, sylvia plath

makeout sonnet, douglas f. brown

you mean you don't weep at the nail salon, elizabeth acevedo

when i'm asked by lisel mueller

every single day (after raymond carver's hummingbird), john straley

for julia, in the deep water, john morris

the same city, terrance hayes

in blackwater woods, mary oliver

the bridge, c. dale young

mittelbergheim, czesław miłosz

gift, czesław miłosz

late ripeness, czesław miłosz

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

The Cranberries - Zombie 1994

"Zombie" is a protest song by Irish alternative rockband the Cranberries. It was written by the lead singer, Dolores O'Riordan, about the young victims of a bombing in Warrington, England, during the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The song was released on 19 September 1994 as the lead single from the Cranberries' second studio album, No Need to Argue. While the record label feared releasing a too controversial and politically charged song as a single, "Zombie" reached number 1 on the charts of Australia, Belgium, Denmark, Germany, and Iceland, and spent nine consecutive weeks at number 1 on the French SNEP Top 100. It reached number 2 on the Ö3 Austria Top 40, where it stayed for eight weeks. The song did not chart on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart as it wasn't released as a single there, but it reached number 1 on the US Billboard Alternative Airplay chart. Listeners of the Australian radio station Triple J voted it number 1 on the 1994 Triple J Hottest 100 chart, and it won the Best Song Award at the 1995 MTV Europe Music Awards.

The Troubles were a conflict in Northern Ireland from the late 1960s to 1998. The Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA), an Irish republican paramilitary organisation, waged an armed campaign to end British rule in Northern Ireland and unite the region with the Republic of Ireland. Republican and Unionist paramilitaries killed more than 3,500 people, many from thousands of bomb attacks. One of the bombings happened on 30 March 1993, as two IRA improvised explosive devices hidden in litter bins were detonated in a shopping street in Warrington, England. Two people; Johnathan Ball, aged 3, and Tim Parry, aged 12, were killed in the attack. 56 people were injured. Ball died at the scene of the bombing as a result of his shrapnel-inflicted injuries, and five days later, Parry lost his life in a hospital as a result of head injuries. O'Riordan decided to write a song that reflected upon the event and the children's deaths after visiting the town: "We were on a tour bus and I was near the location where it happened, so it really struck me hard – I remember being devastated about the innocent children being pulled into that kind of thing. So I suppose that's why I was saying, 'It's not me' – that even though I'm Irish it wasn't me, I didn't do it. Because being Irish, it was quite hard, especially in the UK when there was so much tension." The song was re-popularised in 2023 after it was played after Ireland games at the 2023 Rugby World Cup. It was picked up by fans of the Irish team, with videos of fans singing the song in chorus accumulating hundreds of thousands of views on social media. This offended other Irishmen, who identified it as an "anti-IRA" anthem, and said that that the lyrics failed to consider their experience during the Troubles.

The music video, directed by Samuel Bayer, was filmed in Belfast, Northern Ireland, in the heart of the Troubles with real footage, and in Dublin. To record video footage of murals, children and British Army soldiers on patrol, he had a false pretext, with a cover story about making a documentary about the peace-keeping efforts in Ireland. Bayer stated that a shot in the video where an SA80 rifle is pointed directly at the camera is a suspicious British soldier asking him to leave, and that the IRA were keeping a close look at the shoot, given "the British Army come in with fake film crews, getting people on camera.” While "Zombie" received heavy rotation on MTV Europe and was A-listed on Germany's VIVA, the music video was banned by the BBC because of its "violent images", and by the RTÉ, Ireland's national broadcaster. Instead, both the BBC and the RTÉ opted to broadcast an edited version focusing on footage of the band in a live performance, a version that the Cranberries essentially disowned. Despite their efforts to maintain the original video "out of view from the public", some of the initial footage prevailed, with scenes of children holding guns. In March 2003, on the eve of the outbreak of the Iraq War, the British Government and the Independent Television Commission issued a statement saying ITC's Programme Code would temporarily remove from broadcast songs and music videos featuring "sensitive material", including "Zombie". Numerous media groups complied with the decision to avoid "offending public feeling", along with MTV Europe. Since it violated the ITC guidelines, "Zombie" was placed on a blacklist of songs, targeting its official music video. The censorship was lifted once the war had ended. In April 2020, it became the first song by an Irish group to surpass one billion views on Youtube.

"Zombie" received a total of 91% yes votes!

[cece693]

MY JEALOUS GOD

pairing: loki laufeyson x gender neutral reader synopsis: You didn't anticipate falling into a relationship with Loki—who would?—yet while everybody knew he was the god of mischief, to you, he's your jealous god.

The first sign something is off is the smell of petrichor in the living-room. You’d left the windows shut, but there it is: the scent of rain on stone, the signature Loki’s magic often leaves behind when he appears or, more ominously, when he’s been brooding. You round the corner and find him lounging on your couch, boots on the cushions, one arm draped over the back like a cat who’s caught the red dot and now wonders what to do with it.

“Evening,” he purrs, voice all velvet knives. “Did you have fun at Stark’s little soirée?”

You shrug out of your jacket, the lining still warm from Stark Tower’s overheated ball-room, and drape it over the brocade armchair by the hearth. A faint metallic tang of repulsor exhaust still clings to the fabric—a souvenir of Tony’s annual “low-impact” fireworks display.

“Fun enough,” you say, massaging the crick in your neck. “Tony’s birthday parties feature far fewer homicidal drones these days—small mercies—but it would’ve been considerably more enjoyable if my favorite god hadn’t ghosted before dessert.”

Loki’s smile thins. “Your dance card appeared congested.”

The archaic phrasing is deliberate, a rapier flick from a prince raised on court formalities. You know exactly which name hides behind the euphemism: Peter Parker, cheeks redder than Stark’s armor, tugging at a too-tight bowtie while begging you for “just one dance.” When FRIDAY obligingly queued a crackling waltz from 1912, you’d accepted to save the poor kid from spontaneous combustion and to keep Natasha from collecting wagers on whether he’d faint.

“Peter’s pulse only spikes to dangerous levels when I’m near,” you remind Loki gently, toeing off your shoes. “Because he’s nineteen, Loki—”

“Twenty,” Loki interjects, tone glacial. “I checked the records.”

“—fine, twenty. He idolizes everyone with an Avengers passcode. Our waltz lasted 90 seconds and ended with him apologizing for stepping on my feet.”

“Yet long enough for you to laugh,” Loki murmurs, verdant eyes darkening. The words carry neither accusation nor injury—something colder, older, like frost creeping across glass. Outside the window lightning flickers, though the forecast promised clear skies.

You cross to him, letting your hand skim his shoulder until frost becomes warmth. “One laugh, one spin, no hearts stolen. You, darling, occupy all available real estate here.” You tap your sternum.

Loki’s lips curl in a silken crescent, but the flicker behind his lashes is anything but serene. Emerald irises catch the lamplight, bright as storm-lit seawater—an omen you’ve learned to read the way sailors read cloud fronts.

You plant your hands on your hips. “Loki,” you say, drawing out every syllable like a sharpening stone, “what did you do?”

He splays a hand across his chest in wounded theater. “Must you presume mischief every time I inhale?”

“Yes.”

A beat. His shoulders slump in an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I may have redirected young Parker’s web-shooters.”

“Redirected how?”

“Up.”

“Loki!”

He waves a dismissive hand, as though you’ve merely noted the weather. “Midgardian gravity is pathetic. The boy dangled for what?—fifty two seconds before Rogers hauled him in. Perfectly safe.”

Your glare could etch glass. “And the glitter bomb that detonated on Clint?”

A flick of irritation crawls up Loki’s brow ridge—caught, again. You press on.

“I was having a perfectly calm chat with him about Lucky adjusting to farm life,” you remind him, tone sharpened to surgical steel. “Clint was mid-sentence—something about the dog finally not chasing tractors—when this puff of emerald smoke swallowed him whole. Next thing I know, he’s radioactive-pink from head to tactical boots.”

A half-smile curls Loki’s mouth, wicked as a fox in the henhouse. “Yes. I refined the pigment with bifrost dust—gives it that delightful day-glow sheen.”

“Which is now ground permanently into SHIELD-issue Kevlar.”

“An upgrade,” Loki counters. “Barton’s wardrobe needed flair.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I leave you alone for two hours—”

“You left me alone with them.”

The soft snarl on “them” tells the truth: Loki never felt comfortable in the Avengers’ tower, tolerated largely because of you. Their wary stares scratch old wounds he pretends have healed. Tonight, seeing you laugh—actually laugh—with the people who once hunted him? Salt in the fracture.

You exhale and join him on the couch, prying his booted feet off the cushions. They thunk to the floor. “Talk.”

“Must we?” His gaze flicks to the ceiling, expression somewhere between tragic poet and sullen teenager. “You looked radiant. They ogled you like magpies. I grew irritated.”

“Jealous.”

He scoffs, but the word loosens him. “Yes. Jealous. There. I despise how it feels—like being chained again, only the shackles are inside my ribs.”

Your annoyance softens. You catch Loki’s chin, turning his face until emerald meets your gaze. “If you need reassurance, ask. Don’t rig equipment or hex people. Use your words.”

His lips quirk. “I have many words. Most of them sharp.”

“Then learn soft ones.” You brush your thumb across his lower lip. “Tell me the truth instead of setting glitter‐traps and letting innocent people hang from the ceiling.”

A silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of Manhattan traffic. Finally, Loki exhales the breath he has been hoarding for pride.

“Very well. The truth: I watched you toss your head back laughing at Clint's joke and it felt like frostbite. I wanted that sound kept for me alone. I imagined Parker’s mask cracking under illusion spiders; I pictured Stark’s suit misfiring champagne across his face. I thought of a dozen vicious things, all because you smiled.”

You let the confession settle. His jealousy is a thunderstorm—beautiful from afar, dangerous when you’re underneath. But storms can be guided.

“You’re allowed to want,” you say slowly, “and I’m allowed friends. The line is harm, Loki. Pranks that bruise bodies or egos cross it.”

He leans in, voice low. “I will try. But understand: my nature is not serenity. It is wind and wildfire. I can shape it for you, but extinguish it? Never.”

You press a kiss to his forehead—just there, where the crown would sit if he still wore one. “I don’t want it extinguished. Just channeled.”

His shoulders relax, mischief dimming to ember. “Then give me a target suitable for such channeling.”

“I have one. The dishwasher’s broken again.” You gesture toward the kitchen. “If you must hex something, hex the water jets. Make them behave.”

It earns you a surprised laugh, warm and genuine. “Very well, my love. I will wage war upon domestic inconveniences.” Loki rises, cloak swirling into existence with theatrical flare. “But first—”

He snaps his fingers. A soft pop sounds behind you. You turn to see a potted hydrangea now placed in the middle of the coffee table. Petals the deepest green—the exact shade of his eyes. A peace offering formed from silent magic instead of spite.

“Soft words,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that his breath fans your ear. “And softer deeds.”

You twine your fingers with his. “Keep practicing, Mischief-Prince. I’m a patient teacher.”

He smirks. “And I, an attentive student—provided the lessons are interactive.” You roll your eyes but tug him toward the kitchen nonetheless. Behind you, the hydrangea’s petals shimmer, shedding a faint glitter that—mercifully—stays on the plant.

[nik0nk1]

Beerus![Name]

Conqueror’s Craving

Humor, Crack, OP![Name], Food-Obsessed [Name], Mark is Traumatized, Guardian of the Globe vs. [Name], Canon Divergence, [Name] Breaks the Plot, Nolan is Confused, Timeline is season two!

Mark Grayson x Reader

Word count: 962 words

•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•

Mark's first mistake was thinking he even stood a chance.

The sky screamed as the invader arrived in the city.

One moment, the city was bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. The next, a comet-like blur tore through the clouds, slamming into the streets below with a force that shattered windows for miles. The shockwave alone flipped cars like toys and sent civilians scrambling for cover.

Mark had been in the middle of patrol when the call came in.

"High-priority threat inbound—potential Viltrumite. Invincible, do not engage alone!"

He had barely processed the words before the explosion rattled the city. And now, standing in the ruins of a downtown intersection, he saw her.

A woman, young-looking but radiating an overwhelming presence. She stood in the middle of the devastation she’d caused, arms crossed, expression bored. Her Viltrumite uniform was pristine—untouched by the destruction around her.

Mark gulped. He’d fought Viltrumites before. His dad, Thragg’s soldiers—he knew what he was up against.

This woman, though? She didn’t even look interested in a fight.

And that scared him more than anything.

She sighed, rolling her shoulders. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Nolan’s taking way too long.”

Then she moved.

The attack was instant.

A flick of her wrist sent an entire truck careening into a building. A casual kick flipped an armored car as if it weighed nothing. Civilians screamed and ran in every direction, but [Name] wasn’t concerned with them.

The Guardians of the Globe arrived within seconds, launching a coordinated strike. Energy blasts, brute force, everything they had—attacks rained down from every direction.

None of it mattered.

[Name] moved through the chaos effortlessly, dodging, countering, barely paying attention. It was like watching someone halfheartedly swatting at flies.

Rex Splode hurled explosive disks at her. She caught one midair, inspected it with mild curiosity, then crushed it in her palm before it could detonate.

Dupli-Kate tried to surround her with multiple clones, attempting to overwhelm her with sheer numbers. [Name] sighed and blurred forward, wiping out half of them in an instant. The real Kate barely dodged in time.

Shrinking Rae zipped around, landing precise blows at pressure points that should have at least staggered a Viltrumite. [Name] merely blinked, unimpressed, before swatting her out of the air like a bug.

Bulletproof charged next, fists coated in kinetic energy, swinging with all his strength. His punches landed with zero effect. He hesitated for half a second too long.

[Name] grabbed his face and slammed him into the pavement.

She was having fun.

Mark shot forward, fists clenched. He needed to stop this before it got worse.

"HEY!"

[Name] turned, spotting him just as he swung. Their fists collided—except only one of them felt it.

Pain shot up Mark’s arm as if he had just punched solid steel. He barely had time to process that before she retaliated. A brutal uppercut sent him rocketing into the sky. His vision blurred, but his instincts forced him to recover midair.

“Okay—ow.” He shook his head, steeling himself. She was stronger than him. Way stronger. But he couldn’t back down.

He dove, aiming for her blind spot. He struck her side, managing to stagger her. Barely.

[Name] blinked, then grinned.

"Oh, you’re actually putting in effort. Cute."

Before he could react, she grabbed him by the leg and swung him like a ragdoll, slamming him through the pavement.

Pain. Everything hurt.

She wasn’t done.

Mark barely registered being launched again, his body crashing through several buildings before—

CRASH!

A vending machine.

The impact shattered the glass and left him slumped against the broken machine, groaning in pain.

Then, something soft landed in his lap.

A bag of Cheetos.

Open.

Mark barely had the energy to process how absurd that was before a blur of movement was in front of him.

[Name] crouched down, staring intensely.

At the Cheetos.

Mark tensed, expecting another attack—but instead, she sniffed the air.

Paused.

Sniffed again.

Without hesitation, she snatched the bag from his lap and shoved a handful into her mouth.

Mark watched in absolute disbelief as the planetary threat in front of him sat there, chewing.

She froze mid-bite. Her pupils dilated. Her breathing slowed.

The world stood still.

Then she swallowed. Slowly, dramatically.

[Name] stared at the bag. Then at Mark. Then back at the bag.

Mark, still too stunned to function, croaked, “...What?”

[Name] shot to her feet, pointing at him.

"This... THIS is why Nolan hasn’t conquered Earth yet."

Mark’s brain malfunctioned. “...What?!”

She turned toward the ruined skyline, gripping the Cheetos like a sacred artifact.

"The food," she whispered. "Earth’s food is amazing. That’s why he’s keeping this planet. His hording all this"

Mark felt like he was having a stroke. His ribs were broken, his vision was spinning, and now this goddamn lunatic was having an existential crisis over Cheetos?!

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

[Name] ignored him, lost in her own revelation.

She took another dramatic bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then, with the confidence of someone declaring war, she turned back to him.

"Alright. Change of plans. This planet is mine now."

Mark stared, horrified. His fight-or-flight instincts were completely fried. “Wait—WHAT?!”

[Name] casually tossed the now-empty bag over her shoulder. "You heard me. Earth’s mine now. Nolan’s been slacking, so I’m taking over. Oh I'm [Name] by the way."

She introduced and then stretched, completely unconcerned about the damage she’d caused. "Man, I was this close to just wiping out the city. Good thing I found this first."

She gestured to the Cheetos dust on her fingers like it was the most important discovery of the century.

Mark just sat there, completely done. His body ached, his brain hurt, and now this woman was claiming his entire planet because she liked its snacks.

"...I'm gonna pass out."

And then he did.

Author's note: HOPE YA ALL LIKE IT FJJDDJDJD

Just request some Mark Grayson x Reader scenario and I'll try to make some djjbddjddjdsjdsj.

@invoncible is the inspo of this one shot lol

[theonion]

Warning parents to be on the lookout for unexploded ordinance during the traditional springtime festivity, a report released Sunday by researchers at Northeastern University found that 17% of all Easter egg hunts end with a child setting off a landmine. “Our survey concluded that a young child was blown up after tripping a mine on approximately 1 in 6 occasions in which an outdoor search for eggs, candy, or other treats was held to celebrate Easter Sunday,” said report co-author Brenda Daubert, who added that the majority of detonations occurred when a child clutching a brightly colored woven basket exclaimed, “I found one! I found one!” after leaving the beaten path and stumbling upon a location no one had searched yet.

Full Story

[idkyetxoxo]

One | Burnt Wings | The Ruin

Pairing - Rhysand x reader (Mafia Boss Rhysand x Nurse Reader)

Word count - 3.4k

Warnings - Physical assault (very slight), injury

|| series masterlist || next ->

Most twenty-two-year-olds spent their Friday nights wrapped in flashing lights and pulsing bass, lost in the euphoria of clubs, drinks, and fleeting moments that blurred by like streetlights in the rain.

But not me.

At 8:00 p.m. sharp, I was walking the sterile, too-bright corridors of Velaris General Hospital, the scent of antiseptic clinging to everything like a second skin. 

The floors gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, echoing back the shuffle of my worn sneakers and the distant, hollow beeping of machines fighting to keep people tethered to life.

This place never slept. And neither did I—not really.

As I passed the nurse's station for my ward, I forced a smile, nodding and murmuring quiet hellos to the familiar faces behind clipboards and caffeine-stained scrubs. 

I was the picture of polite professionalism, the young, fresh-out-of-school nurse with hope still clutched in trembling hands.

It was a lie.

Behind the practised smile and straight spine, I was unravelling. The passion that once set my veins alight now flickered like a dying bulb. 

Every shift felt heavier than the last, a relentless wave pressing down on my chest until even breathing became a conscious effort.

At twenty-two, I was already burnt out—used up and spit out by a system that demanded more than I had to give.

And yet, I kept coming back.

Every damn day, I dragged myself through these doors like some ghost in scrubs, chasing the illusion that I could still make a difference. That I could still save people. That I could still be good.

But the hospital didn't want good. It wanted fast. Efficient. Obedient.

And I... I was soft. That's what my friends say. Too gentle. Too trusting. Too naïve.

Maybe they were right. Maybe kindness was a weakness here, in a world where vulnerability was a liability and empathy got you eaten alive. 

But I clung to it like a lifeline because if I let go, if I hardened, if I became like them... what would be left of me?

I stepped into the trauma bay and inhaled sharply, the adrenaline already kicking in, sharp and bitter in the back of my throat. 

The overhead lights buzzed above me like hornets. Gurneys stood prepped. Monitors blinked like waiting eyes. 

The air was thick with tension, as if the walls themselves were bracing for whatever chaos the night would bring.

The chaos didn't ease its way in—it detonated.

Orders barked from every direction collided like gunfire, rapid and sharp. Scrubbed figures in white and blue darted past me, faces drawn, eyes already scanning for blood, damage, triage.

The first trauma bed overflowed with bodies—doctors, nurses, a tech squeezing an ambu bag, someone already cutting clothes away. 

I moved on instinct, pulled forward before I could think. Before I could feel.

A boy—barely sixteen lay on the gurney, thrashing. A knife wound cleaved into his side, gaping like a second mouth, bleeding far too fast.

He was crying. Moaning. Screaming for his mother in between gasps of pain. His eyes locked onto mine like a lifeline. Like I could save him.

I dropped to his side without thinking.

"I've got you, sweetheart," I whispered, brushing hair from his forehead as sweat beaded there. "I'm here. You're not alone."

His bloody fingers fumbled, then gripped my scrub top in a desperate clutch. My shirt was already ruined, soaked crimson at the collar, but I didn't care.

"Am I gonna die?" he sobbed, voice small and cracked, a child's voice in a war zone.

I paused. Just for a second. And that was enough for the doubt to claw its way in.

"No," I said finally, gently, even though I couldn't promise that. "We're going to do everything we can. The doctors here—they're the best. You're going to be okay."

But I already saw the signs, his lips were blue-tinged, his skin sheet-pale. The life was leaving him, second by second, drop by drop.

I tried to loosen his grip, to give the doctor more space. "I need you to stay strong, okay? Just hold on—"

Then came the hum. Low. Cold. Final.

"Time of death—20:18," someone called out, voice clinical, detached. Just another number on the board. Another body on a shift.

And just like that, he was gone.

His hand slipped from my shirt.

He had been alive just minutes ago, sobbing, bleeding, afraid. Now he was a hollowed-out shell, cooling on white sheets.

I stared, heart stuttering in my chest. The air in the trauma bay was thick, smothering. Nobody looked at me. Nobody said anything. Death here wasn't a tragedy. It was background noise.

Someone called my name sharply, shattering the moment. "Go inform the mother."

I stood like I was underwater, limbs moving too slow, mind already somewhere else. My legs carried me out of the bay and down the corridor like they belonged to someone else.

She was already there—his mother.

Wailing. Screaming. Collapsing in on herself in the family waiting room as if she already knew. Mothers always did.

"I'm so sorry—" I began, voice tight, trembling.

But she surged forward, fists landing on me before I could finish.

"Why didn't you save him?" she shrieked, striking my arms, my chest, my face. Her pain was blinding, brutal, wild. I tried to shield myself, stumbling back, but I didn't fight her. Couldn't.

Because I had failed her son.

Even if it wasn't my job. Even if there was nothing I could've done. Even if I had only held his hand for his last breath.

I still felt like I'd killed him.

Security intervened eventually, pulling her off me, but not before she left me with a busted lip and trembling hands. My breath came ragged, uneven. I barely felt the sting.

"Take a quick tea break," my manager said gently as I returned to the nurse's station, voice full of sugary sympathy.

"I just started my shift," I replied, dazed.

She smiled thinly, though it never reached her eyes. "Then go sort out that lip. We can't have the patients getting scared now, can we?"

And just like that, I understood.

The concern wasn't for me. It never was. It was for the image. For the pristine mask we were expected to wear, even as we cracked beneath it.

"Of course," I said numbly, turning away.

I had barely made it away from the nurse's station before a wall of muscle and tailored silk collided into me.

My breath punched out of my lungs as I staggered back, but strong hands caught me before I could fall. Steady. Warm. Unshakable.

"I'm so sorry—" I blurted, flustered, eyes still half-dazed from the whiplash of grief and blood and fluorescent lights.

"Don't be, darling. That was my fault."

The voice was low, velvet-wrapped steel. Deep enough to vibrate through my bones, smooth enough to slip beneath my skin.

I looked up and felt my breath abandon me entirely.

He was tall. Impossibly tall. A figure carved from shadow and honeyed stone, built like some god of old blood and thunder. His brown skin was gleaming under the hospital's sterile lights, and patterned in dark ink that peeked from the collar of his crisp, tailored suit. 

And those eyes—gods, those eyes.

Violet. Not just purple. Violet. Unnatural. Hypnotic. Cold flame and starlight.

They lingered too long on mine.

He was calm in that dangerous way only men with real power could be, like the world would part for him if he willed it. Like he never had to raise his voice to kill a man.

Behind him, two more giants loomed. 

The one on the left was all muscle and heat, eyes flicking across the hallway with a soldier's sharpness. The other stood like a shadow, expression unreadable, darkness stitched into the seams of his silence.

The moment stretched taut. My skin prickled.

A voice shattered through the spell. My name.

I blinked and straightened, heat rising to my cheeks as I stepped back and fixed my badge, trying to bury the fact I had just been ogling a stranger in the hallway like we hadn't just pronounced a time of death ten minutes ago.

"Sorry—what was that?" I asked, forcing my voice steady.

The broad-shouldered one in the back, muscular with a smirk that didn't quite reach his hazel eyes stepped forward.

"We're looking for Helion Spellcleaver's room," he said, voice edged with something warmer, more casual, but still alert. Protective.

I nodded. "Right. If you just head down the hall and take a left at the nurse's station, someone will direct you."

I smiled automatically but winced as the movement tugged at the split in my lip. The sting bloomed hot and metallic.

The first man, the one still watching me like he saw something I didn't tilted his head, expression sharpening.

"Walk into something?" he asked quietly.

I tried to laugh, but it came out more brittle than light. "Just... grieving family members."

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit, that violet gaze darkening like ink in water.

"I see," he murmured. His voice held no judgment. No pity. Just... understanding. And something colder beneath it. Something that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

"My name is Rhysand," he added smoothly. As if that name meant something. As if I should've already known it.

I nodded, uncertain. "Right."

The smirking one—Cassian, I would learn later gestured between them. "Cassian. And that's Azriel."

Azriel only nodded, silent as smoke.

"Well," I said, stepping back, pulse quickening for reasons I didn't want to examine. "I should get back. The nurse's station is just ahead."

"Of course," Rhysand said. But the way he looked at me—it felt less like dismissal, and more like permission to go.

I turned before I could embarrass myself further, before I let my gaze slide down that finely tailored suit or linger on the quiet confidence that clung to him like a second skin.

I walked quickly, each step measured, my thoughts a tangle of curiosity and caution.

The night didn't slow. It surged.

Trauma after trauma, wave after unrelenting wave, crashed into our ward. Blood, sirens, sobbing relatives—it blurred together, a haze of white lights and metallic-tasting adrenaline. 

I lost count of how many patients I'd seen, how many lives I'd tried or failed to stabilise. The weight of it pressed into my spine, dull and constant.

By the time I slipped away, it was less of a break and more of a retreat.

I found a quiet corridor tucked behind Radiology, far enough from the chaos to pretend silence still existed. 

My dinner—a pitiful excuse for onesat in my lap. A soggy sandwich half-wrapped in foil. I perched on the edge of an unused gurney, notebook balanced carefully on one thigh.

I shouldn't have brought it but sometimes, when the world felt like too much, I needed a reminder that I had once loved other things. Softer things.

Baking used to be my sanctuary. The whir of mixers, the scent of vanilla and burnt sugar, the precision of piping rosettes onto cakes, it had grounded me in a way nothing else did.

Now I just sketched the designs in margins between patient charts. Just outlines. Just memories.

I was nearly done tracing the top tier of a black forest gateau when a voice slid like silk into the quiet.

"That looks nice."

I jolted—hard. The notebook slammed shut on instinct, my half-eaten sandwich lodging halfway down my throat. I gagged, coughed, and wheezed as a tall shadow stepped into the edge of my vision.

Rhysand.

"Sorry," he said, raising both hands, palms open. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Too late.

I managed to cough the last bit down and muttered, "It's fine. I should be off anyway."

I stood quickly, brushing crumbs from my scrubs and trying to ignore the heat that rushed to my cheeks. My heart galloped as if it were trying to escape.

He didn't move. Just watched me, posture deceptively relaxed as he leaned a shoulder against the wall. His dark suit looked far too expensive for hospital corridors, but he wore it like second skin, wrinkleless and tailored to the breath.

His violet eyes glittered under the low lighting.

"You always take your breaks in shadowy hallways?" he asked, tone teasing.

I huffed a soft breath, tossing the remainder of my sandwich into the nearby bin. "No time to get to the cafeteria and back," I muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. "This is faster."

There was a beat of silence. I dared a glance upward and instantly regretted it.

He wasn't just looking at me. He was studying me. Like he saw too much.

"You always seem to run," he said softly, as though the words weren't meant to be said aloud. "From rooms. From people. From me."

That caught me off guard. My hands fumbled for my notebook.

"I have a busy job," I offered lamely, turning away, pretending I wasn't hyper-aware of the sound of his slow, deliberate breathing behind me. Pretending the back of my neck wasn't prickling like I was being watched by something more animal than man.

"Of course," he said. Smooth as dusk.

I didn't say anything else. I didn't trust my voice or my legs, which felt like they might betray me and turn around just to see if he was still smiling that infuriating, knowing smile.

I walked away quickly, notebook tucked tight to my chest. My heart wouldn't settle. I didn't know if it was fear or something more dangerous.

Something like interest. Something like fascination.

Then something fluttered to the ground. A small, black rectangle.

I bent to pick it up. It was a business card, sleek, expensive-feeling. Matte black, unmarked save for a single embossed violet R in the centre. 

No name. No number. Just that initial. Just that colour.

I turned back toward the hallway but he was gone. Not a footstep. Not a shadow. Just silence where he had stood.

My arms ached under the weight of the supply packs I now carried. Bulky plastic bags full of gauze, IV lines, syringes, and everything else that had somehow vanished from our trauma bay over the last few hours. 

I'd meant to grab a cart. I hadn't had time.

The lights overhead flickered as I jogged down the hallway, the soles of my shoes squeaking against the waxed linoleum. 

My brain was fogged with half-processed emergencies and chart updates, running entirely on caffeine and clinical adrenaline.

I was five feet from the restock station when I crashed—hard into something solid.

The impact sent me reeling backwards. My body hit the ground with a thud, supplies scattering like spilt guts across the floor.

And towering over me, unmoving as a statue, was him. Azriel.

Silent, expression unreadable, cloaked in an aura that didn't belong in a hospital. He hadn't flinched. Hadn't shifted an inch. 

Just stood there, half-shrouded in the shadows of the patient room behind him—where I could just barely make out the shape of a figure reclining in the bed. Their friend no doubt.

Azriel looked like he belonged to the darkness, and not metaphorically. 

It was in the way his features disappeared beneath the low light, in the way he moved—if he moved at all. My pulse kicked, cold and tight.

His eyes met mine. No amusement. No irritation. Just assessment.

Then, suddenly, he dropped into a crouch, gathering the spilt supplies with swift, practised hands. He moved with unsettling precision. So fast. So efficient. 

Like he'd done this before—like he'd done everything before.

"I'm so sorry," he said, voice low and calm as he handed me back an armful of gauze. "My fault."

I nodded mutely, accepting the items, though I wasn't sure my fingers had remembered how to close. The chill of his presence lingered on my skin even as I rose.

And just like that, I was moving again.

I told myself to walk—not run as I passed the waiting room. But my eyes betrayed me. They flicked sideways.

There, slouched with too much ease across one of the visitor chairs, sat Cassian.

His energy was the opposite of Azriel's. Loud, warm, magnetic. He threw his head back in laughter as he flirted shamelessly with one of the nurses—a redhead who had clearly forgotten what planet she was on. 

His grin was broad, teasing, and confident. A soldier at rest. But his eyes—his eyes tracked me. Casual. Playful. And yet... always watching.

I shivered.

None of them belonged here. Not really. Their presence was like oil slick on water. Dressed too well, too composed, too dangerous.

My gut screamed at me to run.

Something about them set off alarms in my brain—the kind I had learned not to ignore after nights spent undoing sutures from stab wounds and listening to victims whisper about "wrong place, wrong time."

But I couldn't look away either.

Not from Azriel, still lurking in the doorway like a sentinel. Not from Cassian, laughing but never letting his guard down.

And especially not from him.

Rhysand.

Rhysand's POV - 

I didn't frequent hospitals.

Blood didn't faze me. Neither did pain. I was more accustomed to inflicting it than suffering from it. And if someone in my world got hurt—well, that was their business, unless it became mine. 

But Helion... Helion was a friend. 

One of the very few I had in this rotting empire of backstabbing smiles and sharpened knives. Trust didn't come easily to me not since I was old enough to put a gun in my hand and a target on my back.

Azriel, Cassian, and Helion. That was the list. And even that list came with warnings.

So I visited.

Late at night, of course. I preferred the dark. It was quieter, less crowded. I didn't need eyes on me. Didn't want them. The shadows moved more freely when the world slept. They were mine.

But nothing—absolutely nothing could have prepared me for her.

I wasn't expecting to be brought to my knees in the fluorescent-lit halls of a hospital.

She barreled straight into me, blood on her scrubs, a fresh cut blooming across her lower lip like a flower too early in bloom. The moment froze. 

And for someone like me, used to chaos, used to reading rooms with cold precision, it was... disorienting. I couldn't think. Could barely move. Could only see her.

She was... soft.

Not just physically. There was something gentle in the way she blinked up at me, startled, like a doe caught in the sudden light. Her energy was this glowing, uncorrupted thing in a place built to handle decay. 

Sweet. Innocent. Young. Too young.

I should've walked away.

Instead, I found myself watching her. Following her movements as she flitted from room to room like a delicate thing barely touching the ground. She worked tirelessly, comforting patients with a soft word here, a hand on a shoulder there. 

I stood in shadowed corners, cloaked by my usual silence, and observed.

She was too damn good for this place. For this world. For me.

But I didn't care.

I started thinking of her as my little bunny almost immediately. Skittish, unsure, quick to flush and look away but always curious. Always fluttering closer despite herself. 

I could smell the sweetness on her skin when she passed me in the halls. A little tremor in her hand when I brushed too close. She pretended she didn't notice me. But she did.

They always do.

Helion looked like hell but he was alive. Hooked up to monitors, bandages stretched across his ribs. Still, he smirked like the arrogant bastard he was the moment I walked in.

"So," I drawled, settling in the chair beside his bed, "finally got yourself chopped up."

He rolled his eyes. "Satisfied?"

"A little." My grin was lazy, but my mind was elsewhere.

"The food's shit," he continued with a wince, "but the company? Not bad. Nurses are a treat in this place. One of them keeps checking in on me. Sweet little thing. Pretty. Real pretty."

My blood stilled.

He turned, watching me, oblivious to the sudden pressure behind my eyes, the way my hands curled into fists in my lap.

"She's young," he went on, voice laced with clear appreciation. "Innocent, too. Makes it more fun, doesn't it?"

Then he said her name and I saw red.

"No." My voice cut through the air like a blade. Cassian laughed behind me loud and unfiltered. Bastard always did have a sick sense of timing.

Helion raised a brow. "Why not?"

"She's mine," I said. Not a suggestion. A fact.

"You can't just claim her like—"

"Don't care." My tone dropped, roughened, dangerously soft. "She's off the table. You so much as look at her the wrong way, Helion, and I swear the second you're discharged, I'll put you right back in that bed."

He blinked, startled, like he hadn't expected me to react like that. No one ever did.

"She's too young for you, Rhys," Azriel muttered from the corner. "Too sweet. Too soft. Too good."

I turned my head slowly, my voice low, unwavering. "I don't care. She's mine."

And I meant it.

Because somewhere between the silence of the hospital and the glow of her presence, I'd decided I wasn't letting her go. Not to this world. Not to any man.

I didn't deserve her but she belonged to me.

Even if she didn't know it yet.

A/n - Here's the first part of my new Rhys story! It's obviously an AU but still ACOTAR based.

Ik some might say 22 is too young to feel burnt out, but I'm 21 and already kind of over everything. In Ireland (where I'm from), healthcare courses include placements starting in first year, so I've been working for literal years, and I haven't even graduated yet :/

While editing this, I remembered the first time I got assaulted by a patient... good times. It's more common than you'd think, unfortunately (good scene inspo though!)

Story notes—Rhys is morally grey here, and yes, he's putting a claim on the reader. It's a dark-ish romance, so please read the tags and content warnings before diving in.

Let me know what you think <3

The Ruin tag list - @queenoffeysand @sttvrdustt @wedonttalkaboutvoldemort @coeurdeveea @maltemp @sillyfreakfanparty @justtryingtosurvive02 @bosssliv5g @hyruledemigod20

[phantasm-ae]

okayyy so i was rewatchingg this old series called WifeSwap and well! I HAD AN IDEA. What if all the boys and their partners swap?? I hope u guyss like it hehehe. Might be a series hehehhe who knows??

cw: grumpy x sunshine, afab reader x simon ghost riley, tf141 is here, just pure fluff and a bit of… angst

HEADCANON: as part of a routine exercise punishment, Soap suggests wife swapping after one too many episodes of WifeSwap. The lot of them didn’t expect it to bloody backfire of course

PAIRING: Ghost x afab reader, Ghost x Mrs. Price

If you asked any of the boys how it started. Fingers would always find their way pointed to Soap.

Classic bloody Johnny it was -- loud, half-drunk, and far too entertained by the thought of chaos not involving stray and undocumented gunfire.

It was after an op gone haywire. Intel gone wry. Point person MIA. Comms scrambled to shit, and no one knew who was meant to breach what building until Ghost kicked in the wrong door and found three goats and a naked informant mid-yoga. The sullen old brawn just stared at the scene -- naked man in a headstand, goats chewing on what looked like classified documents -- and muttered, “Wrong fucking door,” before backing out like it was a haunted house.

They made it out alive though, somehow. Bruised egos for sure, one dislocated shoulder (Soap’s, naturally), and a four-hour debrief where Laswell looked like she aged a year slide after slide.

Letters circled red and a lot of possible red tape and blacked out notes to keep it more hush-hush than most. Because having to explain to the fucking government why the John Price -- the Captain Price -- UN hero, medalled and corralled by the classic gentry. Regarded and deemed a supersoldier on human payroll, the unofficial face of “stiff upper lip and carry on” -- had been photographed mid-sprint while the said naked informant did downward dog behind him and his bloody goat pissed on a thermal detonator. Paired with the Ghost himself ending up three feet from a nudist spy and another goat chewing on NATO credentials. And well... that wasn’t exactly great for PR now, innit?

Nor was it good for Laswell’s migraines.

So they were grounded.

“Enforced downtime,” Laswell said, like that was a reward and not a slow descent into group madness.

Two weeks. No ops, no field work, no high-value targets. Just paperwork, team-building exercises, and mandatory counseling sessions where Gaz tried not to laugh while the in-base therapist asked Ghost if he’d like to "practice non-violent communication" and Ghost just stared at her until she wrote down “resistant to healing.”

By day three, Soap was rearranging all the furniture in the barracks “according to the principles of Scottish feng shui, ya ken?” and Ghost -- obviously bored himself -- had replaced the coffee with bourbon and called it a morale test -- forgetting to place the filter all back together and had to back out of the room and deny everything when a young recruit looked dozed and glassy-eyed halfway through a briefing and said, “Sir, the coffee tastes like confidence.”

Gaz found Simon two hours later, trying to faux-mediate and justify to no one in particular why the coffee incident wasn't technically his fault. Brooding hulk of a man in a mask crouched in front of the charred machine like it had testified against him in court.

“I didn’t tell him to drink six cups,” Ghost muttered. “He made choices. We all make choices.”

“War crime, it is,” Gaz whispered, sipping it anyway once offered.

No one dared rat him out. Mostly because Price at the end of it --drank it too.

By the end of the week, Soap had made a piñata of Laswell’s face out of shredded incident reports, Gaz had tried to set up a frog enclosure in the unused sink, and the barracks dog had learned how to growl on command whenever someone said the word “mindfulness.”

Laswell was spiraling.

And when the rec room microwave exploded -- not from a bomb, but from someone (allegedly Soap) trying to “reheat soup in a tin can for science” -- Laswell finally snapped.

She stormed into the barracks mess with an expression like a woman ready to kill something or redeploy someone to Siberia.

“You lot need a goddamn outlet.”

Soap, full of energy and zero shame, sat forward. “You want a real outlet?”

“No,” Ghost warned.

Soap ignored him, of course.

“We swap.”

Laswell blinked. “Swap what?”

“Partners. Domestic partners. One week. New routines, new homes. Emotional resilience. Empathy. Psychological terrain navigation.”

Gaz spit out his tea. “Jesus.”

“It’s genius,” Soap went on, all fire and glee now. Enthusiasm and meandering intelligence after re-watching three seasons of the WifeSwap series from the common room's old casettes. “You don’t just test the soldiers -- you test the home dynamics. We live in each other’s shoes. You get to evaluate adaptability, control, even stress response. Like The Apprentice, but with more firearms and worse communication.”

Ghost muttered something under his breath about war crimes.

Laswell opened her mouth -- to say no, they assumed.

But instead, she looked… intrigued.

Oh shit.

She stared at the room, the war-hardened mess of them all. Then rubbed at her temple like she could already feel the paperwork punching her in the soul.

“…Fine.”

“What?” Price asked sharply. Sitting straight-up because having any of these wankers within arm’s reach of his wife, her kitchen, or his thermostat was not something he’d emotionally budgeted for.

“We’ll call it a trial. Psychological adaptability and domestic immersion assessment. No external observers. Seven days. Voluntary.” Her eyes scanned them one by one. “Unless I make it mandatory.”

Soap actually clapped.

Price looked like he aged five years on the spot.

Ghost just said, “This is how people die.”

“You’re serious?” Gaz added after a breath, wide-eyed, already mentally scrubbing the image of any of his team living in with his girlfriend’s own chaos-cave slash makeshift radioactive laboratory.

“I’m tired,” Laswell muttered, as if that were a legal defense. “And you lot are turning into a feral commune. I will try anything that gets me through this deployment without someone eating soap. Again.”

“Tha’ was one time,” Soap said, unconvincingly.

Laswell sighed, then pointed at Soap like a general drafting a madman. “Since you’re so enthusiastic, MacTavish, you’ll be responsible for drawing names and pairing assignments. I want folders and house profiles by tomorrow.”

“Aye, I’ll laminate ’em,” he said proudly, already pulling out a Sharpie and a deck of Uno cards like that was going to help.

“No fucking way,” Ghost finally spoke up, deep and flat.

“You’ll participate,” Laswell said without looking at him.

“I’m not letting one of these muppets touch my kettle,” Ghost grunted.

“That’s not your biggest concern,” Gaz muttered. “Mate, your entire side of the flat is just weapons, gym equipment, and one fork.”

“And it works,” Ghost replied.

“You live like a serial killer with a protein obsession,” Soap added, cheerfully.

Laswell clapped her hands once. “Great. Briefing at 0800. Draws will happen then. Everyone be ready to emotionally evacuate your homes.”

And with that, she turned and left -- muttering something about moving to a mountain and living with goats. Better trained ones, presumably.

The silence that followed was heavy. Charged. Stupid.

Soap, beaming now, stood slowly like a conductor at the edge of a masterpiece. “Right, lads. Time to play Domestic Roulette.”

Price scrubbed his hands down his face. “God help us all.”

Ghost just stood up and walked out.

No one stopped him.

They all knew he’d be back.

----

Truth be told, he made it about thirty paces down the hall before the heavy clomp of Laswell’s boots echoed behind him like a death knell. Hunting all 6'4 of him down with her “I am ten seconds from quitting” face, cornered him in the back hallway of the armory, and said, very calmly, “If you don’t go back in there and participate, I will personally assign you to the next UN ‘hearts and minds’ mission in a jungle so remote even your nightmares can’t reach you. With a therapy dog. And a journalist.”

So of course, bloody 2 days later, after having drawn your name from the makeshift sack from a decaying old Santa hat that Soap dug out from some hellish base closet. The shucking and moldy thing -- Gaz was pretty sure it carried its own form of disease -- still glittery with stray tinsel and regret.

Drawing your name from it and reading the card with lettered like a death sentence it was -- was like stepping on a landmine in slow motion.

Ghost blinked once. Deadpan. Held the card up like it was incriminating evidence in a war crime tribunal. Sighing a bit in both irritation, disavowed, and quiet... anticipation

Across the room, Price’s eye twitched.

Not a blink. Not a wince.

A twitch.

Tiny. Violent. The kind that meant blood pressure was rising in real-time and a man was silently calculating whether homicide was worth the paperwork.

Soap howled.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Johnny cackled, slapping his knee. “Och, Laswell, did you see that? That’s karma, that is!”

Gaz choked on his water.

Even Laswell looked vaguely amused, which, for her, meant one corner of her mouth might’ve moved half a centimeter.

“Switch,” Price said flatly, already reaching out. “Draw again. That one doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts,” Laswell said, pulling a pen from behind her ear like this was the greatest show on Earth. Half a smirk shadowing her features as Soap tried to outrun Price's fuming figure around the room. Two hands clutching the jiggly santa hat with fervor, trying to evade Price's grubby hands and wrath like it was a live grenade.

“I don’t make the rules!” Soap shouted gleefully, dodging behind a training dummy as Price lunged after him.

“Domestic immersion is meant to challenge your current dynamic, Captain”, Laswell only replied in return

“You’re pairing my wife with him,” Price snapped after a pause, jerking a thumb toward Ghost. “He barely talks.”

“Exactly,” she said, writing down the pairings. “Could be refreshing.”

Ghost remained perfectly still. Only his eyes moved -- locking on Price's daunting figure, dark and unreadable behind the mask. His voice, when it came, was low and flat.

“Not exactly thrilled myself, mate.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me,” Price grunted.

Soap was already wheezing on the floor after being deliberately tripped by Gaz, who had sacrificed him to the wolves in exchange for a front-row seat to this slow-motion disaster. “This is better than telly.”

Ghost looked at the card again, as if it might’ve changed names out of pity.

It hadn’t.

Just your name in small, tidy letters. Neat. Proper. Like everything else about you.

He slid it into his vest pocket with the solemnity of a man receiving his final orders.

Price folded his arms. “She’s not gonna like this.”

“She’s very adaptable,” Laswell offered, not looking up from the forms.

“She has standards.”

“She bakes,” Soap reminded them helpfully. Smiling in memory at all your lemon-drizzle cakes and blueberry muffins. “You’ll be fine, Ghost. Just try not to knife the tea towels, aye?”

Ghost muttered something unintelligible and sat down hard in his chair, clearly contemplating a fake injury or possibly desertion.

And so, it was done.

Ghost had drawn you.

And judging by the way Price’s jaw flexed every few seconds, one of them might not survive the week.

Probably not Ghost.

Probably.

48 hours later and Ghost still couldn't fucking believe it. Mrs. John bloody Price was in his home. In his wife's own kitchen. Her previously labeled sundries and preserved jams -- once in disarray and cluttered into her system of cowgirl chaos -- now lined up in rows. Actual rows. Sorted by type and date and, for some reason, emotional purpose.

There was a little handwritten note stuck to one jar that read: For rainy days -- peach and ginger.

Ghost stared at it like it might explode.

Mrs. John Bloody Price had done this in less than two days. Quietly. Like a ghost of her own.

She’d arrived with three tins of tea, a modest suitcase, and the calm certainty of a woman who could run a battlefield and a bake sale with the same tone of voice. And she had taken over -- not forcefully, not loudly, but like the tide.

The kettle had a new trivet. The towels matched. His one fork had multiplied into a cutlery set that actually jingled.

And it wasn’t his wife’s kitchen now. Truth be told too.

His chaotic messy cowgirl of a wife had swapped sides -- gone off to live with Captain Beard and Discipline himself for a week -- and in her place stood this gentle, soft-voiced, cardigan-wrapped domestic saint who made tea with lemon and asked if he’d like his towel “folded the long way or the proper way.”

She was humming.

Ghost, who had gone through three tours of duty without blinking, was standing stiffly in the archway like the world's most haunted IKEA display.

“You alright, Simon?” you asked over your shoulder, stirring something in a pot that smelled like autumn and kindness and maybe guilt. You had this little dance to it -- kettle, two cups, sugar pot, that weird fucking ceramic cow you used for cream. Ghost watched you like you were some strange alien species. Polite. Efficient. No sudden movements.

He realized he hadn’t said a word in five minutes. Maybe more.

He blinked once behind the mask. Twice. “Fine.”

You placed a mug in front of him, then sat across the table. Calm. Unbothered. Like you did this every day. Like you chose to do this every day. Like you weren’t in the home of a man who had once sharpened a knife on a live op briefing just to make someone nervous.

Ghost cleared his throat. Following suit like a sugarfly to melted honey at the scent of tea across from him. Massive weight of a man creaking the chair as he took the seat across from you. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

You tilted your head. A bit of your hair running loose from its updo at the movement. The gentle rivulet of you falling gracefully by your shoulder, “All what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at the tea. The soup. The you-ness of it all. “I’m not your… you know.”

You smiled, and it was quieter this time. Smaller. But no less real.

“No, Simon. But you are someone’s.”

The words hit like a slug to the sternum.

But you are someone’s. Someone's.

You belong, Simon.

I'm here, Simon.

Come home, Simon.

He didn’t flinch -- but only because he’d been trained not to flinch. Trained to take things that hurt and fold them small, bury them deep, line them up in rows like kill marks on his ribs. But your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t prying or smug. Just... true. Gentle as a field breeze, and twice as disarming.

He looked away. Jaw tight. The steam from the tea fogging his mask slightly.

He stirred the tea. Once. Twice. Didn’t take the mask off. But didn’t leave either.

You didn’t press. You just took a sip from your own mug and sighed like the world could be kind for five minutes.

“Is it alright?” you asked, nodding at the mug he hadn’t touched yet. “Too much sugar?”

He gave a grunt that might’ve been a no. Might’ve been a yes. You nodded anyway, as if it had been clear as crystal.

There was a pause. Still, not tense. Just... slow. Like a moment stretching out without expectation.

Like sitting in a chapel after the bells had stopped ringing. Old beggar staunched with the promise of alms and salvation at the steps of saints and pilgrims.

Something sacred about the silence, it was. Not empty -- but held. The kind that let thoughts settle in your chest instead of your head. Like maybe not everything needed to be fought to be real.

Ghost stared at the cup again.

Still steaming, still warm.

He remembered something then. Not fully, not clearly -- just a memory flickering at the edge of him like a candle left in a hallway. His hands were smaller. The table was too tall. And the voice -- her voice -- came from the kitchen as snow fell sideways outside the window. Ten year old boy, knees scraped raw, socks uneven, a tiny cut on his knuckle from climbing over someone else’s garden fence. Too proud to cry, too stubborn to apologize, but sitting obediently as he watched her cradle his baby brother Tommy in one hip and a kettle in the other.

“Not too much sugar, love. Just enough, aye? Just right.”

Kitchen light golden soft, dust from last weeks mess still floating like tiny spirits. Jam on toast. That worn old jumper she always wore when it got below freezing. And her voice, clear as breath --

"Come here, love. Sit down. It's alright. You're alright."

It echoed. Old and far and full of weight. A morose and bronzed cathedral bell rung just once -- long enough to vibrate in your bones but never again. Marrows shaking and spine drawn taut like the strings of a too-old violin being shucked and tuned timely for another symphony. Long enough to remember what it was like to be safe before the world cracked open and asked you to bleed for it.

Ghost blinked. The mug in front of him didn’t change, didn’t move. Still steaming. Still warm.

But in the silence, he swore he could hear it -- the soft clink of a teaspoon on porcelain, a lullaby not meant for the battlefield, the sigh of his mother’s breath as she smoothed his hair down and told him that boys could cry too. That softness wasn’t weakness. That love didn’t need armour.

He flexed his fingers around the handle of the mug. Gloved, calloused. The kind of hands that knew how to break bone and build shelter in the same motion.

“Is it alright then? Too much sugar?", you only repeated.

He didn’t flinch.

Just breathed once -- deep and deliberate -- like steadying before a breach.

His hands, still gloved -- armored is what is was -- curled a little tighter around the mug. He raised it slow, like the heat might burn him if he wasn’t careful. Brought it under the mask.

Sipped.

And for a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quiet. Barely above a breath. The kind of answer you didn’t say unless you meant it with every cell of your body.

“…Just right", he only grunted in return.

drabbles

masterlist

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Par for the Heart: Part 12

paige x azzi

a/n: This one was another emotional roller coaster, so sorry in advance. Contains some sexual content. Let me know your reactions and feedback and how many parts do we think this should be lol

word count: 10.4k

"Home for the Holidays (and Everything That Came With It)"

Even without snow, the city buzzed with a low hum of December—storefronts glowing, traffic lights blinking red and green, and the air holding a soft kind of anticipation. Their house smelled faintly of pine and gingerbread from the candle Azzi had insisted on lighting that morning. A box of half-wrapped presents sat open on the coffee table, scraps of festive paper curling at the corners. Christmas jazz hummed from the speaker in the background, and the heat kicked on just as Azzi sank onto the couch beside Paige.

But something in her didn’t settle.

She watched Paige scribble something on a gift tag—To Drew, from both of us—and swallowed hard.

Paige didn’t notice at first. Not until Azzi reached for the tape and missed it completely, fingers fumbling against the edge of the couch cushion like her mind had drifted somewhere far off.

“You good?” Paige asked, quiet, but not casual.

Azzi hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. I mean—no. I don’t know.”

That was enough for Paige to turn fully toward her, pen forgotten.

“What’s going on?”

Azzi looked at her for a long moment, expression almost sheepish. “I just realized… I don’t know that much about your family.”

Paige blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’re about to go spend the holidays with them, and I know their names, and you’ve told me little stories, but… I don’t really know them. Not the way you know mine.”

Paige softened immediately. “Az…”

“I feel kind of shitty about it,” Azzi admitted. “Like I’ve just been enjoying this version of you that lives here with me and works out with me and makes cinnamon toast on Sundays, but I haven’t asked enough about where you came from. And now we’re heading straight into all of that, and I just—what if I get it wrong?”

Paige reached for her hand, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s on me.”

Azzi looked skeptical. “How?”

“Because I didn’t offer it up,” Paige said. Her voice was steady, but there was something quieter under it. “I’ve spent a long time keeping all of that… at arm’s length. The mess. The hard stuff.”

Azzi’s brow furrowed.

“My family’s not bad,” Paige continued. “Just complicated. My parents split when I was young. And they didn’t just split—they detonated. Like, courtrooms and custody battles and new marriages within a year kind of detonated.”

Azzi squeezed her hand, staying silent.

“I spent a lot of years trying to be the neutral party. The fixer. The one who kept the peace. I think I got good at pretending none of it hurt. So even now, it’s just… easier not to talk about it.”

Azzi’s heart ached. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Paige gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. I’m trying. I really am. But don’t beat yourself up for not knowing something I haven’t let anyone close enough to find out.”

“I want to be close enough,” Azzi whispered.

“I know,” Paige said, and this time, she smiled for real. “And you are.”

They sat in the quiet hum of the holidays for a few moments longer, fingers laced, wrapping paper forgotten.

“Okay,” Azzi said finally. “So maybe over the next few days, you tell me a story or two. Anything you want. Good or bad. I’ll take it all.”

Paige nodded. “Deal.”

Then, softly, “And just so you know—you’re gonna be great. My family’s complicated, but you… you’re solid.”

Azzi exhaled slowly, the weight in her chest easing.

“Okay then,” she said. “Let’s go do complicated.”

Paige leaned in, kissed her temple. “Together.”

—-

The rain had started that afternoon—gentle at first, just enough to gloss the windows of the house in a thin, shimmering layer. Now it was a soft backdrop to the evening, a rhythmic hush against the glass as Paige and Azzi sat on the couch, wrapped in the familiar comfort of shared silence.

Azzi’s head rested in Paige’s lap, long legs sprawled out over the cushions, while Paige absentmindedly played with a loose curl. The warmth between them was easy, familiar.

But tonight, something about the way Paige moved—just a little slower, a little more distant in her eyes—made Azzi pause.

“You good?” Azzi asked softly, fingers brushing Paige’s thigh.

Paige hesitated. Just long enough for Azzi to notice.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” she admitted. “About… what you said earlier, how little you actually know about my family background.”

Azzi sat up gently, giving her space but staying close. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready for.”

Paige shook her head. “I want to. You deserve to know. I just… I’ve spent so much of my life trying to unlearn it, I think I forgot how to talk about it.”

Azzi waited.

Paige took a deep breath, then let it go slow.

“My mom is… a narcissist,” she said plainly, like it was a fact she’d rehearsed. “It took me a long time to say that out loud. But it’s true. Everything in our house was always about her—her mood, her approval, her disappointment. You learn to shrink around people like that. To contort yourself into what makes them comfortable.”

Azzi reached for her hand, holding it gently between hers.

“I remember once—” Paige’s voice caught, but she kept going. “I got into this big junior tournament. It was the first time a scout was going to come see me play. I was twelve. I was so proud. And all she could say was that I needed to ‘tone it down’ because I looked like I was showing off in the video they filmed. She said, ‘You’ll make people hate you if you’re too good.’ Like she couldn’t stand me being good at something unless it made her look good.”

Azzi didn’t speak, just rubbed her thumb across Paige’s knuckles.

“My dad wasn’t… cruel like her. Just… quiet. Detached. Like he never knew what to do when things got loud or painful. I used to think he didn’t care, but now I know he just didn’t know how to show up. He finally apologized to me, after I moved to LA. Said he was sorry for not being better, for not seeing me.”

Paige paused. “We’re closer now, I guess. But it still feels like something’s unfinished.”

Azzi’s eyes softened. “That’s why you’re so soft with me,” she whispered. “Why you listen so hard. Why you notice the little things.”

Paige nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Because I know what it feels like to grow up in a house where no one sees you clearly. I swore I’d never make someone I love feel that way.”

Azzi leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You don’t. I’ve never felt more seen.”

They sat there a long while—Azzi with her hand on Paige’s knee, Paige with her heart cracked just enough to let more light in.

“I’m still learning how to trust that what we have is real,” Paige admitted quietly. “Some days I catch myself waiting for it to go sideways. But then you do something small—like today, when you remembered my dumb iced coffee order without asking—and it reminds me: not everything has to be hard.”

Azzi smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Paige’s ear. “We’ll keep making it easy. Together.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall, soft and steady like a promise.

And inside, Paige felt—maybe for the first time—like she didn’t have to carry any of it alone.

Paige’s thumb traced idle circles on the hem of the throw blanket draped across her lap. The rain hadn’t let up, but it suited the moment—like the world outside knew it wasn’t meant to interrupt.

Azzi was still curled close, listening with the kind of presence that made Paige feel like every word she spoke landed somewhere safe.

“There was this night,” Paige said, her voice quiet. “I think I was around eleven. My mom and dad had this screaming match in the kitchen—about bills or him getting home late or something. I’d just come home from practice. I remember standing at the front door, frozen, golf bag still on my back.”

Azzi watched her closely, barely breathing.

“I didn’t go in,” Paige continued. “I sat on the porch for three hours. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I kept thinking: If they can’t get it together, what chance do I have?”

Azzi’s heart ached.

“That night,” Paige said slowly, “I decided I’d never yell in a relationship. That I’d never slam a door. That I’d always make the people I love feel chosen. Not tolerated.”

She blinked hard, like something was clawing its way out from years of being buried.

“I started keeping a journal around then—filled it with all the ways I’d want to be loved one day. Dumb things, like: asks how my day was even if I don’t say anything first, or doesn’t make me beg for attention.”

Azzi reached out and gently laced their fingers together.

“I think I became so soft,” Paige whispered, “because I had to be my own safe place for so long. And now with you… I get to share it.”

Azzi leaned forward, kissing her hand. “You’re still that safe place. But now you don’t have to be it alone.”

There was a pause, one of those full silences.

“Did you ever tell anyone this before?” Azzi asked.

Paige shook her head. “I’ve hinted. KK probably knows more than she lets on. But no, not like this.”

“I’m honored,” Azzi said softly. “I mean that.”

Paige gave a half-smile. “I think part of me was afraid if I said it out loud, it would make it too real. Like I’d have to admit how much of me was shaped by things I never asked for.”

“You didn’t deserve any of it,” Azzi said. “But you still became someone good. That’s not a coincidence.”

Paige turned her head, blinking down at her. “You really think I’m good?”

Azzi’s voice didn’t waver. “I think you’re the best person I know.”

The words landed heavy and warm, the kind of weight that didn’t hurt—but held.

And Paige, who’d spent years quieting herself, felt something shift. Like a knot finally loosening in the center of her chest.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead to Azzi’s.

“I love you,” she said, not like a confession—but like a truth finally safe enough to rest in.

Azzi smiled. “I know. And I love you right back.”

Rain tapped softly on the windows. The blanket settled warmer around them. And Paige, in the quiet of their home, felt something new and unfamiliar.

Peace.

They were still tucked on the couch, Paige’s legs stretched over Azzi’s lap, the city outside their windows a blur of lights behind the rain.

Paige shifted slightly, her fingers picking at a loose thread in the throw pillow beside her. “There’s another one,” she said after a while. “A memory. It’s small, but it kind of… stuck with me.”

Azzi looked up from where she’d been trailing gentle circles on Paige’s shin. “Tell me.”

Paige drew in a breath, eyes going soft with distance. “I had this elementary school awards ceremony—third grade, I think. I was getting something for perfect attendance, or reading… whatever it was, I was proud. And I remember standing on that little stage, looking out into the crowd.”

She paused.

“My mom had forgotten. She was supposed to come, but she didn’t show. My dad picked up a shift. So when they called my name, I walked across that stage to this auditorium of strangers. No clapping from anyone I knew. No pictures.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. “Paige…”

“I didn’t cry or anything. I just smiled for the photo and kept it moving.” She gave a short laugh. “Later that night, I taped the award to the fridge myself.”

Azzi didn’t interrupt—just listened.

“I think… that’s the moment something in me changed. Like, if I ever got the chance to be in someone’s corner, I’d never let them wonder if I was proud. Or if I’d show up.”

Azzi was quiet for a long beat, her eyes holding Paige’s. “And you’ve kept that promise. For everyone. For me.”

“I try,” Paige said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I think it’s why I go so hard for the people I love. I just… remember how it felt when no one showed up. I’d rather overdo it than let someone feel that way.”

Azzi leaned forward and kissed her, slow and certain. “You never have to do that alone again.”

“I know,” Paige whispered against her lips. “But sometimes it still feels like I do. Like I have to earn the good things.”

Azzi touched her cheek gently. “Not with me. You don’t have to earn a damn thing with me.”

They sat in that moment—two hearts, unlearning old survival instincts together. Paige didn’t say anything right away. But her body softened, just a little. Her head dropped to Azzi’s shoulder, and her breath eased out like she was finally setting something down.

A part of her would probably always carry that little girl, standing on a stage with no one in the crowd.

But now… someone was in the crowd. Always. And she was sitting right beside her.

—-

It was late in the evening, the night before their flight, and the house glowed with a gentle kind of stillness. The Christmas tree lights blinked quietly in the corner—soft whites and golds casting a calm warmth across the living room. The suitcase lay open on the rug, half-zipped, surrounded by folded clothes, tangled chargers, and a few scattered gift bags.

Paige sat cross-legged on the floor, tucking a final sweater into the side pocket, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

Behind her, Azzi moved around the space with the easy comfort of someone at home—folding the throw blanket over the back of the couch, checking the thermostat, turning off lights in the kitchen. She returned with quiet footsteps and sat behind Paige, wrapping her arms gently around her waist and resting her chin on Paige’s shoulder.

“You’ve packed this bag like six times,” Azzi murmured with a small smile. “What are we forgetting?”

Paige laughed under her breath. “Nothing, probably. I’m just… I don’t know. Making sure it all feels right.”

She leaned into Azzi’s hold slightly, her hands stilling on the zipper. The weight of anticipation hung in the air, not heavy, but full.

“You sure you still want to do the split?” Paige asked softly, her voice brushing against the quiet. “Christmas with your family, New Year’s with mine?”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “That’s what we decided, right?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, nodding slowly. “I just… It’s a lot. My family’s… a lot. I’ve never brought someone into all of it before. And not just for a visit—for a whole thing.”

Azzi shifted beside her, brushing a piece of hair behind Paige’s ear. “It’s not just your family anymore. It’s us, now. Our holidays.”

Paige blinked, her heart catching in her chest at the word our. She smiled faintly, voice quiet. “That sounds really good when you say it like that.”

“It is good,” Azzi said. “It’s what we’ve been building. You don’t have to brace yourself for it alone.”

Paige exhaled, the tension softening in her shoulders just a little. “It’s strange… how easy this has all felt. Us. This place. The rhythms we’ve fallen into. I keep waiting for the shoe to drop.”

Azzi kissed her shoulder. “I think maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Not easy because it’s perfect—but easy because it’s right.”

They were quiet for a beat, both absorbing the stillness before the whirlwind of travel and family noise and overlapping traditions.

Then Paige smiled, just a little. “Okay. Let’s do this. One more check: chargers, pajamas, your grandma’s gift, and… oh, the travel snacks.”

“I already packed them,” Azzi said proudly.

“You’re amazing.”

“I know.”

Paige leaned back into her, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I’m really glad it’s you.”

Azzi squeezed her waist gently. “It was always going to be me.”

The moment stretched—soft, warm, and real. The tree lights blinked quietly beside them, and outside, the city buzzed in preparation for the holiday rush. But in here, it was still. Steady. Chosen.

Tomorrow would bring airports and family hugs and all the chaos that came with showing someone the people and places that made you who you were.

But tonight… it was just them.

Home, in the truest sense of the word.

—-

Azzi’s family home smelled like cinnamon and butter the second they walked in—someone had clearly been baking for hours, and based on the tray of cookies already sitting on the entryway table, it was only just beginning.

“Backpacks off. Coats off. Mouths open,” Azzi’s aunt called from the kitchen without even turning around. “We’re taste testing batches today.”

Paige laughed, arms still halfway through her coat sleeves. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Azzi grinned. “Auntie Mel is in finals week mode. She’s not playing around.”

Within minutes, Paige had been pulled into the kitchen by two of Azzi’s cousins, offered a spatula covered in frosting, and then interrogated by Azzi’s uncle about how many layers she was packing for the family sledding tournament tomorrow.

“Layers save lives,” he declared solemnly, slapping a hand on her shoulder. “And don’t let Azzi fool you, she cheats. Waxes her sled.”

“I do not!” Azzi shouted from the living room, already helping untangle a string of lights while her grandma shouted commentary from her armchair.

Paige watched the chaos unfold with a soft kind of wonder. It was noisy. Messy. Beautiful. The kind of holiday energy you didn’t just feel—you waded through. And she had been welcomed in like she was already part of it all.

Azzi leaned against the wall beside her, elbow brushing Paige’s. “Overwhelmed yet?”

“A little,” Paige admitted, grinning. “But, like, in a good way. You were not kidding about Christmas being a sport in this house.”

Azzi smirked. “We don’t do casual.”

They spent the next several days tucked into the soft center of every family event imaginable. Cookie decorating turned into competitive snowman-building. They went ice skating and Paige somehow ended up racing Azzi’s younger cousins (and lost). Azzi’s grandma insisted on teaching Paige how to make traditional family recipes—while loudly declaring Paige was “too pretty to not know how to roll dough right.”

At night, Paige and Azzi curled up on the guest bed under a ridiculous holiday quilt, whispering and giggling like kids at a sleepover.

“I haven’t laughed this much in ages,” Paige whispered one night as they lay tangled together, the sound of wind and distant carolers leaking in from the frosty windows.

Azzi smiled sleepily. “They love you, you know.”

“I love them too,” Paige said, voice low. “And I love you.”

Azzi looked over at her, brushing her nose against Paige’s. “Merry almost-Christmas, P.”

“Merry almost-Christmas, Baby” Paige whispered back, heart full in a way she hadn’t even known she needed.

The next morning the house smelled like vanilla and something buttery in the oven. Holiday jazz played low from a speaker in the corner, barely audible over the flurry of voices and laughter filling every room. The fireplace cracked and popped beneath stockings too full to hang properly, and outside, snow blanketed the porch steps, undisturbed but glittering under the pale morning sun.

Paige stood tucked beside Azzi in the living room, mug of hot cocoa in her hands, watching as Azzi’s little cousins tore into wrapping paper like it was a sport. One of them held up a gift and shouted across the room, “Azzi, look what I got!” before immediately turning to Paige with just as much excitement: “Did you see?!”

Paige smiled, lifting her mug in salute. “Elite gift. You crushed it.”

Across the couch, Azzi’s uncle had fallen asleep halfway through his second cinnamon roll, and her aunt was bustling in and out with trays of food and plates of cookies she kept insisting people “just try one more of.” Wrapping paper littered the rug, and Paige had a fuzzy red bow stuck to the hem of her sweater that Azzi kept pretending not to see.

Azzi’s mom handed Paige a neatly wrapped box with a knowing smile. “For you, sweetie. From all of us.”

Paige blinked. “Wait—me?”

“Of course,” Azzi’s mom said, sliding an arm around her. “You’re family now, aren’t you?”

Paige’s heart skipped. The box felt heavier than it was—sentiment wrapped in ribbon.

Azzi leaned in and kissed the top of Paige’s shoulder. “Open it.”

Inside was a quilt—soft, oversized, clearly handmade. Sewn into the corner was a patch embroidered with a golf ball and a tiny heart. Paige ran her fingers over it like it might disappear if she looked away too long.

“Azzi told us you get cold all the time,” her aunt chimed in from the armchair. “And figured you might want something to keep at your place… or ours.”

It was said so casually. Yours… or ours. Like both belonged to her now.

Paige swallowed against the tightness in her throat, unsure how to respond without crying. “This is… beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Azzi’s brother called from the corner with a wink.

Azzi pulled her close and whispered, “Told you they’d love you.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She just leaned into Azzi’s side, tucked under her arm, and let herself be held by a family that made space for her—not just as Azzi’s girlfriend, but as someone who belonged.

Later that night, once the little ones were tucked in Paige caught Azzi in the hallway and whispered, “You still wanna do our gifts just us, right?”

Azzi nodded, a smile tucked behind tired eyes. “Just us.”

The fireplace was low and flickering, casting a golden hue over the living room. Azzi sat cross-legged in front of the tree, still wearing the oversized hoodie Paige had loaned her earlier that morning—her curls up in a messy bun, a little tinsel caught in one strand from helping the younger cousins redecorate after they’d knocked half the ornaments off during a game of tag.

Paige walked in carrying two neatly wrapped boxes and two glasses of red wine. She handed one to Azzi with a wink.

“This is the adult Christmas. Just us.”

Azzi smiled, her free hand brushing against Paige’s as she took the glass. “Finally. I love you, but if I had to watch one more Elf re-run with a six-year-old on my neck—”

Paige chuckled. “You love it.”

Azzi tilted her head. “I love you, being here for it. That’s different.”

Paige set their gifts on the rug between them and sat down, cross-legged, mirroring Azzi.

“Okay,” Paige said, suddenly a little shy. “Which one of us is going first?”

Azzi reached forward and nudged the smaller box toward Paige. “You.”

Paige gave her a look. “You sure?”

Azzi nodded. “I need to see your face when you open it.”

Paige peeled back the paper slowly—deliberately—revealing a black leather photo album with their initials embossed on the cover. Inside were printed photos from the past several months: candids from Azzi’s family lake house, a blurry one from the WNBA homecoming game, tournament selfies, Paige in a golf cart mid-laugh, Azzi icing her knee with a dramatic pout.

And on the final page—a picture of the two of them, curled up on the couch from just a week ago, captioned in Azzi’s handwriting:

“My favorite place to be is wherever you are.”

Paige didn’t say anything for a long moment—just flipped back to the beginning and stared, her fingertips brushing across each image like they were sacred.

When she finally looked up, her voice was thick. “I don’t even know how to thank you for this.”

Azzi shrugged, trying not to get emotional herself. “I just… I wanted us to have something to remember it all. Our first everything. In case one day we forget what the beginning looked like.”

Paige leaned forward and kissed her softly. “I’ll never forget.”

Azzi whispered, “Me either.”

Paige cleared her throat and reached behind her for her own box. “Okay. Your turn.”

Azzi tore the paper with far less grace—grinning as she opened the box to find… another, smaller box inside.

She shot Paige a look. “If this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” Paige promised.

Azzi opened the smaller box and gasped.

Inside was a custom silver pendant necklace—simple, delicate. On the front: the coordinates of where they’d met for the first time at the celebrity golf tournament. On the back, etched so small she had to hold it up to the light to read it:

“The moment I found you.”

Azzi stared at it, completely still.

Paige’s voice was soft. “I wanted to mark the exact place everything changed for me. Because the truth is, Az… I didn’t know what real love was supposed to feel like until I looked at you across that damn green and thought, I hope she talks to me.”

Azzi pressed the pendant to her lips. Her eyes were shimmering now, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

“You said I gave you a place to belong,” she said quietly. “But you gave me a future I actually want to run toward.”

Paige reached for her hand. “So… this is our beginning. And I hope every Christmas after this one, we get to look back and say, that’s where it all really started.”

Azzi nodded, leaning in.

And this kiss wasn’t about heat, or need, or playfulness.

It was reverent. Soft. The kind of kiss that said: I’ll remember this. All of it. Always.

And when they pulled apart, Azzi looped the necklace around her neck and whispered,

“Now I get to carry you with me, everywhere.”

—-

The drive after landing in Minnesota to her mom’s house was quiet—not tense, just filled with the kind of silence that said this matters. Azzi reached over more than once, squeezing Paige’s thigh, brushing her pinky against Paige’s hand on the gearshift, all quiet reassurances that she was here, that she wasn’t going anywhere.

But as they pulled into the familiar driveway, Paige’s stomach twisted like it had when she was seventeen and about to ask for permission to move out.

Azzi noticed. Of course she did.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Paige stared at the front door. “Yeah. Just… nerves. It’s been a while since I was here.”

“You don’t have to do this for anyone else.”

“I know,” Paige said. “But I want to do it for me.”

She stepped out of the car with resolve, Azzi close behind. As they reached the door, Paige took a breath and raised her hand to knock.

Her mother opened it a beat later, all lip-gloss smiles and over-rehearsed warmth.

“Paige! Finally,” she said, her voice sugary. Her eyes flicked to Azzi. “And you must be Azzi—how lovely to meet you.”

Azzi smiled and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jones.”

“Oh please, call me Amy,” her mother said, her voice a little too bright. “Come in, come in.”

Paige could feel the shift immediately—the performance, the pleasantries, the way her mom’s eyes skimmed over the subtle closeness between her and Azzi like she was pretending not to see it.

But then her little sister, Lauren, darted out from the hallway, practically launching into Paige’s arms.

“Paaaiiige!” she squealed. “You’re finally here!”

Paige crouched to hug her tight, heart already softening.

“I missed you so much, bug.”

Her younger brother, Ryan, followed with more reserved energy but just as much joy. “Hey, Azzi,” he said, surprising her. “I watched your last game before the injury. You’re a beast.”

Azzi laughed, genuinely. “Thanks, man. I’ve been trying to heal up fast.”

The evening settled into a soft rhythm. Dinner was calm. Lauren wouldn’t leave Azzi’s side, showing her drawings and asking about basketball. Ryan asked Paige about golf. For a moment, it all felt… okay.

Then came the party.

Amy’s holiday parties weren’t warm. They were curated. Everything from the wine selection to the jazz playing quietly through the sound system felt like it had been chosen to impress, not embrace. The guest list was a collection of polished people with perfect shoes and polite smiles—coworkers, clients, acquaintances who referred to each other by full names and job titles.

Paige had been to enough of these as a teenager to know how to survive them: smile tight, speak little, and don’t get in Amy’s way. But tonight, she wasn’t alone.

Azzi stood beside her in a cream sweater, her curls swept back, her presence effortlessly grounded in a room full of artifice. Paige hadn’t let go of her hand once—not out of nerves, but because holding it reminded her she didn’t have to shrink herself here anymore. Not tonight.

But then it happened.

They were near the mantel, Paige introducing Azzi to a vaguely familiar finance guy and his wife, when a woman in a sharp red coat turned to Amy with a warm smile and said, “Isn’t it lovely having your daughter home for the holidays?”

Amy smiled—glossy, polished. Too practiced.

“Oh yes,” she said smoothly, setting down her glass of prosecco. “Paige brought her friend Azzi—she’s an athlete too.”

Friend.

The word detonated in Paige’s chest like a slow-burning fuse.

She didn’t react at first—just blinked, like maybe she heard it wrong. But the look on Azzi’s face told her she hadn’t. Her jaw had gone tight, shoulders pulling in slightly. It was the kind of tension Paige had seen on her just before big games—when something unfair had happened and Azzi had to choose whether to react or rise above.

Paige stepped forward.

“Actually,” she said, steady but pointed, “Azzi’s my girlfriend.”

The conversation around them didn’t stop, but it might as well have.

“We’ve been together almost a year now,” Paige added, her voice ringing just loud enough.

The woman in red blinked, surprised but polite. “Oh! That’s lovely.”

Amy didn’t speak. But her smile faltered, her fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her glass. Her expression was unreadable, but Paige recognized the flicker behind her eyes: disapproval dressed up in restraint.

As the woman moved on to greet someone else, Amy turned toward Paige with a practiced smile stretched too thin.

“Could you not make a scene?” she hissed, voice low but biting. “This isn’t the time.”

Paige stared at her. “You mean it’s not the time to acknowledge who I love?”

Amy’s mouth flattened. “I didn’t want to have to explain your situation to every guest—”

“My situation?” Paige’s voice cut through, sharp now. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

Amy glanced around, eyes scanning the room like she was afraid someone might be watching.

“This is my home,” she said, voice tight.

“And this is my life,” Paige snapped. “Azzi is not a phase or a detail you get to rewrite. You don’t get to parade me around like some polished success story and then strip away the parts that don’t fit your image.”

Amy’s jaw clenched. “Paige—please don’t make this difficult.”

“I’m not,” Paige said, voice trembling with restraint. “You are. And you don’t have to like every part of who I am, but you will respect the person I love.”

A beat passed.

Then Azzi appeared, her presence grounding the tension instantly. She placed a gentle hand at the small of Paige’s back, looking between them.

“Everything okay?” she asked softly, already knowing it wasn’t.

Amy opened her mouth, but Paige was faster. “We were just clarifying something,” she said, turning toward Azzi. “That my life—and the person I choose—isn’t up for debate.”

Amy didn’t reply. Her silence—so often a tool of power—felt like an admission this time.

Paige turned to Azzi, nodding toward the back of the house. “Let’s go sit with Lauren and Ryan.”

Azzi nodded, slipping her hand into Paige’s as they walked away. Her touch was steady. Unwavering.

Later that night, in the quiet of the guest room with only the soft hum of wind outside the window, Paige lay on her back staring at the ceiling. Azzi was curled into her side, warm and quiet.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Azzi said, “You didn’t deserve that.”

Paige swallowed. “Neither did you.”

Azzi shifted, brushing her thumb over Paige’s hand. “You don’t always have to shield me, you know.”

“I know,” Paige whispered. “But when she tries to make me smaller… it’s you that reminds me I don’t have to be.”

Azzi kissed her temple. “I’ve got you. All of you.”

And this time, Paige didn’t argue. She just held on tighter.

Because maybe this wasn’t the home that held her best—but wrapped in Azzi’s arms, she had never felt more claimed. More chosen.

More seen.

The following morning sun spilled through gauzy curtains, but there was no warmth in the kitchen.

Paige sat stiffly at the breakfast bar, stirring her coffee long after the cream had settled. Azzi stood nearby, leaning silently against the counter, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, watching Paige like she might shatter.

Across from them, Amy moved around the kitchen with a kind of deliberate efficiency, pulling plates from the cabinets, buttering toast, as if nothing had happened the night before.

As if she hadn’t called her daughter’s relationship a situation.

As if her silence hadn’t said everything.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Amy finally said, breaking the quiet.

Paige set her mug down with a soft clink. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Well, good,” Amy said too quickly. “Because I think it’s unfair of you to expect me to change who I am just to accommodate—”

“To accommodate the fact that I’m in love with someone?” Paige cut in, voice low but firm.

Amy didn’t meet her eyes. “To accommodate the way you push everything into the spotlight.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You introduced my girlfriend as my friend,” Paige said, not angrily—but with a cool, sad finality. “You erased her in a room full of people who claim to know me. And you’ve been doing it for years in your own quiet way.”

Amy turned, arms folded. “This is my house.”

“Exactly,” Paige said. “It’s your house. It’s never been mine.”

Azzi flinched, just barely, at the quiet devastation in her voice.

Paige stood up, hands steady now.

“We’ll leave after breakfast,” she said, not as a threat—but a boundary drawn in permanent marker. “You don’t want us here. That’s clear. So we won’t stay where we’re not welcome.”

Just then, Lauren peeked around the corner, rubbing her eyes, Ryan trailing behind.

Paige’s heart cracked on sight.

She crouched low as they came into the room, gathering both into a hug, her voice soft but weighted.

“Hey. We’re gonna leave after breakfast, okay? But it’s not because of you.”

“But we just started hanging out,” Lauren pouted, burying her face into Paige’s hoodie.

“I know,” Paige said, brushing a curl from her sister’s cheek. “But we’ll see each other again later today, just… not here.”

Ryan frowned. “Is Mom mad?”

Paige hesitated. “Sometimes grown-ups don’t agree on things. But that has nothing to do with how much I love you both, okay? And I want you to always feel safe asking questions. Even the hard ones.”

Lauren nodded slowly.

Ryan looked at Azzi. “Can you still come, too?”

Azzi smiled gently. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Paige kissed both their foreheads and stood, turning toward her mom one last time.

“I hope one day you realize what you’re pushing away,” she said.

Amy said nothing.

But Paige didn’t need her to anymore.

She had made her choice.

And when they left that house—hand in hand—Paige didn’t look back.

Because some places weren’t home.

But people could be.

And Azzi was the only home she needed.

The tires hummed softly against the road as the car moved through winding backstreets, no real destination in mind. Just space. Just air.

The sky was heavy with gray-blue dusk, that in-between light where streetlamps flicker to life but the sun hasn’t fully let go. Paige had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. Azzi’s fingers reached across the console, curled around hers like an anchor.

They hadn’t said much since pulling away from her mom’s house. The kind of silence that wasn’t cold—just full.

Finally, Paige exhaled. “That sucked.”

Azzi turned to look at her. “Yeah. It did.”

“I knew it was gonna be tense, but… I didn’t expect it to hit me like that,” Paige admitted. Her voice was calm, but threaded with something brittle. “It’s not even what she said. It’s what she didn’t say. What she’s always not said.”

Azzi nodded, thumb brushing small circles against Paige’s knuckles. “You held your ground.”

Paige gave a soft, wry smile. “You think?”

“I know.” Azzi shifted slightly in her seat, eyes locked on Paige. “You didn’t shrink yourself for her comfort. You called it out. You made space for the truth. That’s brave as hell.”

Paige let that sit for a moment. Then she laughed under her breath, short and a little tired. “You know what’s wild? I’m actually… proud of myself.”

Azzi’s eyes softened instantly. “Good. You should be.”

She blinked out at the windshield, the faint glow of oncoming headlights sliding across her face. “But it still hurts. Even when you expect it. Even when you’ve built a whole life that has nothing to do with their approval… it still stings.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Of course it does. You deserved better. You deserve better.”

Paige’s jaw tensed, then released. “It’s like… no matter how much success I have, how much love I have in my life now—it’s still not enough for her to see me fully.”

Azzi was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “I see you fully.”

That cracked something open. Not in a painful way—but in the way warmth seeps into frozen places.

Paige looked over, eyes glassy but steady. “Thank you for being there.”

Azzi leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Always.”

They kept driving, slow and aimless, letting the quiet fill back in. Letting the pain ease its grip.

The night was still ahead of them. And despite everything, Paige felt lighter.

Maybe not whole.

But closer.

—-

The neon glow of the arcade blinked in bright blues and reds across Paige’s face as she watched her younger brother lose his mind over the claw machine. Azzi stood a few feet away with Paige’s sister, both of them laughing as they tried—and failed—to beat each other at ski ball.

It was noisy and chaotic and smelled like pizza grease and sour candy. But for once, none of it felt overwhelming. It felt right.

Paige leaned back against the side of the game cabinet, sipping her slushie and watching her siblings light up in a way she hadn’t seen in too long.

“Okay, okay—watch this one,” her brother said, intensely focused, maneuvering the joystick like it held the fate of the world.

“You’ve said that the last three times,” Paige teased.

“Yeah, but this time, I’m actually locked in.”

Azzi walked over with a smug smile. “He’s been locked in for twenty minutes. I’m pretty sure the machine’s just bullying him at this point.”

“I heard that!” he yelled, and they all laughed.

Later, after the games had been played and prize tickets cashed in for candy and slap bracelets and a single bouncy ball that cost 700 points, they all piled into the booth of a nearby ice cream spot—one of those ones with metal chairs and handwritten chalkboard menus.

Paige let her little sister steal some of her whipped cream. Azzi shared her cone with her brother because he needed to try the cotton candy flavor. They were loud and ridiculous and somehow a little family in their own right.

And for a moment, Paige forgot about the tension from the morning. Forgot about the look on her mom’s face when she corrected her. Forgot about all the years she spent trying to earn a kind of love that never came.

Because this—this right here—was love. Uncomplicated, goofy, sticky-fingered love.

“Thanks for today,” her sister said softly, swinging her legs under the table. “It’s been a while since it felt like this.”

Paige blinked, her chest pulling a little. “Like what?”

Her sister shrugged. “Like… you’re really here. Like everything’s okay.”

Paige reached out and gently tugged one of her curls. “I am really here.”

Her brother, mouth full of marshmallow topping, looked up. “You’re gonna come back more, right?”

Azzi stepped in without hesitation. “We both are.”

Paige glanced at her—at the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t wait to be asked. She just showed up. It made her heart do that fluttery, shaky thing it always did when Azzi said we like that.

“Yeah,” Paige echoed, voice softer. “We both are.”

Outside, the sky was streaked with stars. The kind you could barely see through the city’s glow, but they were there. Quiet. Constant.

And Paige, for the first time in a long time, felt like maybe—just maybe—she was starting to feel that way too.

—-

The hotel room was simple—two queen beds, warm lighting, and the faint scent of lemon cleaner still lingering in the air. Paige had kicked off her sneakers the second they got in and collapsed backward onto the bed with a long exhale, her arm draped over her eyes.

Azzi watched her for a moment from across the room, slipping out of her own shoes more slowly. There was something in the way Paige was lying there—not exhausted exactly, but unloaded. Like everything she’d been holding in had finally spilled out, and now there was nothing left but the ache of vulnerability.

Azzi padded over and crawled onto the bed beside her, laying on her side. Paige didn’t move at first, just kept her arm over her face like she wasn’t ready to be seen.

But Azzi reached up and gently pulled it away.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Paige blinked at the ceiling, her mouth twitching. “Hey.”

Azzi studied her face for a moment, then said, “You okay?”

Paige let out a breath through her nose. “I think so. That was just… a lot. I didn’t think seeing them would hit me like that.”

“You were amazing with them,” Azzi said. “The way they lit up around you? You’re their whole world.”

Paige looked over at her, eyes a little glassy. “Sometimes I feel like… I’m trying to stitch together a version of home that never really existed for me.”

Azzi’s chest pulled. She reached out and took Paige’s hand. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s just scary,” Paige admitted. “Letting you see all this. Letting you into all this.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Paige… I’ve been in it. I know it’s messy. I know there are parts of you that still don’t believe you’re allowed to want the kind of love you give everyone else.”

Paige went quiet, her eyes searching Azzi’s like she wasn’t sure what to say.

Azzi leaned closer, her voice low but sure. “But I want you to know—I’m not scared off by any of it. Not your past. Not your mom. Not the years you spent learning how to take care of yourself because no one else did it right.”

She brushed a hand through Paige’s hair, her touch slow and grounding. “You’ve built this life with so much intention. With so much softness, despite everything that tried to harden you.”

A pause.

“I’m falling more in love with you because of it,” Azzi said, her voice catching just slightly. “Not in spite of it. Not around it. Because of it.”

Paige’s eyes welled, but she didn’t look away this time.

Azzi smiled gently. “You’ve been showing up for everyone your whole life. Let me show up for you, okay? Let me keep showing up.”

Paige’s lip trembled, and she nodded once before pulling Azzi into her arms, burying her face in her neck. The hug wasn’t frantic or urgent—it was slow and certain, a deep breath in human form.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For not flinching.”

Azzi kissed her temple. “Never.”

The hotel room was quiet, all the sharpness of the day dulled into a hush. The low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional swoosh of a passing car outside were the only sounds left in the world.

Paige lay on her side, one arm draped across Azzi’s waist, her cheek resting against her shoulder. Their bodies had long since learned each other. They’d touched, gasped, loved in every way before—but something about this moment felt different. Not new. Just… clearer.

Azzi’s fingers idly traced the curve of Paige’s back, slipping beneath the hem of her t-shirt to feel the warm skin there. She wasn’t coaxing anything. Just… there. Present. Intentional.

Eventually, Paige looked up, her eyes soft and steady.

“You okay?” Azzi murmured.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. Just… it feels like I’m finally breathing right.”

Azzi smiled, brushing a thumb across Paige’s cheek. “You are.”

There was a pause, not heavy—just thoughtful.

Then Paige’s gaze shifted, deepened.

“I want to love you tonight,” she said, her voice low but sure. “Not like a release. Not like a distraction. Just… you.”

Azzi didn’t need time to think. She simply nodded, pulling Paige closer until their foreheads touched. “Then love me. We know how.”

They moved together like muscle memory—but slower, more deliberate than before. Clothes were eased off, not in haste but reverence. There was nothing rushed in how Paige kissed down Azzi’s stomach, nothing performative in the way Azzi’s hands slid up her back. They’d done this before. But never like this.

Every kiss was quieter. Every breath was met with one in return. They weren’t chasing anything. They were meeting each other—touch for touch, heart for heart.

Paige laid herself fully over Azzi, fitting into her like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there. Her hand slid down Azzi’s thigh as her lips pressed to her neck, and Azzi tilted her head without thinking, offering the vulnerable space beneath her jaw like a secret.

“God, you feel like home,” Paige whispered, her breath warm against skin. “Like something I didn’t know I could have.”

Azzi pulled her tighter. “You do have it. You have me.”

And Paige showed her just how deeply she believed that.

She moved inside her with a kind of reverence that made Azzi tremble—slow, grounded thrusts that made her body arch and sigh, made her eyes flutter shut and then open again, needing to see Paige.

Their rhythm wasn’t new. But it had never felt this intentional.

Azzi clutched at Paige’s back, her legs tightening around her waist. “You love me different tonight,” she whispered.

Paige pressed their foreheads together. “I love you truer tonight.”

Their mouths met again, messier now—breathless and aching as Azzi’s moans grew quieter, tighter, hips beginning to shake with the buildup she couldn’t hold back.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, “don’t stop—just like that—”

“I’m right here,” Paige murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

And Azzi did.

Not with the same wild abandon they sometimes had—but with something quieter. More consuming. Her entire body tensed, then unfurled, her head falling back with a sound she only ever made when she felt safe.

Paige stayed with her through it, kissing her throat, her cheek, her temple—holding her like she was more than a body. Because she was.

When Azzi finally caught her breath, she cradled Paige’s face in her hands and pulled her into a kiss that said everything she didn’t have words for.

And Paige gave it all back.

Not because they hadn’t before—but because tonight, every touch said: I still choose you. I will keep choosing you. I want to grow this thing with you—on purpose.

Later, when the sweat had dried and the room dipped back into stillness, Paige stayed wrapped around her, face tucked into the curve of Azzi’s neck.

She waited until Azzi’s breathing slowed, until her body softened in sleep.

And then, when she thought no one could hear her:

“I’m so, so in love with you,” she whispered. “But someday… I’m gonna marry you. And somehow, someway… I’ll fall even more in love with you than I am now.”

Azzi didn’t stir.

Just breathed slow. Easy.

But when Paige finally slipped into sleep, Azzi shifted—gently curling tighter around her, fitting them together like something practiced and permanent.

She pressed a kiss to Paige’s bare shoulder and whispered into the dark:

“I hope that someday comes soon.”

A promise, not a wish.

And though Paige didn’t respond, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips.

Because maybe, deep down, she heard her after all.

The morning light filtered in slow, pale and golden, pooling across the rumpled hotel sheets and the tangle of limbs between them. Paige stirred first, blinking up at the ceiling like she needed a second to remember where she was.

Then she felt Azzi’s hand resting over her stomach. Their legs were still knotted together, bodies tucked into each other like they’d never moved from where they’d fallen asleep.

And maybe they hadn’t.

Paige turned her head slowly. Azzi was still asleep—or at least, pretending to be, her breath even, her lashes soft against her cheeks. Paige watched her for a long moment, her chest filling with something deep and quiet and certain.

She didn’t say anything this time.

Just leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Azzi smiled, eyes still closed. “Was that a good morning kiss or a you-talk-in-your-sleep-and-I-heard-every-word kiss?”

Paige flushed immediately. “You were awake?”

Azzi opened one eye, grinning. “I might’ve been.”

Paige groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “I’m never talking to you again.”

Azzi just laughed, pulling her closer. “You really want to marry me, huh?”

Paige peeked up at her with an embarrassed smile. “I said someday.”

Azzi kissed her cheek. “Well, I hope someday packs light, because we’ve got a drive ahead of us.”

They got dressed slowly, moving around each other with soft smiles and the kind of ease that only came after nights like that—after honesty like that. Paige packed her bag with a little more care than she had when they’d left her mom’s. Azzi triple-checked the directions.

By the time they were on the road, sun climbing higher in the sky, there was music playing low and Paige’s hand resting on Azzi’s thigh as they drove.

She stared out the window for a while, watching the hills roll by. Then, quietly: “It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him. We’ve talked more lately, but… I still don’t know what to expect.”

Azzi reached over and laced their fingers together. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

Paige looked over at her, heart squeezing. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “I’ve got you. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s weird. Even if it’s tense dad hugs and sad store-bought cookies weird. We’re good.”

Paige laughed softly. “You’re the best.”

“Tell me that after we survive your childhood bedroom.”

Paige groaned. “God, I bet the walls are still lime green.”

Azzi’s grin widened. “Even better.”

They drove on, the weight of yesterday easing into the open space ahead of them. The air between them was calm now—not because everything was perfect, but because they were moving through it all together.

And whatever was waiting at her dad’s house?

Paige wasn’t facing it alone.

—-

Paige didn’t realize how much tension she was still carrying until it started to melt away the second the front door opened.

“Look who it is,” her dad said with a big grin, pulling Paige into a firm, familiar hug. He smelled like sawdust and peppermint gum—somehow exactly the same and totally different from when she was a kid. When he pulled back, his eyes were a little glassy, but his voice stayed steady. “It’s really good to see you, kid.”

“You too,” Paige said, letting herself lean into the warmth of it.

“And this must be Azzi,” he added, turning toward her with the kind of welcome that didn’t feel forced or performative. He offered a hand but then pulled her into a hug before she could even shake it. “We’ve heard a lot about you. Hope you’re ready for chaos.”

Azzi laughed, visibly relieved by the shift in energy. “I was born ready.”

Just then, a blur came flying down the hallway. “PAIGE!”

Her little brother Drew—eleven years old and shooting up like a weed—barreled into her with an enthusiastic hug that nearly knocked her backward.

“Drew, dude,” Paige said, crouching to hug him properly. “You got tall since I saw you last.”

“I got fast too,” he said proudly, grinning wide before turning to Azzi. “You’re Azzi, right? You play basketball. I watched your highlight reel on YouTube.”

Azzi crouched to his level with a smile. “You did, huh? What was your favorite play?”

“The one where you blocked that girl so hard she fell down,” he said with complete seriousness.

“That’s a classic,” she said, winking.

From the kitchen, her step-mom called out, “We’ve got hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls if anyone’s hungry!”

The whole house smelled like cinnamon and comfort. The walls were lined with photos—some old, some new—including a framed one of Paige and Drew at his last school event. Paige didn’t even know that one existed. It sat right next to a holiday card Paige had sent with Azzi earlier in the month.

No performance. No rewriting of history. Just inclusion.

They migrated into the living room, where Paige’s dad handed her a mug with her name on it—clearly homemade by Drew, the letters a little uneven but full of love. The fire crackled in the background, a board game already half set up on the coffee table.

Everything about the space felt… easy.

“So,” Paige’s step-mom said, settling into the armchair with her own cocoa. “We were thinking gingerbread houses tonight, then movie night. Drew insists on Home Alone 2.”

“Because it’s the better one,” Drew added, offended anyone would even question it.

Azzi laughed and pointed at him. “You get it.”

Paige sat back on the couch, her thigh brushing Azzi’s, cocoa warming her hands and heart. She watched her dad joke with Azzi about the chaos of raising a middle-schooler, watched Drew already asking if she could come to one of his games, watched Paige’s step-mom quietly bring over a blanket and drape it over their laps.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was something better: intentional.

When she caught her dad watching her with that same look—regret, maybe, but also effort—he just nodded at her.

We’re trying, it said.

Paige nodded back.

And for the first time in days, the tightness in her chest released.

She reached over and laced her fingers through Azzi’s under the blanket, giving it a squeeze.

Azzi leaned into her and whispered, “This is good.”

Paige smiled. “Yeah. It really is.”

And just like that, they settled into the evening—with laughter, sugary snacks, and the kind of comfort Paige hadn’t realized she missed until it was right in front of her again.

The days between Christmas and New Year’s passed like a gentle snow globe shake—slow, sparkly, filled with little moments that shimmered when you looked close enough.

Azzi fell into rhythm with Paige’s family easily. Not in any grand or performative way, but in the small, sacred things.

One morning, she helped Drew put together a Lego set at the kitchen table, the two of them bent over the instructions like co-pilots on a mission. Paige’s dad watched from the counter, smiling into his coffee like he was seeing something he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for.

Later that afternoon, Azzi stood shoulder to shoulder with Paige’s step-mom as they organized old photo albums in the living room. At one point, Paige’s step-mom flipped to a younger version of Paige—missing her two front teeth, eyes wild with a pre-teen confidence. Azzi traced a finger along the photo.

“She always that fearless?” she asked, half teasing.

Paige’s step-mom smiled. “Even when she wasn’t… she tried to be.”

Paige had walked in just then, caught the look exchanged between them, and shook her head. “Don’t let them start on storytime. I’ll never recover.”

But she smiled anyway, tucked herself under Azzi’s arm, and didn’t let go.

There was a safety in this home that didn’t require apology. Paige still had moments—quiet ones, when she caught herself waiting for the other shoe to drop—but Azzi was always right there. Steady. Present. Not trying to fix anything, just… loving her through it.

New Year’s Eve came cold and clear, the sky painted with navy and stars as they bundled up and made their way to the center of the small town. It was the annual tradition—bonfires in the town square, booths with hot cider and kettle corn, a countdown projected on the side of the old town hall.

It was quaint and a little chaotic. Families mingled, teenagers threw snowballs, and someone’s aunt was already dancing like it was midnight at 9:30 p.m. sharp.

Paige stood near the firepit with Azzi, their hands tucked into one shared pocket, cheeks pink from the cold and cider.

“I feel like I’m in a Hallmark movie,” Azzi said, glancing around with a crooked grin.

Paige laughed. “I know. I keep waiting for someone to challenge me to a snowman contest and teach me the true meaning of Christmas.”

Azzi bumped her hip. “You’d lose.”

“Debatable.”

Drew ran by with a sparkler, and Paige’s step-mom handed them both hot cocoa, whispering something about claiming the perfect spot for the countdown.

Paige looked around the square—the old stone clock tower, the string lights flickering between lampposts, her family standing just a few steps away. It didn’t feel performative like her mom’s. It felt… earned. Real. Like maybe this was a new memory she wouldn’t have to flinch from someday.

Azzi saw it in her face and leaned in closer. “You good?”

Paige nodded slowly. “Better than good.”

When the countdown finally started—10… 9… 8…—they found themselves pulled closer by instinct.

At midnight, surrounded by cheers and sparklers and soft laughter echoing down snowy streets, Paige kissed Azzi.

It wasn’t their first kiss.

But it felt like the first where Paige let herself really feel it—deep and slow and full of every promise they hadn’t said out loud yet and the promises they had said.

When they pulled back, foreheads resting together, Paige whispered, “Thank you for being all in with me.”

Azzi smiled, her breath warm against Paige’s lips. “I couldn’t be anything else.”

They stayed there, tangled in each other while the sky exploded above them—fireworks lighting up the town, the start of a new year unfolding with quiet certainty.

And for the first time in her life, Paige believed this kind of love could be hers. The kind you didn’t have to perform for. The kind you just chose, again and again.

Even when it was messy.

Even when it was hard.

Especially when it was this good.

—-

The morning they were set to fly home was crisp and quiet, the kind of stillness that made goodbyes feel heavier in the air.

The car was packed—suitcases in the trunk, travel pillows tossed into the backseat. Paige lingered by the front steps of her dad’s house, Azzi standing close beside her, both of them bundled up for one last Midwest chill.

Drew was the first to break the silence, launching himself into Paige’s arms with that reckless kind of kid hug that always made her heart squeeze.

“You better FaceTime me the next time you hit a hole-in-one,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

Paige laughed softly, brushing his curls back. “Deal. But only if you promise to send me your next three-pointer, too.”

“You got it.”

When she finally let go, her stepmom, pulled her into a gentler hug—one filled with the kind of understanding Paige never knew how much she needed until recently.

“You’re welcome here anytime,” she whispered. “And that includes both of you.”

Azzi smiled, stepping forward to hug her too, murmuring her own thanks and promises to keep in touch. It wasn’t loud or emotional—it was simple, grounded, real.

And then came her dad.

He didn’t say much at first. Just pulled Paige in, held her for a long time, and when he stepped back, he placed both hands on her shoulders like he was trying to memorize her face.

“You’ve got something really good,” he said, nodding toward Azzi. “And I can see she’s got something good in you, too.”

Paige swallowed hard. “Thanks, Dad.”

“We’ll come visit soon,” he added. “You two show us the LA version of family holidays next time.”

“We’d love that,” Azzi said, looping her arm through Paige’s.

As they climbed into the car and waved one last time from the driveway, Paige felt a quiet ache settle in her chest—not the heavy, complicated kind she’d carried leaving her mom’s house, but something bittersweet. Something soft.

Because this goodbye didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the start of something new.

They drove toward the airport with fingers laced between them on the center console, the landscape rolling by in shades of winter brown and gold.

“You okay?” Azzi asked gently.

Paige nodded, eyes on the horizon. “Yeah. Actually… I think I am.”

“You sure we’re ready to go back?”

A pause. Then a smile.

“I’m ready to go home.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

And just like that, they left behind the towns and tensions and toasts of the past few weeks—carrying only what mattered most: each other.

Los Angeles would be waiting. Their bed. Their mugs. Their playlists. Their routines.

Their home.

The one they were building together.

[ouroborosmoons]

Summary of the West Bank scene over the past hours: (X)

General scene:

A dangerous escalation throughout the West Bank, as the occupation's crimes escalate from raids, arrests and widespread demolition, while the resistance responds with heroic operations and continuous clashes. At the same time, the violations of the PA's apparatuses against the resistance and citizens are increasing, which increases the complexity and tension of the scene.

Escalation of the occupation and armed resistance:

• Al-Qassam Brigades and resistance factions engage in armed clashes with the occupation forces during the storming of Tulkarm camp, with the detonation of explosive devices and targeting of occupation vehicles.

• Shooting at the vehicle of the commander of the "Etzion" Brigade of the occupation army near Tekoa, after an operation targeting a settler vehicle.

• For the third day, the occupation fails to reach the perpetrators of the "hotel" operation, and closes roads and intersections with earth mounds and barriers, with intensive flights of reconnaissance aircraft.

• Three cousins, including two children, were martyred in a raid on Tamoun, south of Tubas, and another martyr succumbed to his wounds.

Occupation crimes and violations:

• Targeting Palestinians with arrests and raids in Qalqilya, Adh Dhahiriya, Qadura camp, and Aqaba, with a wide escalation in Tulkarm, Nablus, and Tubas.

• Demolition of two houses in Kafr Ad-Dik, and widespread destruction in Aqraba and Mikhmas.

• Settler attacks on Palestinians and their property in the northern Jordan Valley, with an attempt to steal farmers' cows.

• Khaled Al-Najjar was injured with fractures and a Palestinian woman was wounded as a result of the occupation's attack in Tulkarm camp.

• Occupation forces attacked Kisan School in Bethlehem and fired tear gas at students and teachers.

Violent confrontations:

• Ongoing clashes in Tulkarm, Anabta, and Ya'bad, and clashes erupted in Burin, Odala, and Madama in Nablus, with the occupation targeting them with explosive devices.

• Young men throw stones at settlers' vehicles in Hizma, Hawara, Haris, and other areas.

Violations by the Palestinian Authority's security services:

• Clashes between the PA security and the resistance in Jenin.

• A wide-scale arrest campaign in Jenin that included wanted persons and journalists, and an assault on Hajj Asem Abu al-Rish and his family in al-Eizariya because of his sermon on the sanctity of Muslim blood.

Al-Aqsa Mosque:

• Groups of settlers storm Al-Aqsa Mosque under the protection of the occupation, in light of the continued restrictions on Palestinians in Jerusalem.

[starry-crossing-zone]

General Storyteller - Rex

Summary: After the Battle of Kamino, Rex finds you surrounded by clone cadets. Length: 1.4k Warnings: Post-Battle; Lots of Teasing; Rex's Flirting is Improving

The battle of Kamino had yielded heavy and unfortunate losses, but the Republic managed to repel the Separatists in the end. Rex, after promoting Echo and Fives to ARC Troopers, sought out the generals. He walked over to where Jesse and Hardcase were relaxing, assuming they would have an idea.

“Has anyone seen the generals?” Rex asked, resting his bucket against his hip.

“General Skywalker’s at the south end of the city, but I have a feeling that you’re not asking about him,” Jesse quipped, causing Rex to narrow his eyes. “She’s with Kix in the infirmary.”

“You know how she always turns into a mother hen after battle,” Hardcase reminded his captain, leaning back against the wall. He elbowed Jesse with a mischievous grin. “She’s probably giving shinies heart attacks.”

“Well, if she can make our esteemed captain blush, what hope do the shinies have, Hardcase?”

Rex, tuning out the rest of their conversation, turned and made his way to the infirmary. Due to the overflow from battle, it had expanded into the mess hall. But Rex assumed that a Jedi would be easy to spot among the clones and Kaminoans. But when he didn’t spot you, Rex made his way over to Kix, who was setting another trooper’s ankle.

“Kix, have you seen the general?”

“She’s in the other room,” Kix stated, pointing to his right. “You won’t be able to miss her.”

Rex raised an eyebrow, but continued on his way. Stepping into one of the wings of the infirmary, Rex paused when he spotted exactly what Kix was talking about. You sat at the end of the room, smiling and talking with all of the young clone cadets gathered around you.

“And then the bridge started to collapse,” you retold dramatically as you carefully bandaged up a cadet’s wrist. “The Separatists planted detonators along the bridge and lured us onto it. And the tactical droid tried to blow us all up.”

“How did you escape?” one of the cadets asked, sitting on the edge of his seat.

“Well, we started running. Anakin and I pushed your brothers to safety with the Force because all of you and all of your brothers in every corner of this galaxy are important to us.”

You gently poked one of the cadets on the tip of his nose to emphasize your point. He blushed bright red, reminding you of another clone, and looked down at his feet bashfully while one of his brothers grabbed his shoulders from behind.

“And no good leader and certainly no good Jedi would say otherwise,” you added, looking out around at the clone cadets. 

Rex was quite sure that the meaning behind your story was not part of the approved Kaminoan curriculum, but he couldn’t help but smile at his younger brothers’ reactions to your story. You smiled and finished up with bandaging a cadet’s wrist before continuing with the story.

“But then we had to run to safety ourselves. Now, Anakin was lucky enough that he was standing close to the edge. So, he escaped easily. But I wasn’t so lucky because a lingering detonator went off right behind me, causing me to lose my balance.”

“What happened next?” a cadet gasped.

“Shhh!” one of the other cadets shushed his brother.

“I’m getting to it,” you promised them with a chuckle. “As I was saying, your brother, Captain Rex, grabbed a long gun—right out of Mule’s hands, mind you—and shot a cable at me.”

“Did he hit you?” one of the cadets asked quickly.

“Do you think I’d miss, Cadet?” Rex called out teasingly.

“Captain Rex!” the cadets called turning around to see him walking towards them.

They all jumped to their feet and stood at attention. Rex stopped in front of the crowd of his young brothers and dismissed them, urging them to sit down again. He turned to you as the cadets got settled again. And even though Rex felt a familiar heat start to climb up his neck, he moved to take a seat on one of the beds. Clearing his throat as you offered him a soft smile, he nodded.

“You were saying, General.”

“Right, Captain,” you mused before turning back to his brothers. “No, Captain Rex didn’t hit me with the cable. It landed in front of me and I held onto it as the bridge tumbled down. And with some help from some of your other brothers, he pulled me up to safety.”

“Captain Rex saved your life?”

“Yes, he did,” you stated without hesitation.

“To be fair, you’ve saved mine a number of times, General,” Rex spoke up, causing you to smile.

“Yes, shall I tell all of you one of those stories next?”

The cadets cheered but Rex got back to his feet and motioned towards the door. You nodded and slowly stood up, causing the cadets to sigh and whine. Giving them a kind smile, you kneeled down so that you were eye level with all of them again.

“I must go back to being a general. But you should try and find General Kenobi, for he’s an even better story teller than me. But which battalion is the best in the GAR again?”

“The 501st!”

“And don’t you forget it,” Rex added, causing his younger brothers to grin.

Bidding the cadets goodbye, you stood up and walked with Rex out of the infirmary. The two of you moved in silence for a moment before Rex turned to you with a soft look.

“You survived the battle alright, General?”

“I should be asking you that question, Rex. This is your home. All of your homes.” You sighed and added quietly, “I’m sorry we didn’t defend it better.”  

“Kamino was always a target to the Seppies,” Rex stated, turning to look forward again. “But thank you, General.” Clearing his throat a bit, Rex turned forward once again. “And thank you for looking after the cadets. They were bred for war, but they were never trained for it to happen in their own home.”

“Of course,” you returned, nodding politely. “I have a soft spot for children. I believe my master’s habits rubbed off on me.”

“It’s not a bad habit to have.”

“Well, and clone cadets are adorable. In a way, the clones and the Jedi have a lot in common. We were raised communally as well. It’s a setup most citizens find unnatural, almost.”

“Well, your people can move things with their minds. My brothers and I all share the same face. They might not be far off,” Rex quipped, causing you to chuckle.

Stepping into the lift together, you stood side by side as you made your way back to the upper floors of the facility. No doubt that Shaak Ti and Obi-Wan were looking for the two of you. Placing your hands on your hips and turned to Rex with a mischievous smile.

“What were you like as a cadet, Rex?”

“Top of my class, of course.”

“Of course,” you agreed teasingly, causing Rex to tilt his chin up. “But don’t tell me that you were always this stoic and brooding.”

“Brooding?” Rex repeated, earning a laugh in return.

“Come on, Rex. You must have broken a few rules in your time on Kamino.”

“I would assume as many as you did when you were a padawan, General.”

“My master was on the Jedi High Council, so I had an image to uphold.” After a moment, you added with a grin, “But also more time unsupervised. And, well, Anakin was a poor influence on me.” Your smile softened as you turned back to Rex. “Perhaps I’ll tell you some of those stories one day, Captain.”

“I look forward to it, General.”

Stepping off the elevator together, you and Rex shared a smile before Commander Cody called out to the two of you. Rex winced when he spotted Cody’s knowing look and you pulled on a more professional expression in the presence of the marshal commander.

“General Kenobi requested your assistance with moving some of the larger pieces of debris,” Cody told you. “He’s in the eastern part of the city.”

“Thank you, Commander Cody, I will go meet him.” Nodding to Cody, you turned to Rex, who returned your burning gaze. “I’ll see you later, Captain.”

And with that, you walked down the hall and away from them. You couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder at Rex. Staring after you until your figure disappeared around the corner, Rex ignored Cody’s stare and smirk. Rolling his eyes, Rex brushed past his brother.

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Cody called after him, causing Rex to wince.

“Stow it, Cody.”

[mafuyussweater]

My Favorite Bingqiu (Bingyuan) fics

Be sure to read tags!

Leave kudos and comments for the authors!

Enjoy ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ (to be added to as a read more)

lowly disciple's self insert fanfic system by:

Allpiesforourown

Mature • canon divergence

Airplane and Cucumber-bro figure out they are transmigrators earlier on. Shen Qingqius disciples are STICKY. Luo Binghe writes self insert fanfic about his Shizun.

☆彡

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This by: Prudabaga

Explicit • Canon Divergence (fix-it?)

Shen Qingqiu can't help that his dreams all seem to revolve around sleeping with the protagonist. It doesn't make him gay. He hardly has a choice even if he really does enjoy them.. anyone would!

☆彡

Tie Up the Broken Threads of That Old Dream by: Ehann

Mature • Canon Divergence (fix-it)

Shen Qingqiu self detonates and causes the system to go haywire. He wakes up in the past with no system at all and finds Luo Binghe fresh out of the Abyss. He is determined to make things right this time.

☆彡

Remnants of Gold by: Wemmye

Teen+ • Canon Divergence? (No Transmigrators)

Su Xiyan still takes the poison but somehow she manages to survive. Her and Binghe grow up as farmers and she helps her son hide his demon side with a jade pendant. She really doesn't trust cultivators but Shen Yuan, one of the two peak lords of Qing Jings peak, convinces her to let Luo Binghe learn cultivation from him.

☆彡

Tarnished Gold by: Prim_The_Amazing

Mature • Canon Divergence (in a major way)

Shen Yuan transmigrates into the body of Gongyi Xiao and meets a post Abyss Luo Bingge who wants to take his place as Head Disciple.

☆彡

The Divide Between Autumn and Spring by: sareyen

Mature • AU

Shen Yuan transmigrates into a disciple of Qing Jing who shares his same name. He is out of his depth when he realizes this body has a damaged core and also that he is well before canon PIDW with all of the future peak lords being just young teens! He manages to make lots of friends, becomes a beloved head disciple, and saves a few people too.

(This is angsty y'all but oml this is a MASTERPIECE -with a happy end dw)

☆彡

If Marriage Was an Olympic Sport by: anatheme

Explicit • Wife Plot (set during the Abyss arc)

Shen Qingqiu accidentally sets of a "wife hunt" that requires 12 participants to hunt down the "wife". He has from sunrise to sunset to run for his life to avoid being forced into marriage.

☆彡

safe and stranded by: anatheme

Mature• Modern era-ish (fix-it)

Shen Qingqiu self detonation causes the system to glitch and it sends him (and Binghe) to his old life and he has 3 days to experience living in the modern world again before he will be sent back to his body that was fall towards his death.

☆彡

picture you by: wnter_autumn

Explicit • Modern Au

Shen Yuan sleeps with his friend Luo Binghe and freaks out about it because he is straight... right?

☆彡

dreaming you the same sun in a different place by: JRaylin441

Explicit • Reverse Transmigration

Shen Qingqiu disappears and Luo Binghe gets a notification from the System offering a side quest called In Another Life that requires him to find his husband in his original body in the modern world. Unfortunately his husband has no memory of living in PIDW!

☆彡

Stealing Sun From the Flowers by: CherrieBabie

Explicit • Canon Divergence

Shen Yuan wakes up in his mushroom body with no memory of ever being Shen Qingqiu and no access to a system so he thinks he lucked out! Unfortunately as he is roaming around as a rogue cultivator he gets captured in the Huan Hua territory and meets Luo Binghe himself who is really upset that this guy looks really similar to his dead Shizun.

☆彡

Being a 30-Year-Old Virgin Made Shen Yuan a Wizard! By: stormsonjupiter

Explicit • Cherry Magic Au

The Cherry Magic we all love but make it Bingyuan!

☆彡

if you don't have your own boyfriend, rented is fine by: nyoomerr

Mature • Modern Au

Luo Bingge searches for his own nice Shizun and ends up in the modern world with Shen Yuan who is kind of rude and only looks a little bit like Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Yuan thinks Bingge is a poor cosplayer and asks to hire him as his pretend boyfriend to show appreciation for the real authentic cosplay.. that's all!

☆彡

Life is (not) a Hallmark Movie by: mellicindi

Teen+ • Modern Au

Shen Yuan watches this one ASMR cooking channel and finds the video needing some improvements but the guys voice is really really nice! Then he ends up at his friend Shang Qingyuan apartment and sees a familiar countertop...

☆彡

Tell Me Your Heart Doesn't Race for a Hurricane or a Burning Building by: Bluethursday

Explicit • Modern (stalker Au)

Shen Yuan opens his door to a handsome stranger who says "Hi, are you Shen Yuan? I'm Luo Binghe, your new live-in caretaker"

☆彡

Mightier than Waves by: bedesbummie

Explicit • Modern Au (kinda stalker ish)

Shen Yuan goes to pick up his sisters backpack from the rec center and when no one seems to be coming to help him, he searches for an employee and runs into shirtless and overly handsome Luo Binghe. After that day he can't help but find himself back at the rec center to get another glimpse of Binghe. Under the guise of wanting to improve his physical health.

☆彡

a thousand jars by:tagteamme

Explicit • Post Canon

Shen Qinghua finds himself feeling incredibly jealous. There is porn. That's the fic (it's so good)

☆彡

Starstruck by: Camorra

Explicit • Modern Au (musicians)

Shen Yuan, who is known for making videos playing bass in accompaniment to Luo Binghe's songs, gets a message from someone saying they could get him in touch with famous musician Luo Binghe. At first he doesn't believe it but then he receives a photo of his bandmates taking a selfie and decides to not let this opportunity slip by.

☆彡

Halasana by: The Feels Whale (miscella)

Explicit • Modern Au (yoga)

Luo Binghe (known slut) makes a bet with his coworker Sha Hualing that he will stop sleeping with his hot clients to prove he doesn't /need/ sex. And then it all goes to shit when Shen Yuan comes waltzing in for their one-on-one session.

☆彡

# KissingTheHomiesGoodnight by: knothim

Explicit • Modern Au

Shen Yuans "no homo" mental gymnastics his way into messing around with Luo Binghe using the dumbest logic only he could come up with.

☆彡

A Little Bit To The Left by: miixz

Teen+ • Canon Divergence

A system error sends Shen Yuan to transmigrate into a random canon fodder Bai Zhan Peak disciple named Shi Yuan instead of Shen Qingqiu.

☆彡

We Are Not Wise by: Boomchick, Suzoomie

Teen+ • Canon Divergence (Utena inspired soul swords)

Shen Yuan transmigrates into a version of PIDW where cultivators form swords made of their very own souls. He is just a child when he runs into the middle of Shen Qingqiu battling a demonic creature and in order to protect them both Shen Qingqiu makes very horrible/controversial decision to pull Shen Yuans sword out of his body.

This is how Shen Yuan finds himself dragged to Qing Jing peak in order to keep his silence.

☆彡

when the glass shatters (which me do you see?) by: Quirmzi

Gen • Post Canon (de-aging)

Shen Qingqiu encounters trouble on a night hunt and ends up back in his (Shen Yuans!!) body at 6 years old. He has no idea who anyone is or why they can't get him his parents but thankfully at least Shang Qinghua understands him.

(All the peak lords (except one) gushes over how cute Shen Yuan is)

☆彡

A Transmigrator and a Time Traveler Walk Into the Bamboo House by: VeryCharismaticDragon

Teen+ • Time Travel (fix-it)

Over a year after Shen Qingqius death, Luo Binghe seeks out Shang Qinghua for another way to bring back the love of his life. All he needs to do is find a special mirror that brings you to the day you first met your soulmate. When he wakes up at 14 he is a bit confused but as more pieces of the puzzle are revealed, he learns the love of his life is way more complex than he ever expected.

☆彡

The Moon's Beloved Shadow by: mofumofu

Explicit • Canon Divergence

There is a well kept secret between the peak lords on Cang Qiong mountain. Two Shens run Qing Jing peak but only one has ever been seen outside of their bamboo house. Shen Yuan is very confused to wake up in the body of the Shen Twin who was never talked about in PIDW. With no knowledge of the past, he navigates an overly protective, doting Shen Jiu.

☆彡

Uprooted by: lethean

Mature • Canon Divergence

This world of PIDW is very different from the one Shen Yuan knew. He wakes up in the body of a character he can't remember but soon learns it's a minor villain that was possibly framed and woefully misunderstood. He just barely escapes an early death and finds himself being saved by none other than Shen Qingqiu and Yue Qingyuan themselves.

☆彡

Notes on the changing of a narrative by: HanaSheralHaminail

Explicit • Canon Divergence

The system demands Shen Qingqiu must fatally wound Luo Binghe before pushing him into the Abyss. The consequences for not complying are fatale. At least he can try and help Luo Binghe make it through with a little more knowledge on just what dangers he will encounter and hope it doesn't hurt too much.

☆彡

i just wanna be your shadow by: bibliomaniac

Explicit • Modern Au (inspired by the manhua "I Want To Be A Big Baddie")

Luo Binghe can read people's thoughts which means he doesn't trust most people. It used to be just his mom who he trusted but since arriving at the Shen estate, he met an interesting boy who was supposed to be Shen Qingqiu but his thoughts (and system?) reveal he is actually a boy named Shen Yuan who seems to be forced into becoming Luo Binghe's biggest bully.

(This is a freak4freak bingqiu! They are creepy and obsessed with each other fr. Shen Yuan likes seeing people in pain even though he feels disgusted with himself about it and Luo Binghe is an incurable M)

☆彡

a dream revealed by: waitineedaname

Teen+ • Post-Canon (series)

Luo Binghe doesn't quite trust Shang Qinghua so he decides to observe how he acts in his dreams. He learns more about his Martial Uncle and coincidentally his Shizun than he thought he would.

☆彡

fall for your reflection (drown in a dream) by: nex_et_nox

Explicit • Canon Divergence

During his time post abyss incident, Shen Qingqiu gets attacked by a demonic plant that captures its victims in a dream of their perfect world; his revolves around Luo Binghe.

[mind the tags, it gets dark but ends happily]

☆彡

To Be of One Mind by: kakanoo

Teen+ • Canon Divergence

During a mission as a disciple, Luo Binghe gets cursed with the ability to read the mind of Shen Qingqiu but only when they touch. It doesn't change much for the future but it does fix things in the end.

☆彡

[in1-nutshell]

Hi, I'm sorry if you're already tired of me, but I have another request.

This one is for Young Justice.In this story, Buddy is a teenage super soldier who fought alongside the Justice Society against the Nazis.

But on one of the missions at the end of the war, she separates from the team and pursues the supervillain until he launches a ballistic missile aimed at New York.

After detonating the rocket before it reaches its target, Buddy is thrown back by the blast wave and falls into the sea.

And for many years she is considered to have fallen in battle until a group of marine biologists accidentally discovers her body frozen in an iceberg.

And by some miracle it turned out that Buddy was alive.

And now she needs to adapt to a new, incomprehensible time, as well as to work with a new team of peers.

We've got a Capsicle in here!

Hope you enjoy!

Super Soldier Buddy who is like Captain America joins Young Justice

SFW, Platonic, Super soldier reader

YOUNG JUSTICE

The Team was used to having different people join them.

But Buddy was defiantly something new.

Because not only was she practically a legend in the League, but she was from a different time.

Buddy was the legendary super solider known as Captain Ace.

She had snuck onto a plane that had a missile in it that was heading straight for New York.

She valiantly steered the plane off course and into the ocean.

Buddy wouldn’t be found until a couple of years later.

She was one of the youngest members to ever join the League and now was joining theirs.

For the non-humans of the team, it was a bit refreshing knowing that they weren’t the only ones finding things weird.

Though they did have to hand it to Buddy that she found many things, even simple things like the microwave, as a technological advancement right next to the Zeta Tubes.

Kid Flash and Robin were the first ones from the team to meet Buddy before the official meeting.

Batman wanted Robin to know who his teammate was and her situation.

It would help her transition better.

Kid Flash had tagged along because he was going to visit Jay to meet someone.

Robin and Kid Flash stop and stare at Captain Ace happily chatting with Jay. Kid Flash: “Rob… pinch me.” Robin happily complies. Kid Flash: “Ouch!” Robin: “Batman told me I’d be meeting her… but actually seeing her… It’s unreal.” Captain Ace turns and sees them staring at her. She smiles and walks over to them. Captain: “Hello, you must be Jay-Jay’s ‘grandson’. And you must be the little birdy Batman keeps telling me about.” Kid Flash and Robin are internally fanboying when she shakes both of their hands.

Both of them are the first to welcome Buddy into the team.

Most of the team does feel a bit intimidated by having such a legend being a part of their team.

…Well, except Connor and Artemis.

Strange enough, Buddy ends up finding them around more than the others.

She eventually confesses that they make her feel like another person and not someone to look up to with impossible expectations.

This does eventually get back to the rest of the team and they do start treating her like another teammate.

But at the same time there were some things to get used to.

One being the constant questions of what Buddy had missed and what certain things did.

Buddy stares at the microwave. Buddy: “I’d never thought I’d see the day that one of these do-hickey’s would be in the same kitchen I eat in.” Wally just eating ice cream from the tub. Wally: “Its not that big of a deal.” Buddy just rolls her eyes. Wally: “Wait what did you eat today? I didn’t see you warm up… well anything yet.” Buddy: “Just some fruit and hardtack.” Wally’s eye twitches. Buddy: “What are you looking at ya, goof?” Wally is suddenly by her side. Wally: “Well sweetness, I’m about to blow your mind with how far food has gone since… hardtack… Rob! M’gann! Get everyone in here! We are getting Buddy caught up on food today!”

Kaldur and M’gann were the ones to show Buddy more of what the team had done and update her on what the missions were about.

As much as the team makes her feel welcome, Buddy does sometimes feel ‘homesick’ for her time.

Not the war of course, but of the peaceful life she had before all of this sudden technology and uprising of Meta humans at every corner.

She refuses to use Jay as a crutch and faces everything head on with her shield by her side.

If there is one thing, she can do right is fight and defend her team.

The team was on a mission. The villain was holding M’gann hostage. Villain: “And if you take another step, I’ll set fire to the green little freak right her—” WHAM! The villain was suddenly knocked out by a familiar shield. M’gann starts falling, only for Buddy to catches her in the air while still being able to run to the others. Buddy: “Is everyone okay?” Kaldur: “Umm, Captain Ace your still holding Miss Martian.” Buddy quickly and carefully sets her down. She looks over them before running back to the villain and kicking him in the stomach. Buddy: “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to not steal!?” Buddy slaps the villain in the face. Villain: “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Just stop hitting me!” Buddy: “I’ll stop hitting you when you swear to stop stealing from defenseless dames, stealing from the innocent and stop being a villain!” Villain: “I swear I’ll stop!” Buddy’s eyes narrow before dragging him by the collar and pushing him to the ground in front of M’gann. Buddy: “Say your sorry for calling her such a name!” The Villain scoffs. Buddy slaps him in the face again. Buddy: “I can do this all day pal.” Kaldur goes to interfere, but Connor, Dick, Artemis and Wally stop him. They wanted to see the show. Villian: “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry I called you a freak! Please stop hitting me!! I’ll be good! I’ll be good!” Buddy huffs before promptly knocking him out with a single punch. Buddy drops him before dusting her hands. Buddy: “I just hate bullies you know.”

This has happened to Robin, Kaldur, M'gann, and strangely Connor when Buddy introduces morning runs.

[all-eye]

High Value Target

(Yandere!St.Figarland Garling X F!Reader)

[A/n: First of all, english isn’t my first language, sorry if there is any mistake. Also it's my first work ever posted, be nice please.

Second, the Yandere!Garling portrayal has been heavily inspired by the lovely work of @everlasting-rainfall , you should check their blog if you'd like, minors do not interact with their tumblr!

Third, this is a dead-dove fic. Read at your own risks]

I HAVE NEVER, AND WILL NEVER CONDONE THE ACTIONS OF ANY CELESTIAL DRAGON!!

Dialogues:

• Common language spoken in OP

• Local language spoken on this one island

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

Not Spoiler Free (until chap 1096), Death, Genocide, Mass Suicide, Racism/Colonialism, Slavery, Cultural Erasure, Celestial Dragons being Celestial Dragons, Celestial Dragons National "Hunt a Native" Event, Implied Rape/Noncon, Non-sexual Nudity, Stalking, Yandere Creepiness, Female!Reader, Tattoed!Reader

DEAD DOVE/DO NOT EAT

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

(Three years before the God Valley Incident, somewhere in the New World)

You were a gift to the Temple, even before you could start to remember your parents faces. You learnt how to fight at the same time your learnt how to walk. The other gifted children were your brothers and sisters, and alongside them you grew up, learning how to detect your enemy's Voice and how to make your weapon and your fists as hard as diamonds. You learnt how to attack, and how to defend.

When you became an adult, you received your tattoos, your steel trident along with a new name. One which would give you strength and resilience.

You were part of the Priests of the War God. Elite of the Nation and Protector of the Island.

But those sea people... those wretched, greasy and filthy invaders... those so-called Gods. They didn't use any of those titles.

So, what did they call you?

A Super Rare Rabbit.

When they arrived, surrounded your island with their ships and made their announcement, you didn’t understand at first. You weren't really skilled in that area, you had troubles understanding their language. And when you finally got it, you still didn’t believe it. I mean, who could? It was... surreal, absurd.

You finally understood when the first shot was fired.

Mayhem was unleashed upon your people. Screaming children everywhere, families running frantically. The sound of detonations and misery. The smell of blood, powder and death.

Along with your siblings, you tried to do your duty as best as you could. Striking some of these invaders, but mostly helping your fellow citizens to flee and hide in the mountains.

This was all too sudden. You had to retreat, take a grasp on the situation, and come up with a plan.

There was also a small group of foreigners who were used as targets. Apparently, slaves. Only by taking your time to discuss with them, with the help of someone who spoke their language, did you truly comprehend the Horror of your situation.

A Hunt. These demons were planning to exterminate all of you, but wanted to have fun with it.

If you survived for 3 weeks you would be released? As if! Who could believe that?! As the slaves said, no one ever survived these fucked up games!

They would kill you all and steal your Land.

That is, only the lucky ones would be shot. You’ve heard some accounts. And you wanted to bash your skull against a rock to forget them.The things surviving civilians witnessed during the first attack. The horrendous fate that awaited many women and even some pretty young men who were left behind.

As you tried to calm down the citizens, your higher-ups were pondering their options. They could clearly sense it, most of the sea people didn't know anything about combat. However, their weaponry was way more advanced than yours. Not only that, but a tremendous number of their battleships surrounded the island, leaving no way out.

To make matters worse, there was also that one thing, that you could sense too. They counted about ten of these people, whose Voices were so dreadful they shook them to their core.

In this instance, what could they do? Their options were scarce, if not inexistent. You could feel their unease seeping through the camp, slowly making its way into everyone's mind. Once they were done deliberating, you were all gathered to hear their final decision.

You shared a glance with some of your brothers. You didn’t voice your opinion, but frankly, you didn’t need to. Most of them were having similar thoughts.

One thing was clear: you would all die. There was no need to lie to yourself. Either hunted for sports like animals, or reduced to slavery.

But still, something needed to be done. You couldn't just... wait for the sea-people to come and play their stupid games. No warrior could ever endure such humiliation. No civilian deserved to end up a hunting trophy. You needed to act quick, before any of them could reach this hideout.

So, the higher-ups finally spoke. From the beginning, there was only one true option. And even if you thought you were ready to hear that, you still felt like the ground was opening under your feet and swallowing you whole. It was so unfair... how could you tell that to the civilians? Look them in the eyes and tell them you couldn't protect them? That your vows meant nothing?

But still... all these people... the women, the children, the elderly... and those who just could not defend themselves... they finally understood. After all, they were still part of a prideful nation. If they could find a way to avoid this game, they would do it.

And then, it started.

People hugging their loved ones before throwing themselves off cliffs.

Mothers holding their children before making them eat the seeds of the Last-Kiss Fruit.

And those who picked up the poisoned corpses and threw them into water sources, slowly infecting the Land, destroying everything before the invaders could seize it.

At the end, only a few people remained.

The War Priests of the West, dutiful and well-trained. The Masked Mountain Warriors, as stealthy as deadly. The Archers of the Eastern Coast, whose bloodlust was unmatched in the whole Land. Some foreign slaves and other natives joined you as well. Every men and women who were ready to kill and be killed.

These people wanted a good Hunt, didn't they? Well, the only good hunt is one where both parties are in danger. You would show them. Strike fear into their hearts. A last time before your culture vanished, they would understand how your kind celebrated Death.

Most of them, the portly ones wearing glass bubbles on their heads, they were quite easy to catch. Some were even dumb enough to get themselves eaten by mountain beasts. And those who weren't, they would end up lost in the forest, stumbling across rows and rows of decaying bodies, before getting stabbed by ambushed warriors and hung from the trees, with their remains displayed in the most gruesome way.

However, as days went by, these people ventured less and less inland. Now, only their most powerful fighters dared to step a foot into the forest, those whose strength was so great they could wipe out a dozen of your warriors in a single blow. It was all madness.

You managed to escape them so far, but still, your numbers were quickly dwindling.

For how long had this been going on? You'd say... maybe... nine to thirteen days. You weren't really sure anymore. For now, the moon was full, shining high in the sky, you were sitting alone in a clearing hidden behind a row of trees, and frankly, you were just trying to get some rest.

As shitty as this situation was, you could say, today was a good day. A great day, actually. One of these former slaves had told you those fighters were called "Holy Knights". And just this morning, your fellow War Priests managed to ambush one of them.

You were there when it happened. You saw the true power of these so-called "knights", which could only be described as demonic. Something unholy and unheard of, that needed every ounce of your combined forces to manage to destroy it. Most of your remaining siblings died today, leaving you as one of their last ones standing. But still, you weren't going to cry just yet, because at the end of the day, this haughty arrogant scummy awful disgusting horrendous- knight met his well-deserved fate.

His head detached from his body, attached to an arrow and hurled towards your enemy position for everyone to see.

It was the one thing that made you smile, the one thing that made you almost giddy.

They were warned, not even their best warriors were safe. Your civilization may die out eventually (it was already a zombie at that point), but you weren't just going to vanish quietly, playing by their stupid rules.

You were still planning to clash with some other knights, but for now, you were just going to get some rest.

Soon, you could fully rest.

It would all end soon enough.

Garling was seething. How did that happen? How did this scum manage to get himself killed?! By half-naked peasants, nonetheless! Sure, he was one of their weakest, but still, what a disgrace for their Order! He almost wanted to crush this fool's skull under his boot.

Breath in... Breath out...

This humiliating inconvenience put aside, he could say, he was pleasantly surprised by that turn of event.

Honestly, he didn't expect these natives to go this far. Most of the regular Rabbits killed themselves during the first two days, leaving only Rare and Super Rare ones. What was initially a funny contest between Nobles was now a much more difficult competition between Knights only.

Well, he wouldn't complain: as long as there was a worthy challenge, he was willing to play.

But still, what were they thinking? If they were capable of thoughts, that is... Why bother fighting back if they were all doomed anyway? What was their purpose? Did they even have one?

Foolish, but still, quite entertaining.

For now, the moon was full, shining high in the sky, he was walking through the woods when he heard some noise.

How unfair, you were thinking... No matter what horrors were happening down there, the moon and stars were as beautiful as ever. Besides, at the altitude you were at, the stench of corpses barely reached you.

You suddenly had this urge. You weren't sure why... maybe because the night was just so beautiful. It didn't really make sense, but maybe... you just needed to let it all out.

You stood up, your feet stomping rhythmically on the grass. Your hips began to sway. Your chest filled with air. Your arms rose. Your head tilted back as the words of that old hymn came out of your mouth.

"...He is the One Mighty Dancer under whose graceful dancing feet, the heads of all the arrogant Lords of the Bloody Cliff get crushed...."

You giggled slightly. How fitting.

As you were singing and dancing to your heart's content, the man hidden behind the trees had his eyes glued to you.

Of course Garling recognized you. Large pants, bare chest, upper body covered in tattoos... you were one of their Priestesses. A Super Rare Rabbit.

With the light of the moon, he could see you almost as well as in broad daylight. He've seen you several times before: you weren't one of their strongest, but for sure you were a slick one. So far, you've been one of the rare ones who managed to escape him.

His eyes roamed all over your body: from your bare feet to your raised hands, from your heaving breasts to your pert nipples, from your wet cheeks to your eyes closed in bliss.

He'd seen countless slave dancers, far more graceful than you. He'd heard countless slave singers, far more melodious than you. And yet, he had to admit, there was something truly enticing, something he couldn't put his finger on, about the wild way you swayed and moved.

Whatever, no matter how alluring it was, you were still a primitive... how shameless of you... to flaunt your attributes like that, without a care in the world.

He assumed you were unaware of his presence, however, a part of him liked to imagine that you were deliberately putting on a show just for him.

And suddenly, the music stopped. With your back to him, you stood as still as a statue, half your limbs still in the air. You didn’t even spare a glance his way before grabbing your discarded trident and disappearing into the woods.

He chuckled, almost disappointed by this abrupt end. He almost wanted to go after you right away, but hey, it couldn't hurt to give you a little head start, right?

Frankly, he was tired of scurrying through the dense forest at night. And after all... he still had that one issue inside his pants he needed to take care of. As he continued to stare at the spot where you had disappeared, one of his hands rested on his growing bulge while the other gripped the hilt of his sword.

Don't worry, dear Rabbit... he would catch you soon enough.

You ran frantically, trying to put as much distance as possible between you and him. You didn't even have to look back. Just by feeling his terrifying presence, you recognized him.

"I remember you... Gaa'Laaaan.... or maybe Gaa'Liiiiiiin.... or whatever it is, whatever your name must mean in your worthless language... Son of a rotten spider's corpse, how dare you spy on me with those nasty eyes of yours?! I'll have your head, if not I'll claw your eyes out, if not I'll gnaw on your bones, if not..."

And so on and so on.

The thing was... you still wanted to fight them, but not him. Not right now. Not just yet. Damn... just by feeling his stare on your back, you were already shaking from head to toe and struggling to breathe... Since the beginning, if you were to count each one of your siblings, you'd say he was the one who killed most of them. For some reason he'd been the one who targeted your Order the most, and each of your encounters with him had been more terrifying than the last.

So you ran and ran until dawn.

After this one encounter, two whole days passed. You weren't sure if you were the last one standing, but you didn’t run into anyone. That is, until that fateful moment where once again, you felt his eyes on your back. For sure he was a dedicated man, you could give him that. You steadied your breathing, trying to keep your fingers from shaking, while you remembered the words of your late teacher:

"Come on, get up! You won't be able to do anything if you can't stay steady on your own two feet! Now you better listen... it's a very strong power that defends you like an invisible armor, and can also be used offensively. You need to be aware of it, to feel it going through your blood... Now breathe... Can you feel it yet? You have to allow this power in your body to flow to your fist, and then your weapon. Once it's done, this thing that covers you will become even stronger, it will enter your enemy's body and destroy it from the inside!"

You glanced back at him, gripping you trident tightly as you took up a fighting stance.

"It's been going on for too long already, don't you think? Come on, 《'Ga'Lan' 'Ga'Lin'》. Fight me."

Good grief... In all honesty, you had no expectation of defeating him- his level was clearly superior anyway, but to the point where you couldn't even do him any harm, not even a single wound... what a humiliation!

There you were, nearly beaten to death, but not quite dead yet. You lay on the ground, both your ankles broken, your beloved trident a few feet away and his lanky figure hovering over you.

Now you could clearly see him. You saw his gaze linger on your face, then move down your wounded body to finally rest on your breasts.

Oh. That’s right. You almost forgot that one detail about foreign men. Honestly, what was their problem? Were they suckling babies? Why would they be that much bothered by a woman's torso?

And more importantly, why was he taking so long to finish you off?!

He sheated his sword, removed his gloves. What was he thinking? Perhaps... even though your bloody form was far from attractive right now, you were still a woman... If he didn't want to end you just yet, maybe he wanted to... you felt your throat tighten. Maybe, just maybe, if you were lucky, you would lose counsciousness before he could put his hands on you.

He knelt down, brought his face close to yours. Too close, the tip of his weird hairdo almost tickling your cheek. You heard him talk to you.

What a joke... You were bleeding badly, on the verge of fainting, did he seriously think you would use your last two functioning brain cells to try and understand what he was saying?!

How dared he... that filthy maggot... that disgusting creature... who did he think he was?! He had no rights! No right to be this pretty, no right to look at you with such tender eyes, no right to speak to you with such a soft voice, no right to stroke your cheek as if he weren't the one who brought Doom to your island!!

It wasn't right. Things needed to end, quickly. You couldn't stay brave for very long. There was only so much you could take.

Were you in better condition, you would have bitten his fingers off. Instead, you gathered all the fluids in your mouth and spat a bloody one on his too-perfect face.

" YOU WENCH ! "

He slapped you and then stood up. You hoped he would finally draw his sword but instead he went back to his weird duck-like steed, seemingly looking for something. It was only when he came back to you, a smirk on his face, that you could see what he was holding in his hands.

A chain.

Now you understood.

He didn't want to end you.

He wanted to keep you.

"No... No way... Stop it! STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU SICK BASTARD!!!"

At that moment, whatever was left of your dignity and self-control left your body. Blood was pounding in your temples. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks. Tiny whimpers and ugly sobs were coming out of your mouth. All your limbs were shaking as you tried to wriggle out of his grasp. To no avail. In the blink of an eye, you were thrown over his steed, secured tightly by the chain.

"P-Please... I'm begging you, just kill me..."

It was all too much. Your throat felt raw. Your vision started to get blurry. The last thing you remembered before you passed out, was his hand in your hair, as he looked down at you with that sickening smile of his.

"Don't worry my dear... Even if I spare one Rabbit, I still win the game."

[greatkittencloud]

TW: (Very) Brief Mentions of Violence, PTSD.

Black Nova

Chapter 2

"She's yours, Price."

Captain Price's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over the newcomer. Codename Nova stood with her shoulders squared and expression unreadable. The air around her buzzed with a calm danger, like the silence before a detonation.

Price turned towards the others command in his voice " This is Nova" his tone firm with authority " She was a part of a project so dark that even we couldn't see it "

Nova’s eyes flicked across the team. Soap. Ghost. Gaz.

“She’s joining the 141,” Price continued. “Effective immediately. She answers to me. But out there, she’s one of you.

Soap gave a big smile "Welcome to the Circus"

Gaz just gave a nod

Ghost met her gaze head on.

A beat passed... before Price broke the tension.

"We've got a briefing in ten , Nova you with me"

The hallways of the base were quiet. There was a low hum of electronics. He led her to his office his steps were steady, deliberate, it was the pace of a man used to carrying more weight than he let on, opening the door he invited her inside.

"Have a seat" he said closing the door and locking it.

She stepped in without hesitation her movement sharp and composed. She didn't sit.

Price just huffed " Take off your mask "

Without any questions she took it off. Her face composed. Price was bit shocked to see a young face.

"How old are you" he demanded

"Twenty two" Nova replied calmly. Price cursed under his breath.

She stood there in silence, waiting.

Price studied her. Not just her face, but the way she held herself. Shoulders tight. Chin lifted. Like she expected judgment and didn’t care for it.

He nodded slowly. “Whatever you were before—whatever they made you—you’re 141 now. That means you bleed with us. Fight with us. Fall with us, if it comes to it.”

She met his eyes. “I won’t fall.”

“You might,” he replied. “But if you do, we’ll be there to pick you up.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then Nova gave the smallest nod.

“I understand.”

"Get settled in, Gaz will show you around." Price said.

Nova put on her mask and left his office. Gaz was already waiting outside.

"Did you see her?" Soap said looking at Gaz and Ghost. "She's so fucking tall. I wonder what they feed her."

“She does have that whole ‘I could kill you with a spoon’ vibe.” Gaz commented.

Soap leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes flicking to Ghost, who hadn’t said a word.

“But what do you think, Ghost?” Soap grinned. “You had a pretty little staring contest going on with her earlier.

"No comment " replied ghost in mundane tone

"Ay you no fun Lt" Soap said.

Gaz added thoughtfully. “She’s not used to a team. Not really. You can tell she’s been operating solo .”

“Let’s just hope she’s not a ticking time bomb,” Soap muttered, stretching his arms. “Last thing we need is another wildcard.”

Gaz straightend "Shit , Price just messaged me to show her around the base"

Soap snickered " I would wear my lucky charms" patting Gaz's back.

"Well let's go" Gaz moved forward , a tablet in his hand. Gaz walked a few steps ahead, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to make sure Nova was still behind him ,not that he needed to. She moved like a shadow.

“Mess hall’s to the left,” he said casually, gesturing. “Avoid it on Tuesdays unless you enjoy mystery food”

Nova gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, " I will be eating in my room " she said ,eyes scanning every door, every hallway, every security camera.

"Ah you just like Ghost" Gaz smirked. "He's not a fan of mess either".

“You always this alert?” he asked after a pause.

“Always,” she replied, tone clipped.

Gaz nodded, not pushing. He’d seen soldiers like her before wounded, wired, wary. But there was something different about Nova. She didn’t just watch the room she calculated every angle like it might bite.

They passed the shooting range still echoing with the muffled thumps of distant gunfire.

“You’ll like it there,” Gaz said. “Soap practically lives in it. Ghost, too. We rotate drills every other day. High-speed, high-stress. You up for that?”

Nova glanced sideways. “Was trained on worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said, then added with a lopsided grin, “but can you beat Soap’s fastest draw?”

“I don’t need to be faster,” she said coolly. “Just accurate.”

Gaz laughed. “He’s going to love you.”

They turned into another hallway, leading to the barracks.

“Here’s your bunk area. Not the five star, but clean sheets and a locking door.”

Nova nodded and stepped inside for a moment, eyes flicking across the sparse cot, locker, and overhead light. She didn’t step fully in ,just looked. Then she turned back to Gaz.

He leaned against the doorframe. “You always this quiet?”

“Talking doesn’t build trust,” she said, then added after a pause, “Actions do.”

“Fair,” he said. “But talking helps. At least when you’re not dodging bullets.”

Nova hesitated for the first time.“Where I came from… silence was safer.”

Gaz didn’t reply right away. He just gave a slow nod and looked down the hallway, voice softer now.

“Well… you’re not there anymore.”

She studied him, expression unreadable.

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

Another pause. This one... less tense. More real.

Gaz pushed off the wall. “Come on. I’ll show you the command center next. You’ll want to know how to yell at Soap when he takes your things without asking .”

Nova smirked. Just slightly. Almost too fast to notice.

Thank you for reading (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)♡

Taglist: @hyperfixiation-station , @sheepispink , @massivescissorsthingperson

Please DM if you want to get added to the taglist.

[fashionteahouse]

ultimate masterlist

started: 10/12/2024

updated: 10/22/2024

~ heyy beautiful people, I have decided to create this master list to make my page more easier to navigate and enjoy :) i take request so feel free to drop whatever you want because I write everyday! the wolfpack is my preference but I will write for any other twilight characters as well :> however, I wont write about jacob black x renesmee and quil x claire xoxo *(plagiarism of my writing is NOT allowed)*

Twilight Saga

moodboards

bella swan

leah clearwater

paul lahote

jared cameron

jacob black

seth clearwater

sam uley

emily young

embry call

charlie swan

wolf pack imagines

paul lahote

the other woman

moving on

detonate

cybertwee

under the influence

feel good all over

circumambient

4 wings

fine whine

you'll miss me when I'm not around

dinner

beautiful people with beautiful problems

love's in need of love today

provider

ride the dragon

24 hours

rewind

rewind part 2

7 years

but daddy i love him

reaper

animals

happiness is a butterfly

skyline to

keep driving

who? what!

best interest

even if it hurts

homemade dynamite

babydoll

immaterial

radical

what you waiting for?

forever

fourfiveseconds

little freak

embry call

miss camaraderie

kerosene

claws

kiss it better

hot wind blows

velvet 4 sale

butterfly effect

belly of the beat

genesis

self control

it is what it is

best to you

honeymoon

jacob black

chosen

ray of light

dreams, fairytales, fantasies

sam uley

dance the night away

sour candy

jared cameron

is it cold in the water?

seth clearwater

venus fly

bad habit

human behavior

supernova

next level

quil ateara

xxxo

play destroy

time will tell

infinite love without fulfillment

paul x reader x embry

swim good

wolfpack smut

paul lahote x reader

nitrous

jacob black x reader

difficult

wolf pack series

paul lahote x reader

out of your league part 1

out of your league part 2

out of your league part 3

out of your league part 4

out of your league part 5

out of your league part 6

out of your league part 7

out of your league part 8

out of your league part 9

out of your league part 10

out of your league part 11

embry call x reader

black cat part 1

black cat part 2

don't let me be misunderstood part 1

dont let me be misunderstood part 2

crystal ball part 1

jared cameron x reader

thought i knew you part 1

thought i knew you part 2

vampire imagines

garrett x reader

snowchild

jasper hale

last time i saw you

volturi imagines

alec x reader

space and time

twilight imagines

charlie swan x reader

bouncin