#but there are only two of us that work here

[reasonsforhope]

"In a new study, University of British Columbia researchers set out to answer the following question: Would you rather have 10 cents in your pocket or a 1-in-10,000 shot at $1,000?

Their findings indicate that they may have figured out a way to get people to recycle more. 

The researchers, whose work was just published in the journal “Waste Management,” tested the idea of offering people who return used bottles a small chance to win a big cash prize, instead of the standard 5- or 10-cent deposit earnings.

The result? Participants recycled 47% more bottles for the chance at a $1,000 prize.

“This small change in how we reward recycling made a big difference. People were more excited, more engaged, and they brought in more bottles,” Dr. Jiaying Zhao, associate professor in the department of psychology and senior author of the study, said in a statement for the university.

“It turns out that the thrill of possibly winning a big prize is more motivating than a small guaranteed reward. It’s the same reason people buy lottery tickets; That tiny chance of a big win is exciting.”

The researchers ran three experiments in British Columbia and Alberta, where bottle deposit systems already exist. Despite the fact that these deposit stations give people a small refund when they return their recyclables, many bottles still end up in the trash.

In the first two experiments, people could choose between a guaranteed 10-cent refund or a chance to win a larger amount, ranging from $1 to $1,000. Even though the odds of winning were low, many people chose the lottery-style offer.

In the third experiment, participants were randomly assigned to either the guaranteed refund or the lottery-style refund. Those given the lottery-style option brought in almost three bottles for every two returned by the control group. 

The researchers found that people even felt happier when they had a shot at the big prize, even if they didn’t actually win — a feeling called “anticipatory happiness” — that made the act of recycling more enjoyable. 

All of this is modeled after an existing scheme in Norway.

“Norway is the only country in the world that has a similar recycling lottery, and their bottle return rate is close to 100%,” Dr. Zhao said. “The probabilistic refund could be their secret sauce. We hope Canada can adopt this innovative idea as well.”

In Norway, the bottle recycling lottery was implemented over a decade ago, and now, approximately 97% of all plastic beverage containers are returned across the country. 

Here, the model is choice-driven, giving people the option to choose between the guaranteed refund or the chance to win anywhere from 5 to 100,000 euros.

“The system also doesn’t encourage gambling,” Fast Company reported, “because there’s no way to enter with cash, and there are no ‘near misses’ like with other kinds of gambling.”

Norway has also implemented a program where some of the lottery’s proceeds go to the Norwegian Red Cross.

“Instead of 10 cents back to you, what if the proceeds go to a food bank or charity?” Dr. Zhao asked Fast Company. This is also part of her team’s research, with results soon to be published. 

It’s important to note that the lottery-style refund wouldn’t cost more than the traditional system, with both options sharing the same average payout. Cities could adopt this approach without spending an extra dime.

Additionally, Dr. Zhao mentioned that it’s important for cities to consider the choice-based model, giving people the option to get the regular 5- or 10-cent returns, alongside the new lottery initiative, to help canners and binners who rely on this kind of income.

“We don’t want to take the short gain option away,” she told Fast Company. “Instead, we want to give people the option to choose.” 

Aside from the valuable psychological insights of the study, Dr. Zhao and her colleagues are optimistic about a future in which more people are engaged in recycling. 

“Creating new bottles comes with a lot of carbon emissions, and not recycling bottles also comes with a lot of pollution,” Jade Radke, a lead author on the study, said. “So it can be a meaningful way to decrease all of those things.”

According to the UBC press release, if this approach is widely adopted, it could help recycle millions more bottles and reduce greenhouse gas emissions equal to taking one million cars off the road each year."

-via GoodGoodGood, June 25, 2025

[lizardho]

I took a human development class at BYU. It was a good class. The guy who taught it did a great job with it, he was passionate, he was curious, he was kind, and to top it all off he was a fabulous Mormon. I had to sign up for his class the night it opened and I only barely made it into his lecture it filled so fast. I cannot for the life of me remember his name, but I remember how he challenged the class in some peculiar ways.

A funny experience of challenging the class was when we had our lecture on conception and development in utero. He taps the microphone like a comedian who just bombed a set, asks if we can hear him, get’s a resounding and excited “yes!” and says “Ok! Ok! Y’all sounds excited! Let’s do a chant, see if that helps with some of the other energy. Are you ready?”

Of course everyone cheers yes, we’re Mormon, being in a room of people saying the same shit over and over is our jam. So he nods, gets a beat going by clapping, and starts chanting the word “sex” into the microphone. The claps die. The chant doesn’t start. But he keeps going, and going, until he gets half the class chanting with him by brutal shameless persistence. Then he changes the word. “Vagina!” And resumes until he has half the class. Then “clitoris!” then “penis!” then finally when he has half the room chanting he stops the chant and says “I only ever go until I can get half of y’all chanting because this is BYU and I’d be here all day if I waited for everyone to be comfortable even saying the word “sex” out loud which is INSANE because today we’re talking about how life begins and I guarantee you almost every woman who flinched away from chanting “penis” wants to have kids and most of the men who couldn’t pronounce clitoris want to have at least two kids and that does not work out in my head! We need to get over this fear to talk about conception openly.” He talked about sex as a biological phenomenon and as a fun thing to do sometimes and it was a transformative experience for me, and it was very funny as an opener.

He challenged us academically too, though. He assigned us the task of observing children at the campus daycare and told us he wanted to know who we had observed just by our behavioral observations. He meant it, too. He didn’t want us to just know about kids he wanted us to be able to see kids as distinct people and that was amazing. He pushed us out of the mindset of “how do I pass this assignment” and challenged us to internalize “how do I learn to do this in real life?” and he pushed us to observe children as people and not as science experiments or obedient joyful output machines.

Another way he challenged the class, and this one sticks with me tbh, is he told us stories. His technique is one I often utilize as a therapist. He tells a story that’s related *enough* to keep you aware of how your question or need is related, but just unrelated enough distract you from the question so when he brings it back to you it hits as an experience instead of a verbal response to an inquiry. He did this sometimes in response to questions from students and it was always an interesting way to experience learning. One day a student, a worried newlywed man who JUST found out his wife was pregnant, asked what he could do to help her because he felt so excited and overwhelmed he couldn’t think clearly. And the professor stops the lecture and thinks about it, like, REALLY thinks about it, and he leads into his story - it starts with a brief discussion on the complexity and uniqueness of fingerprints. Then he tells us about how one of his graduate students a few years back came into his office complaining that his wife was getting lazier. Him, being a therapist and a curious man by nature, asked the student what he meant. The student responds by saying that he felt “duped” by his wife because she’d been energetic and motivated and passionate and attentive until she got pregnant and now she “doesn’t do anything” and “has no ambition” and “doesn’t even cook dinner anymore” and “always says she’s tired even though she hasn’t DONE anything” and how he felt like it was all an act to pretend to be a good wife until she got pregnant and had him hooked forever.

And this guy is reacting to this in real time - he goes point by point through this graduate student’s complaints and nods patiently, curiously, then sinisterly as he understands the situation. He tells the grad students to come a little closer so he can show him something in a book, then whaps him upside the head with the book.

The grad student of course reacts with shock and anger and demands a justification for being whacked with a book and the professor responds with “how far into the pregnancy is your lazy lazy wife?” The grad student gives a response to he opens the book and slaps it on the desk and says “at that point in pregnancy your child’s fingerprints are developing. Do you know how complex and detailed fingerprints are? Do you know how much time and energy it would take to make that from nothing? That is what your wife is doing all day. She’s making your child’s fingerprints. Get that in your head and get over yourself.”

He then stops the story, looks at the guy who asked the question, and asks how far along his wife is? And the student responds, and he says “if you go home today and your wife is tired, it’s because she was growing functional kidneys for another human being all day. So tell her you’ll do the dishes, and don’t whine about it. And remember that any time you’re doing any chore or task you’re not accustomed to for the next few months, any time you’re eating an uninspired dinner, any time you’re rubbing her feet or helping her get to sleep and thinking “oh geez she’s so dramatic” remember she is growing another person and ask yourself if your dinner or unfolded socks are more valuable than a functioning kidney or a distinct fingerprint because I guarantee you it is not. She is engaged in the act of creation, fold your own socks.”

Y’all I mean the fucking CRICKETS in that room. My ears were ringing from the revelation he had just unleashed into my brain. There was not a single body in that room that was not GRIPPED by the response to this question. And I fully recognize that he was asking for fairly little, like, yeah, you should be an involved parent and partner because “for time and all eternity” means “even when she won’t have sex with me,” but he was saying it as a Mormon man talking to another Mormon man and that was so exciting and new to me that it stuck with me. I remember this story in a myriad of ways - it’s a good example of using privilege to challenge privilege, for example. It’s a good example of “lifting where you stand,” so to speak, by making a difference where you are instead of making a hypothetical “bigger” difference elsewhere. It helps me remind myself that neutrality is progress, too, and that the best time to do something I should have always been doing is now. It also helps me be patient with myself when I am sick - healing is work, recovering is work, resting is work, even if the demanding husband in my head can’t see it yet.

If y’all are struggling to get better and feel your frustration building as each possibility of action passes you by while you’re stuck healing, you can ask yourself if making an amazing dinner is more important than having a healthy body, then eat your “guilty”/“easy”/“uninspired” Mac n cheese or delivery pizza or peanut butter and jelly sandwich because it’s not. If you find yourself struggling because your body is not behaving like a successful experiment or an obedient joyful output machine, try seeing yourself as a full person and not an assignment you’re failing. And if you’re embarrassed about sex, chant “penis” over and over again or something. The metaphor’s falling apart, so I’ll end with my typical advice: Be gayer, be good to each other, read more Terry Pratchett, and treat people as people.

[sceletaflores]

COMING UP QUICK (GOING DOWN SLOW)

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 999

ೃ⁀➷ FOR: the super duper fun @sceletaflores & @ebodebo #ratwritingunder1kwordschallenge

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, set post-outbreak, unspecified age gap, joel’s pov, insecurity, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, oral sex (fem!receiving), pussy pronouns, wet & messy, come eating & swapping, we in fact now know what erectile dysfunction is in this house and we love it, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ ANON SAYS: Joel giving you filthy, nasty, messy oral after he comes inside you because he feels bad he can’t go for as many rounds as he used to be able to ♡

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: yet another installment of rylea and i being unstoppable…when we lock tf in and work as a team there’s nothing we can’t do. this all started with her daring me to write a fic under a 1k words since we all know that never happens on this blog, and ofc i can’t do a single thing without forcing her to do it too so here we are. plus we’re extra so we decided to make it a whole little challenge that anyone can do if they want! we’re just super whimsical like that. check out the masterlist here! hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune!

joel miller always gives his girl one more round…

You’re still twitching as Joel pulls out.

Your pussy fluttering around him warm and wet like you don’t want to let him go just yet, like you don’t want to believe he’s already finished.

And fuck—neither does Joel.

He sits back on his haunches, panting like he ran a mile through mud, staring down at the mess he made between your thighs. His eyes follow the dirty trail of his come as it spills out of you, thick and slow, dripping down onto the sheets. 

He should be proud of it, the way he marked you, filled you up so good you can’t even hold it all. He used to be, his ego nice and stroked each time he’d leave his claim over you.

All he sees now is how fast it’s over.

It makes something ugly and hateful start wriggling to life beneath Joel’s skin, angry and buzzing through the hollows of his bones like bees. It’s all different now, his body doesn’t obey like it used to. He can’t stand it.

Joel’s age was never something that bothered you. It never put you off or made you stop wanting him—but the two of you have been together for a good while now, and he’s only getting older.

You're still young, in the prime of your life. All bright eyed and fiery and you're wasting it on a bitter old man who can barely get his dick up anymore. Joel’s more weathered, worn. Old bones and greying hair, more and more creases decorating the skin of his face.

Still, you never complain.

All that doesn’t change how you look at him like he hung the damn moon, and he tries his best to believe it. Tries his best to believe it when you tell him that he’s enough, but he knows better. 

You deserve more than one or two rounds before his cock is spent and lying uselessly limp on his thigh, his body aching and swamped with exhaustion. 

A younger man would have flipped you over and fucked you all damn night. Would’ve made you come again and again without breaking a sweat. Would’ve kept going until your thighs were shaking and your pussy was swollen and well fucked.

Joel used to be that man. 

“Used to” is a phrase that pisses him off more than he’d ever admit.

Joel’s not the man he used to be, so he does what he can. 

You’re still laid out for him—sweat dotted along your skin, thighs shaking, and pretty, so goddamn pretty. And somehow, he’s the one who gets to see you like this, warm and panting like you’re starved for more.

He’d never leave you like that, something buried deep in his gut just won’t let him.

So now, even as his cock flags between his legs and the muscle of his thighs ache with something fierce, he lowers himself anyway. The comforter makes soft shushing sounds under his palms, bunching around his knees as he settles between your legs.

“Joel?” Your head rises off the pillow, a confused little pinch between your brows. “Come back here, s’cold.”

He doesn’t answer, just trails kisses over the sweaty skin of your leg. Over the jagged scar across your left hip, over the bend of your knee, over the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis.

Lower and lower until his warm breath ghosts over the glossy expanse of your pussy.

“Look at that,” Joel murmurs, voice low and hoarse, like it scrapes up from the pit of his stomach. “Shit. You make me so fuckin’ proud, baby.”

His fingers part your lips, spreading you wide. “Still fuckin’ twitchin’,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckle over your entrance. “Poor thing’s still hungry, ain’t she?”

You open your mouth to say something—something reassuring, probably, something sweet he doesn’t deserve—but you never get the chance.

Joel bends low and licks a fat, slow drag up the slick mess he made between your legs.

He groans into your pussy—vulgar, guttural. The taste of you and him tangled together hits his tongue. Salt and sweat and musk and something sweeter. That thick, filthy taste of his come still leaking out of you and into his mouth.

You cry out, hips bucking, but he just grabs your thighs tighter, pins you down, keeps going. “Joel—shit, oh my god—”

“That’s it, sweet thing.” He presses a wet kiss over your clit, your thighs twitch around his head. “Taste’s so fuckin’ good, creamy little pussy’s makin’ your old man’s mouth water.”

You cry out when he drags his tongue up the mess leaking down your folds, catching every drop, sloppier than he’s ever been. Filthy, desperate sounds coming from his mouth—wet slurps, heavy breathing, growls low in his throat.

You’re close already. He feels it when you start to shake. Hears the way your voice cracks when you cry his name. “Joel—Joel, I’m gonna—fuck—”

“Go on, baby. Wanna feel you come. Wanna taste how sweet this pussy gets for me.”

Your thighs clamp tight around his head when it hits you, back arching, pussy spasming around his fingers like it’s trying to milk them, and Joel fuckin’ growls into you. Keeps his tongue on you through every wave, licking and sucking and moaning like a goddamn animal.

When it gets to be too much, when your feet start kicking at his shoulders and your breath catches on a sob, then he pulls back.

But not for long.

Joel crawls up the shaking length of your body, cranes his neck down and kisses you before he can stop himself. His lips fit perfectly with yours, slotting together slow and deep. You moan into his mouth, arms snaking around his neck as he glides his tongue over yours so you can taste it all. 

You. Him. The pure need pulsing through his veins.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Let me do it again,” Joel begs against your lips. “Let me make it up to you, darlin’.”

And he does.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: love how i constantly yap about fucking that old man while i myself am toting around three (3) new knee braces, roll on icy hot, AND a super fancy prescribed pain cream at all times…like babes, you ARE the old man. he’d be digging in my purse for the extra strength advil just as much as i am.

also to the anon that sent this in…thank you. thank you so much. this is exactly what i needed, both in and out of the context of this challenge LMAO. i can’t tell you how much i struggled with this whole thing, like i literally started and scrapped two fics before i found this god send of an ask wrongfully collecting dust in my inbox. i hope you’re freak has been matched and you love it.

thank you so much for reading chickens, love you!

[jaiwritez]

Phantom Pickpocket Part 2

You would think with all the cameras around that it would be easier for him to find ‘Bat Bait’ or BB as him and his eldest siblings have been calling him. After the kid turned invisible and ran off with the tires. He thought he was going to be able to be just track down the tires back to the kid’s little hideout but it seems the little ankle biter had critical thinking skills.

He tracked down the tires only for them to be on the roof top of an abandoned building. He checked the building from basement to attic for any signs of a kid or kids staying there. There was no signs of life. Its like the kid vanished without a trace……literally and figuratively.

Jason sighed as he kept checking his phone for oracle updates. He was sitting in a local coffee shop. Owned by an old Italian lesbian couple. They always made the best iced coffee after all nighters. Always throwing him and the local kids cookies on the house. Plus he always felt calmer in here.

There weren’t many people here today as it was raining outside. However that was fine by him as he was currently trying to unwind with a new book to get his mind and the pit off the kid. However given he’s been sitting there for 30 mins and hasn’t gotten past the second page, it wasn’t working. The pit was telling him something but he couldn’t decipher.

“Hun what’s wrong? I left yah a coffee cake on the table and you haven’t even noticed it.” Elena said walking over, throwing her towel over her shoulder. She was wearing a lightly opened white button up tucked into blue jeans. Her black curly hair was held up in her red bandana that matched her lipstick.

“Im telling yah. It’s that red head boy. If he dumped yah. I know a guy. We can have him sleepin in tha hahbar by mornin.” Her wife Cecilia called from the kitchen before coming out. She had her long brown hair tyed in a messy bun, wearing jeans, a black tank top and a white apron. Her hands and wrist were covered in flour.

He laughed at that. He was surprised that they even remembered Roy. He had only brought him by once. “No, it’s not about Roy. Who even said me and Roy were dating?” He said raising an eyebrow at the two women, who looked at each other then looked back to him.

“Honey you barely took your eyes off him.” Elena said sweetly.

“You were staring at his ass when he went to the bathroom.” Cecilia said bluntly causing her wife to laugh. “Listen kid I get it, he’s built well but let’s not lie.”

He could barely contain his blush at being caught out like that but smiled and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Me and Roy aren’t dating…. YET, but, I’m working on it.” He replied.

“I’m sure yah are. So if it’s not him. What’s eating yah.” Cecilia said walking over and bumping her wife in the rib at her joke. Elena smiled and rolled her eyes but looked back to him with the same questioning look. He felt the feeling of the pit pulling at him again. He sighed.

“Honestly. I’m worried about this kid. He stole the wheels off my bike and ran off. I’m just worried about him getting caught up in the wrong crowd. It also brought up old memories.” He replied.

“Ah. A fellow thief. Serves you right. I remember when you used to steal our metal spoons.” Elena said with no real bite. She looked up as if she was remembering the day with a smile.

“That was only one time.” He tried to defend himself.

“Three times and the last time you took fork. However I do remember you sneaking in and leaving a large wad of cash. After you got adopted.” Cecilia said crossing her arms and leaning on the counter. All he could do is chuckle.

“What does the kid look like? Maybe we can give you a clue or keep an eye out for him.” Elena said taking out a notepad from her pocket.

“Well. He’s not too tall. Very skinny for his age by the looks of it. He has jet black hair and almost unnatural icey shade of blue eyes. He was wearing a black hoodie but it looked like he had a scar on-“

“Hey I finished washing the dishes. Do you have anything else for me to do?”

THE KID?!!?

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3 (pending)

[tinker-tanner]

Sorry, going to have to throw in my two cents as a librarian here. The Library of Congress doesn't use Dewey Decimal Classification (DDC) and never has: librarians working there developed Library of Congress Classification (LCC) in the late 19th century and have been revising and updating it ever since. Whole different system from DDC, quite popular with academic libraries.

Besides which, LCC was first designed to serve the needs of nineteenth-century congressmen, overwhelmingly American-born WASP men who wouldn't recognize queer people if one smacked them upside the head. This is, to say the least, a system that comes with some biases baked in. Librarians have been updating it for over a century now, but it still has some pretty noticeable blind spots, and in some cases only recently stopped referring to demographics by slurs.

at a conference I attended recently, a researcher pointed to the difficulty of finding material in archives because so much depends on the metadata and the terminology used to describe things changes over time. "it would be so helpful," the researcher said, "if I typed 'lesbian' into the library of congress database, it would also show me results that were categorised in the 50s, when the materials were interpreted as 'intimate female friendships'"

which is what tag wrangles at Archive Of Our Own do incredibly effectively: searching for "omegaverse" also leads to "alpha/beta/omega dynamics" and "alternate universe: a/b/o" and so on. but ao3 achieves this frankly incredible categorisation and indexing system by the power of countless volunteers putting in hours and hours of unpaid and unthanked free time, and it's completely understandable that most archives do not have that kind of infrastructure, but also how incredible that a fan-run website has better searchability, classification, and accessibility than the library of congress

[dcxdpdabbles]

Tim: You can't ask this of me!

Dick: We all make sacrifices for the mission.

Tim: But this-! This is too much of a sacrifice!

Dick: I know it's not fair. I know it's unjust. But it's for the greater good.

Tim: You can't do this!

Dick: I'm afraid I already have.

Tim: Please Dick, you're my brother! We broke bread together!

Dick: That bread was tasty and it filled my empty stomach but it means nothing now.

Tim: No-Don't-!

Dick: *pushing Tim on stage* Ladies and Gentlemen! The moment you all been waiting for! The Timothy Drake-Wayne date auction! As you all know the highest bid will get one free dinner with Timmy, at the most expensive restaurant in Gotham and all funds will be used for charity so get out those checkbooks! Let's start the auction at one thousand!

Random girl: Two thousand!

Random boy: Five thousand!

Random girl 2: ten thousand!

Dick: Ten thousand! Ten thousand going once- going twice-

Danny standing up: A million!

Dick: A million! A million going once- a million going twice-

Danny: Five million!

Dick: Er, um five million going once- five million going twice-

Danny: No ten million!

Dick: Sir do you understand how auctions work?

Tim leaping for the mic: Sold! To the hot confused guy wearing the number twenty badge.

Danny blinking: Me?

Tim: Yes, you! You won!

Danny: Awesome! *sits down and turns to Sam*

Danny whispering: Hey I blanked out for a second and Phantom took over. What did he do?

Sam: Bought a date for ten million.

Danny: *gasp* But I only have forty five cents in my bank account.

Sam: Don't worry. I'll spot you this one. You deserve a date with a living person. As a treat.

Danny tilting head: Phantom says to show his gratitude for your donation he will dance for you.

Sam: Tell him that hes welcome and to please not dance for me. We got thrown out of the Ice Lounge for his dancing already, I can afford to be band from here too.

[33lol]

Experiment

Pazzi (paige x azzi)

SMUT

warnings: sexual content, first time, mentions of kinks, thigh riding, slight choking, pussy and ass slapping, oral, fingering, 69, slight degradation, aftercare and fluff

wc: 3.6k

It was a late night in the two girls' dorm room. Their teammates were out god knows where doing god knows what. Paige and Azzi had been roommates now for a whole semester. They’ve spent their days growing closer as teammates, roommates, and friends. Friends. Best friends. They’d grown so much together in the few years they’d known each other, but still tiptoed around anything that seemed to have feelings tied to it. That is until this one night—quiet and intimate.

The pair had gotten ready for bed, each taking turns showering and doing their night time routines.

Azzi put on her favorite sleep shirt—which was actually Paige’s. It was a worn-in, oversized Hopkins t-shirt with Paige’s old number on it. She always wore minimal clothing to bed, as their dorm room was notorious for being pretty warm. Paige was used to this, but it still took her a minute to avert her gaze somewhere else everytime—trying to ignore how she could always see Azzi’s nipples through her shirt and knew she only had a thong on underneath.

Paige threw on a thin, grey Calvin Klein bra and a pair of old boxers that rode low on her hips. She hated wearing anything under her boxers, as night was the one time she could feel free.

Azzi sat on the edge of her bed, “Will you detangle my curls please?”

Paige smiled at the younger girl, “Of course ma”

Azzi tried to hide her blush as she dipped her head and handed over her comb to Paige. Paige sat behind her with her legs on either side of Azzi. Azzi let her eyes fall closed and relax after a long day of classes. She always loved when Paige did her hair, or massaged her scalp, or even just brushed curls away from her face. It was the small things that really got to Azzi. And for some reason, with it being Paige doing those small things, it intensified those feelings greatly.

Azzi hummed as she let her head fall back, “That feels so good.”

Paige smiled and finished her last section, “You know I always get you right”

Azzi smiled back and Paige got up from behind her. You would think after having a full day of classes, film, and practice that the two would be exhausted. However, what they didn’t let the other know is that they were very much the opposite—awake and minds racing. They both climbed in their separate beds, shutting off the lights—only leaving a small sliver of light from the window creeping in, giving the room a peaceful vibe to it.

It was only after about ten minutes of Paige lying awake thinking, that she heard Azzi shifting around in her bed trying to get comfortable. Azzi was flipping back and forth on her sides, kicking off the blanket and then pulling it back up—unable to settle down. Paige looked over at the girl and smirked, knowing what this usually meant.

“Can’t sleep?” Paige asked curiously.

“…Is it obvious?” Azzi giggled back.

“Come over here”

Without any hesitation, Azzi climbed out of her bed and padded over to Paige’s. When she stood up from her bed, however, her shirt rode up—leaving her long tanned legs out on display, even in the dim light. Paige lowered her gaze while watching Azzi walk over, knowing it was dark so she couldn’t get caught.

Azzi snuggled right up against Paige and tucked her head into the crook of her neck with her right hand on her chest. She hooked her right leg over Paige’s waist and Paige rested one hand on her thigh and her other was cradling Azzi’s back. Paige started drawing on Azzi’s back with her fingers, letting the peacefulness set in. Azzi tilted her head up at Paige and Paige looked down at her curiously.

“You tired babygirl?”

Azzi always liked when Paige used those little pet names for her. She let out a soft chuckle, “Actually no.”

“Yeah me neither. Wanna just talk?”

Azzi nodded against Paige’s chest. This dynamic has always worked for them—touchy, clingy, affectionate. They never shy away from being near one another. They do everything together, even if it means Paige sits on the counter in the bathroom while Azzi pees on the toilet. There’s never been a filter or a wall. And that’s what they both appreciate the most about the other. They can do and say and be whatever—no judgment. So naturally, they use these late night conversations as a way to share even more.

Paige exhaled slowly like she was contemplating something, “Do you like how touchy I am with you?”

The question caught Azzi off guard because she had never heard this uncertainty before. She looked up at the blonde with eyebrows knitted together, “Why?”

“Just wanna make sure it’s never too much for you.”

“Never. P, you make me feel safe when you touch me. It helps me read your moods depending on the way you touch me. I don’t want you to overthink that. You’re the only one I’m open with like this. And I also kinda like that your love language is physical touch because it gives me an excuse for you to rub my feet,” Azzi added lightheartedly.

Paige smiled and nodded, then squeezed tighter on Azzi’s thigh and pulled her almost impossibly closer. “I’ll rub your feet anytime,” she replied softly.

“Can I ask you something?” the older girl continued.

“You don’t have to ask to ask me anything” Azzi said gently.

Paige was hesitant, not wanting to overstep, “Umm.. whenever you’ve been with someone else.. has it been good?”

Azzi sat up a little straighter so she was on her elbow looking at Paige, “What do you mean?”

“Like.. I don’t know.. it’s stupid, never mind.”

“Hey, it’s not stupid P. Are you asking if anything I’ve done physically with anyone was good?”

Paige nodded, not making eye contact.

“Well actually.. I haven’t really done anything.. with anyone.” Paige looked up at her finally as Azzi continued, “I mean you know there was that one guy in 7th grade I kissed because of spin the bottle—which might I add was terrible because his lips were so wet.” Paige giggled at this.

“And then another time in like sophomore year, one of the football players came up behind me at a party and just started grabbing all over me while kissing my neck.” Paige’s jaw locked tight when she heard this.

“So basically every experience I’ve had has been bad.. and I haven’t even had sex yet. Which wouldn’t have been good anyway if I had in high school because then it would’ve been with a guy.”

Paige took this all in. Hearing how vulnerable Azzi was with her, it made her heart crack open. It also made her realize that she didn’t really know that part of Azzi’s life, but she wished she had—and is very glad to know Azzi is not into men.

“I didn’t know you liked girls,” Paige said softly, stroking Azzi’s back.

“Yeah I guess it just never really came up. But I wasn’t hiding that from you just so you know.”

“I know,” Paige said sighing. “Thank you for telling me all of that.”

Azzi smiled at her and hummed from feeling Paige scratch her back.

“You know… I haven’t either.”

Azzi tilted her head, “Had sex?”

“Well.. really kind of anything. I kissed one girl in 8th grade after her friends dared her to, but then the next week she got a boyfriend.” Azzi hummed with a frown. “And then in high school nothing happened because no one felt like the right person.”

Azzi used her right hand to play with Paige’s hair, “I’m glad you didn’t feed into the pressure of rushing something as special as that.”

“Me too. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it though. Not to sound like horny middle school boy, but I actually think about sex a lot—what I would like and want to try.”

“And that’s not weird. I think about it a lot too. I actually have a lot of things I know I’d like and wanna try,” Azzi agreed.

Paige asked barely above a whisper, “Can I tell you my list?”

“Only if you wanna hear mine,” Azzi said playfully.

Paige smiled and kept her hand on Azzi’s thigh, rubbing circles on it with her thumb. “No judgement?”

“None P. It’s me.”

Paige hesitated awkwardly, “Uhh ok, well, I know I’d like a lot of different positions with a strap—doggy, cowgirl, but also stuff without. Scissoring, thigh riding, 69 even.”

“Would you ever wanna be strapped? Like receiving?” Azzi questioned.

“Probably.. if I trust the person.”

Azzi nodded with a softness in her eyes listening to Paige intently. Paige continued, “And then kink wise…” Paige paused blushing hard, grateful for the dim light once again.

Azzi moved her hand up to Paige’s jaw giving her reassurance.

“Um well some of these I would like on me and some doing them to the person. Uhh spitting, choking, slapping—”

Azzi cut her off out of curiosity, “Slapping where?”

“Umm I mean.. kinda anywhere? Face, tits, thighs, pussy even,” Paige admitted.

Azzi hummed and smirked warmly. “Anything else?”

Paige thought for a second, “Being blindfolded and tied down, and being called daddy.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow at this and Paige covered her face with the hand that was just on Azzi’s thigh. Azzi immediately pulled her hand away and brushed her jaw with her fingers. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I like all of that too. I mean not the daddy thing but…” She added with a breathy giggle.

Paige huffed a short laugh, “Yeah?” Paige asked in a small voice.

“Yeah,” Azzi replied softly.

“Can I hear the rest of your list?”

“Of course… I also like spitting and choking, all of the positions you mentioned—and more,” she added quietly with a giggle.

Paige smiled and moved her hand back to Azzi’s thigh. “I also would wanna try sucking the strap, and fingers. I would like my ass being slapped and grabbed—and more stuff like you,” she said again laughing harder.

Paige tickled her lightly at this. “Anything else big head?”

“Oh yes,” Azzi said dramatically, which Paige just smiled at. “Neck kissing and biting—well really anywhere, especially my ear. Nipple play, hair pulling…” Azzi looked at Paige shyly adding the last thing, “And also degradation… like playful slut shaming.”

Paige heard all of this and began tickling the younger girl again, both laughing while Paige breathlessly said, “Damn mama!”

Azzi just laughed until Paige stopped. They both settled back against each other, taking in what each other shared. Then after a beat,

“Would you ever… wanna like, experiment?" Paige asked genuinely.

“You mean with you?”

Paige just looked at her with those piercing blue eyes and nodded.

“Yeah actually,” the younger girl quickly added, “but I also don’t wanna take away from your first experience if you’re waiting for the right person like you said.”

Paige brought her hand up to Azzi’s face, running her finger over her cheekbone, then her bottom lip. “Azzi, you are the right person. You already have my complete trust.”

“Oh..” the younger girl said, then smiled at this revelation.

Paige smiled back and tilted her head while looking at Azzi’s plump lips, “Can I kiss you then?”

Azzi nodded with her lips parted. Their lips connected and Paige kept the pace nice and slow. Azzi ran her tongue against Paige’s lip, who immediately let her in. They made out like that for a few minutes. Eventually Paige pulled back while pulling on Azzi’s bottom lip with her teeth. When they looked at each other after the kiss, they both saw raw desire in each other’s eyes.

“Can we try some things we said we liked?” Azzi asked breathlessly.

“Anything you want mama. Just tell me what you wanna do first babygirl.”

“I want you to mark up my neck and chest.”

“Ok I got you baby. Can I ride your thigh while I do that?”

Azzi nodded immediately and eagerly.

Paige flipped them so she was on top and slotted their thighs so Paige could rest her weight on one of Azzi’s. “Wait,” Azzi said. “Can you take your boxers off? I wanna feel you.”

Paige smiled and nodded and leaned back on her knees before she got up, “Can I take your shirt off before I kiss on you?”

Azzi smiled back, “Please”

Paige stood up and removed her boxers, revealing herself to Azzi for the first time. Azzi reached for her to climb back up, “Come here beautiful.”

Paige climbed back on the bed and got between Azzi’s legs before leaning down to kiss her again. She pulled back and Azzi lifted her arms for Paige. Paige reached for the hem of the shirt and pulled it over Azzi’s head—exposing her perked breasts and hardened nipples. She threw the shirt to the floor and let her gaze roam Azzi’s body.

“Fuck Az. You’re perfect.” Azzi smiled looking at the girl above her.

Even though Azzi was now only in her thong and Paige was just in her bra, they didn’t feel exposed and uncomfortable at all. They felt secure and seen.

Paige leaned down and started her descent of licking, kissing, and biting marks all over Azzi’s neck and chest. While she was sucking a spot into Azzi’s skin below her jaw, Azzi grabbed the backs of Paige’s thighs and guided her onto one of her own. She slid her hands up Paige’s hips guiding her to start grinding down, “Mmm you’re so wet.”

“Because of you” Paige said, breathing against Azzi’s ear.

Paige started grinding harder and faster, but still controlled, wanting to feel everything. Paige bit at Azzi’s ear and ran her tongue over it softly. She groaned roughly and then kissed down Azzi’s jaw, running over the marks with her tongue in circles after. When Paige got further down her chest, she licked over one of Azzi’s nipples before taking it into her mouth and using her hand to play with her other tit. Azzi moaned loudly at this and squeezed Paige’s ass hard in response.

Paige jolted at the sensation and nipped at Azzi’s nipple a bit harder. Azzi let out a whine and arched into Paige which also made her thigh come up further into Paige’s core. Both of the girls were overwhelmed with sensations. Paige kissed on Azzi’s other nipple before trailing her way back up to her lips. “Does that feel good?”

“Feels so good baby. Are you good?”

“Yes ma… I’m so close,” Paige said in a low voice.

“Ok, I got you baby. Keep going,” Azzi encouraged.

Paige dropped her head right by Azzi’s ear letting out short breaths and high pitched whimpers. Azzi ran one hand through Paige’s hair, pulling just enough to have the pain be masked with pleasure. Her other hand was still harshly grabbing Paige’s ass. It only took a few more grinds of Paige’s hips on Azzi’s thigh for her to be a moaning mess while cumming.

“Fuck mama—I’m gonna cum”

“C’mon daddy… let me feel it”

Paige groaned and circled her hips one more time before collapsing on Azzi’s chest, feeling her slick drip down her leg. “Yeah I really liked that.”

Azzi stroked her back and asked, “Wanna keep going?”

“God yes. I wanna get you right baby,” Paige said knowing Azzi hadn’t gotten off yet.

Paige sat up, “Can I take your panties off?”

Azzi smiled and lifted her hips up. Paige hooked her fingers into the waistband and stripped Azzi bare. Not wanting Azzi to be the only one naked, Paige took off her bra showing herself fully. The two took a second to just look at each other—admiring the soft vulnerability they are giving to each other.

Paige leaned down, trailing her lips over Azzi’s bare stomach, creeping lower to the place that’s aching for her. Paige sucked at her hip bone and Azzi lifted her hips, chasing the contact she really wanted. Paige used her left hand to slide up Azzi’s body and settle at the base of her throat. “Can you stay still for me mama?”

Azzi nodded with her hands by her side, not knowing what to do with them. “I want you to play with your tits like a good little slut. Be a good girl for daddy. You can do it,” Paige said in a sultry voice staring up at Azzi from between her legs. Paige took her other hand and ran her fingers through Azzi’s slick, “Fuckin dripping for me huh?”

Azzi shut her eyes and tilted her head back on the pillow. Paige didn’t like that as an answer so she slapped Azzi’s pussy. Azzi gasped sharply and looked down at Paige. “I wanna see you baby.”

Azzi kept her gaze locked on Paige now as she continued running her fingers through her folds. Azzi let out a guttural moan when Paige finally ran her fingers over her clit. Azzi instinctively threw her head back again, gaining her another clap to her pussy—this time harder on her clit. Paige squeezed her throat a little firmer looking up at the girl with warning eyes.

“Keep your hands on those pretty tits for me babygirl. I got you.”

Paige moved two of her fingers down to Azzi’s entrance, sliding them in slowly. Azzi moaned in a high whimper that sounded heavenly to Paige. As a reward, Paige spit onto Azzi’s cunt and started pumping her fingers in and out of her pussy.

“Daddy—fuck—feels so good P”

Paige lowered her lips to Azzi’s clit, kissing and giving kitten licks. Paige began pumping her fingers in harder and faster while sucking on Azzi’s clit like she was starving. One thing’s for sure—if Azzi could be Paige’s last meal, she would make it happen.

Azzi was now a moaning mess. Paige could tell Azzi was getting close when her hands slowed on her tits and her walls got tighter around Paige’s fingers.

Reluctantly, Paige pulled away from Azzi. Azzi immediately feeling the loss of all sensation started to protest, “Wait why’d you stop?”

“Don’t worry mama, Imma make you cum. I just wanna taste you while you taste me,” Paige reassured.

Paige tapped on Azzi’s hip and pulled her hips up so they could flip over. Paige got under her and guided Azzi to turn around and straddle her face.

Paige immediately yanked Azzi’s hips and ass right over her face, trying to pull her lower. Azzi was hesitant, not wanting to hurt or crush Paige—even though that would be Paige’s preferred cause of death. To get Azzi to settle down, Paige smack her ass hard. Azzi whimpered at this and lowered lower. Paige smacked her other cheek, “My good girl.”

Paige began eating Azzi, sucking up her slick, running her tongue over every fold and around her clit. Azzi immediately felt her climax rush back and started grinding into Paige’s mouth. Azzi then leaned down between Paige’s legs, using her hand to stroke her folds. She gathered her slick and spread it over her clit, making Paige twitch from the slight overstimulation after having already cum once.

The two found a rhythm, matching each other’s movements. When Paige would suck on Azzi’s clit, Azzi would suck firm on Paige’s. This is how they both got to their high so fast. Paige groaned into Azzi’s pussy when Azzi licked into Paige’s cunt. The back and forth stimulus was electric. Paige ran her hands over Azzi’s ass again, grabbing hard and slapping it again. And again.. and again, until Azzi’s legs started to shake. Azzi hummed into Paige’s cunt, signaling she was close. Paige doubled down at this, which in turn made Azzi also intensify her movements.

After one last slap to Azzi’s ass and Azzi moaning on Paige’s clit because of it, they both reached their peak—gushing white heat on each other’s faces. Azzi pushed off and turned herself around so she was back facing Paige. She fell onto Paige’s chest, both breathing hard. They let the moment settle and their breaths sync before either of them said anything.

“Fuck,” they both said at the same time.

They giggled and Paige rubbed circles on Azzi’s back. “That was better than I could’ve imagined, Az. I’m really glad it was with you.”

Azzi looked up at her with tired eyes, but none the less warm, “Me too. I think… I think I only want it to be with you.”

Paige held Azzi tighter, “I want that too. I want you. I’ve wanted you—for a while now.”

Azzi leaned up to Paige’s face, kissing her again—full of intention and love.

“Stay here baby. I’m gonna grab something to clean us up with.”

Azzi nodded at her. Paige went to the bathroom and ran warm water over a wash cloth. She came back to Azzi on the bed, “Spread your legs for me baby.”

Azzi listened and let her legs fall open. Paige was careful and gentle. Azzi just stared at Paige with so much to say, but so little words available right now. Instead, she reached for Paige’s wrist and rubbed her thumb over her pulse point. Paige looked up at her and noticed a small tear falling down her face. Paige surged forward, wiping the tear away, “Are you okay mama? Did I do something?”

Azzi smiled up at the worried blonde, “No P. You didn’t you anything wrong. You did everything right.”

Paige pecked kisses all over Azzi’s face—her forehead, each cheek, the tip of her nose, and then finally her lips. “I love you, Azzi.”

“And I love you P…I mean daddy.” Azzi said now laughing.

Paige poked her stomach, shaking her head, but smiling nonetheless.

“Can we buy a strap at some point?” Azzi asked quietly.

“Definitely mama,” Paige assured.

Paige finished wiping herself up and tossed the rag in the bathroom. She climbed back in next to Azzi, pulling the covers over them and resumed her fingers scratching on her back. They finally drifted off to sleep knowing they had each other fully. They always did, but now they got to show it.

[emilys-bangs]

spoken for | e.p

Tags: shy!reader, unit chief emily, established relationship, fluff, very mildly possessive emily, luke flirts just a lil bit (not too much), fem pronouns, use of petnames

Summary: Luke assumes you're a new addition to the Bureau. No harm in being friendly, right? Only you're not just anyone, he soon realizes. Requested here.

Word count: 0.8k

Maybe, you think, lunch bag clutched in your hand, eyes darting around through the window of Emily’s clearly vacant office, visitor’s badge somewhat hidden in the folds of your clothes, you do look new. It certainly helps that there’s mysteriously no familiar faces around. Your brows had creased into a frown that still somewhat lingers, even under Luke’s bright smile and noticeably wandering eyes.

“B team?” He guesses, still not quite giving you the chance to cut in. “You’re a profiler, right? You’ve got that look about you.” His grin widens to show charming dimples, pearly white teeth splitting from under his lips. You quietly wonder what kind of look that is, because you’re decidedly not—although you’ve lived long enough to be able to glean the flirtatious edge of his mouth, his easy open posture.

Your own shrinks a little bit. The lunch bag crinkles in your hand as your fingers tighten around it, discomfort settling under your skin like pebbles as you crane your neck. 

Where the fuck is Emily? Or anyone else that knows you, for that matter?

Luke Alvez—it’s definitely him, curly hair and a slight roll to his r’s—follows your line of sight, craning his head to meet your eyes. “I could show you to Cruz’s office, if you’d like. Team’s already gone off on a case, he’ll help you get settled.” He offers politely, and then the heat in your neck triples.

“No, thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t work here. I’m Y/N Prentiss.” Though you don’t know why you say it, because he clearly doesn’t know you. Emily’s not the most forthcoming when it comes to sharing details about you; it suits you just fine, although now you kind of hope he knew so he’d get the hint instead of the both of you having to suffer you floundering through it. “Have you seen her?” You murmur, thumbing creases into the paper bag.

Luke’s face shifts into an expressive oh. “Prentiss?” He reiterates, curiosity drawn in the raise of his brows.

“Mhm.” You hum distractedly, turning your head to the glass doors. Still no sign of raven bangs or meticulous suits.

“Huh. Any relation to our Unit Chief?”

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m looking for her—”

“Hi.” A soft touch at your lower back uncoils every muscle under your skin. You relax into Emily’s minimal touch, smiling as her hand flattens on your back, turning to catch her dark eyes and the mug of coffee held in her hand. “Is that for me?” She points to the bag.

“Mhm.” You nod, handing it over. “Forgot it on your way out.” You murmur.

Emily’s eyes gleam. You know if you were somewhere private you’d have gotten a sweet kiss for your troubles, sweeter murmurs into your mouth about how thankful she is, how you spoil her even though, really, you’re doing the bare minimum. 

You grow warm at the thought.

Her soft smile tells you she sees through to the spool of thoughts in your head, knotting into a flustered mess as her chest presses into your side.

“You know Y/N?” Luke asks, breaking your eye contact with your wife. Emily’s hand curls around to your waist; she lightly palms the clothed curve, leaning in just enough to close the distance between her front and your back.

“Of course I know Y/N,” she says dryly, “do you know Y/N? She’s my wife.”

Luke’s mouth hangs open. He stares, eyes darting between the two of you, then to Emily’s hand, searching for the lack of a ring. You know it’s strung on the chain around her neck, a gold band pressed warm against her heart.

“I was getting there.” You murmur, scratching behind your ear.

“I know you were, hon.” Emily says fondly. Her tone undeniably drips sugar, flirtation in itself.

Luke snaps back into action. It’s honestly a bit comical, the way he suddenly backs away, head dipping respectfully.

“Ma’am.”

“Please don’t try to flirt with her again.” Emily throws over her shoulder as she leads you away to her office. “You’re already on thin ice.” 

“Emily,” you admonish, fingers knotting together even as her dimple winks at you. “He wasn’t flirting. Just—uh, being friendly.”

You slip through her office door as she holds it open for you. Emily shuts it with a soft click, her brows arching. “Is that why you were looking so flustered, then?” She sets everything down on her coffee table and wraps her arms around you, still safely behind the privacy of the door. 

Your skin heats further as she smiles, her eyes knowing. Her knuckle comes up to smooth over your cheekbone; you lean into it, missing the contact. “He was being too friendly if you ask me.” She murmurs.

“Just a touch,” you agree. Her chin tilts and you meet her kiss, tasting coffee on her tongue. “But don’t tell him off.”

Emily blows a drawn out, dramatic sigh. “As you wish.” She drawls reluctantly. She kisses you again, hand slipping under your neatly pressed clothes, “I’ll just cut it from his paycheck.”

“Emily.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes @yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers @wittygutsy

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Lilies In The Valley

Mom!Jackie Taylor x Reader (post!rescue au)

Summary: Marrying Jackie Taylor was the best thing that ever happened to you. And it seemed to only get better with the additions of your babies.

A/N: Jackie Taylor would’ve been the best mom in the world 🥺

The stillness in the air felt like a gift from God. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of chopping. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window in warm, gentle rays, gilding the worn countertop and the edges of the flour-dusted apron around your waist.

Your eyes drifted toward the window, drawn by the sound of laughter. A smile tugged at your lips. Two tiny heads bobbed across the yard. Joshua and Lily, so alive with energy it almost seemed to lift the blades of grass in their wake.

Josh, only seven, stood clutching his soccer ball, watching his little sister with a frown that tried unsuccessfully to look severe. Even in his exasperation, there was something unshakably patient about him, a kindness too big for such a small boy.

Lily was two but already carried herself with a sense of entitlement, as though the whole world—and certainly her big brother existed to do her bidding. She shrieked with delight when he finally relented and rolled the ball her way, her chubby arms flailing in triumph.

Your chest felt full at the sight. This ordinary moment, sun on their hair, flour on your hands, the quiet hush of the house around you. It felt almost too precious to disturb.

They were the best part, you thought, glancing back at the rising dough. The very best part of everything was them.

And especially Jackie.

The thought of her caught you gently, like a hand on your shoulder. You could almost hear her footsteps in the hall, the soft scrape of her keys on the table, the way her voice warmed every corner of this place.

You exhaled, feeling something small and grateful settle in your chest. Even in the quiet, you weren’t alone. You never were.

Jackie’s presence seemed to be all consuming even when she wasn’t here.

When your grandfather passed away he left you this home. The home you grew up running up and down these halls with your brothers every holiday and summer. The walls still had the wood paneling of the late 1980’s and scuff marks of the wear and tear of years of love.

Here in the central valley of Northern California, your family has been here for years. Your grandfather used to joke about his family being the keeper of this land since ancient times. It was a massive eight hundred acre property. Filled with farmland and wildlife.

He had a whole team of people who helped tended to the cattle that was in the southern part of the land. It was the family business. Caring for cattle and Bison. We sold the diary and meat.

It’s been a lucrative business that helped put all of your siblings including yourself through college. Your grandfather was one of the sweetest men you’d ever known. Your dad used to joke about him being made of sugar.

Somehow he decided it was best to leave it all to you, when he passed. You couldn’t believe it, but then again you were the only one from your family that spent every summer working the lands with him.

You loved that you got to take care of the land. You loved this home on the small corner of the property with a small little river running to the side of it. Hell you even loved this business. But your life wasn’t just your own anymore. You were madly, deeply, devotedly, in love with Jackie Taylor.

And there is no question in your mind that you would do anything she told you to. Even if it meant giving up this land.

With that known…to say the least you were worried Jackie would hate it. She’d come from the suburbs of New Jersey, a place that felt big and humming compared to the hush of your valley.

You still remembered the first time you saw her, like it was pressed into the inside of your eyelids.

She walked into the coffee shop on Main Street where you worked the early shift. The bell over the door chimed, and you looked up just in time to see her push her sunglasses onto her head, her dark hair falling around her face in a way that made your breath catch. She wore ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, and a vintage art conference tote slung over one shoulder, and she looked like she belonged somewhere faster, somewhere brighter.

But she chose a corner table by the window every Tuesday and Thursday morning, spreading out textbooks and highlighters in a kind of determined chaos.

For weeks, you couldn’t stop glancing over, heart tripping every time she caught your gaze. You told yourself she was just another customer, but you couldn’t help it. She was so pretty it was almost unsettling.

So you started small. A free refill slipped onto her table when she looked especially tired. A latte you didn’t charge her for. A chocolate croissant when she was still there by noon, scribbling notes with her hair in a messy knot.

And then you started writing little notes on the cup sleeves.

You’re going to ace that exam.

Try to get some sleep, okay?

The best things are headed your way.

The first time she looked up and smiled, really smiled, you thought your knees might give out. You couldn’t stop yourself from doing it every time. Just so you could see that damn smile.

It turned into a ritual. She’d tease you about how you were going to get fired for giving her free coffee, and you’d tease her about her catastrophic caffeine dependency. The banter settled into something easy, something you looked forward to on the long, slow mornings.

You never expected her to make the first move. She just seemed too confident, too polished, out of your league.

But the week before the semester ended, she waited until your back was turned, then slid a napkin across the counter with her receipt. You picked it up, expecting her usual scribbled thank-you.

Instead, in her loopy handwriting, it read:

If you ever want to stop giving me free coffee and maybe have dinner instead, call me. - Jackie <3

Below it—her number, underlined twice.

When you looked up, she was already at the door, her cheeks pink but her chin lifted like she wasn’t about to second-guess herself.

You still had that napkin. Pressed flat in an old recipe box in the pantry. A reminder of the first time you realized that sometimes the most unexpected things could take root in the quiet places.

You turned back to the counter, pressing the heel of your palm into the dough, feeling the softness give way beneath your hands. The afternoon was so peaceful you almost didn’t hear the front door click open, or the familiar shuffle of Jackie’s shoes as she toed them off in the entryway.

A moment later, her arms slipped around your waist, warm and solid, and you felt her sigh against your back. She pressed her forehead into your shoulder, her breath soft on your neck.

“God,” she mumbled, her voice muffled in your sweater. “I think today was a year long. My seniors can’t tell a Baroque cherub from a Gothic arch, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m the problem.”

You smiled, resting one flour-dusted hand over hers. “You’re not.”

“I might be.” Her voice was sleepy and a little hoarse, but even so, you could feel the affection thrumming under her exhaustion. She nuzzled deeper, as if she could just melt into you right there by the counter. “I swear, if I hear one more kid say ‘I don’t know, it’s old’—”

A high, delighted squeal from the yard cut her off. She went still for half a second, and then something in her…some small, tired place, lit up.

She lifted her head, eyes bright again. “That,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “is what I’ve been waiting for all day.”

She turned back to you to grab your face gently and she paced an intentionally featherlight kiss on your lips. You smiled brightly at her.

She gave you one more peck before you watched her slip out of your arms and cross the kitchen, her exhaustion already dissolving. She pushed the back door open, the screen creaking, and stepped into the sunlight with her hair tumbling loose from its clip.

“Mama’s home!” she called, her voice lifting into the soft air.

The children’s shrieks rose in answer, and you watched as Josh dropped the soccer ball and Lilly barreled straight into Jackie’s waiting arms.

For a moment, the house was still again. But it was a different kind of stillness—one filled with laughter and the easy certainty that this was exactly where you were all meant to be.

From the doorway, you watched Jackie slip right back into her old rhythm, like she’d never left the soccer field all those years ago. You knew she played soccer in high school. But she never wanted to talk about it.

Her past was a heavy topic. Before California…BC Jackie, as she would call her past was something she would often say was dead. “That was BC Jackie, baby. That Jackie is dead.”

You knew enough, plane crash, survival, deaths. You never pressured her for more than what she told.

But seeing her like this, it was like seeing a younger much more light Jackie come back to life in front of you. It was a treat to see BC Jackie come back even for a moment. She crouched down in front of Josh, one hand on his shoulder, her expression focused but bright.

“All right, big guy,” she was saying, her voice lifting just enough for you to hear. “You’ve got to look where you want the ball to go, not just at your feet. Watch—”

She took a few steps back, her work flats kicked off on the porch, and demonstrated a pass with the edge of her foot, her ponytail flying over her shoulder. Josh watched with wide eyes, already trying to mimic her movement.

It made something soft bloom in your chest—watching her be both teacher and mother in the same breath.

Then you felt a gentle tug at your pant leg.

You looked down to find Lily, all wispy curls and dimpled hands, peering up at you with Jackie’s exact hazel eyes. She wiggled her nose—just like Jackie did when she was thinking hard, and the sight made you melt in a way you never quite got used to.

“Hi, bug,” you said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Getting bored with all that soccer?”

She nodded solemnly, her gaze drifting to the counter where your blueberry pie was cooling on a wire rack.

“Can I taste?” she asked, her voice small but hopeful.

You couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, you think you can just come in here and steal pie before dinner?”

She nodded again, this time with a grin so wide her nose scrunched all the way up.

You sighed, trying for stern but failing spectacularly. She had Jackie’s face, the same big hazel eyes you fell for, and that had always been your undoing. You wondered if this was how Jackie felt every time Josh looked up at her with your same cautious little smile.

“Okay,” you relented, lifting her under the arms and settling her gently on the counter. “But only one bite. And only if you promise to keep it a secret.”

Lily pressed both hands over her mouth, eyes round. “Secret,” she whispered.

“You have to swear,” you said, lowering your voice like you were conspiring in something terribly important. “On your stuffed bunny’s life.”

“I swears,” she breathed, solemn as a little monk.

You cut a tiny wedge of pie and offered it to her on a fork. She took it carefully, her chubby hands steady. The moment the blueberry filling hit her tongue, her whole face lit up, and she let out a delighted little sigh.

“Good?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“Good,” she declared. Then, as if remembering the seriousness of your pact, she clapped a hand back over her mouth. “Shhh!”

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the smell of warm pie and her soft, clean hair.

“All right, little bandit,” you murmured. “Our secret.”

Outside, you heard Jackie’s voice again, laughing as Josh kicked the ball across the grass.

For a moment, you just stood there, holding Lily steady on the counter, feeling like everything you’d ever wanted was right here—sticky fingers, scuffed floors, and the woman you loved teaching your son how to aim for something bigger than himself.

Lily finished licking the last smear of blueberry filling from her lips, her eyes already drifting hopefully back to the pie.

“More?” she asked, tilting her head in that practiced way that always made you weak.

“Oh no you don’t,” you said, trying your hardest to sound firm. “One bite was our deal, little miss. Now go help set the table before you charm me into spoiling your dinner.”

She stuck her bottom lip out, just a little. But when you raised an eyebrow, she sighed—so dramatic—and reached her arms up for you to lift her down.

You couldn’t stop the breathy chuckle that flew out of you. God was she Jackie’s twin.

“Go on,” you said, giving her a soft pat on the back. “You can put out the napkins.”

She nodded solemnly and waddled off across the kitchen, curls bouncing, her little feet slapping the tile. You watched her go, your chest tugging with that familiar ache, equal parts love and disbelief that this was really your life.

You were still standing there when the screen door banged open again.

Jackie came in first, hair escaping her ponytail in damp strands, smelling like sweat and fresh turf. Josh barreled in right behind her, breathless, cheeks red with excitement.

“Mom!” he shouted, skidding to a stop. “Mom! Did you see me? I kicked it so far—like Coach Jorge said—and Mama says I’m getting way better!”

“You are,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “You’re going to be ready for that game on Saturday.”

Josh’s chest puffed out. “I’m gonna score a goal,” he announced.

“Oh, he is soooo ready to kick some butt in the grass this Saturday, Momma,” Jackie chimed in as she stepped closer, her grin bright and a little wicked. She leaned in and kissed you square on the mouth, tasting of sun and sweat and something achingly familiar.

You pushed at her shoulder with a laugh. “And you are sooo ready for a shower.”

Jackie pouted, eyes going wide in mock sadness. “A shower with you?”

You shook your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing again. “Absolutely not.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Whyyy not?” she whined, her voice pitching up like a petulant teenager.

“Because,” you said, smoothing a hand over Josh’s hair again to hide your smile, “somebody has to finish dinner and make sure Lily doesn’t sneak more pie.”

Jackie crossed her arms and stomped one foot—just enough to make Josh giggle. “Fine,” she huffed. Then her eyes softened as she leaned in closer, dropping her voice low so only you could hear. “But I expect some extra love tonight when the kids are asleep.”

You rolled your eyes but felt heat creeping up your neck anyway. “Go,” you ordered, pointing down the hall.

She gave you one last smirk before trudging off toward the bathroom, Josh trailing after her still chattering about soccer and goals and grass stains.

And you stood there a moment longer, listening to their voices echo down the hall, the kitchen full of flour, blueberries, and the sweet, perfect mess of your life.

After dinner, the house quieted into that gentle hush you always loved most. Josh had fallen asleep halfway through his bedtime story, sprawled across his comforter with one arm thrown over his stuffed fox. You’d kissed his cheek and pulled the quilt up to his chin, heart soft with the simple rightness of the moment.

Down the hall, Jackie’s voice drifted low and melodic through Lily’s doorway. You leaned against the wall, listening to her read Goodnight Moon for what must have been the thousandth time, her voice carrying that lilt she saved just for the kids.

When she reached the last page, she closed the book with a soft thud and brushed her lips across Lily’s forehead.

“Goodnight, my Lily in the valley,” she whispered.

Lily mumbled something too sleepy to understand, her lashes already fluttering closed. Jackie stood for a moment, just looking at her—the impossible little girl she’d waited years for. Then she turned and eased the door shut, meeting you in the hall.

You didn’t miss the glimmer in her eyes, the way she blinked too fast.

“Hey,” you murmured, stepping forward to wrap your arms around her. You felt her let out a long, shaky breath against your collarbone. “Aw, baby…what’s going on?”

She shook her head, pressing her cheek to your shoulder, her voice thick. “I just… I wish I had more time with them,” she whispered. “I love teaching, I do, but… God, they’re my miracles. Both of them.”

You tightened your hold on her, feeling your own throat go tight.

“Lily…” She drew in a tremulous breath. “Every time I look at her, I remember. How I thought I’d never…how the doctor said I couldn’t…”

Your eyes drifted past her, to the closed door where Lily slept.

And for a moment, you were back in that small exam room, the smell of antiseptic so sharp it made your eyes water. Jackie sitting beside you, her hand clenched tight around yours as the doctor’s voice turned to static. I’m so sorry. The likelihood is extremely low…

Jackie had buried her face in your shoulder and wept like her heart was breaking—and you’d held her, feeling helpless in the face of how much she’d wanted to carry life inside her.

It was why, when she’d looked up at you later, eyes swollen and red, and whispered, Would you…maybe…would you carry our baby?—you’d said yes before she could even finish the question.

Josh had been your first, a boy with Jackie’s dirty blonde curls and your quiet nature. And then, after years of trying and every treatment you could afford, the impossible happened.

Five years later…just when Jackie had finally let herself believe it would never be. She was pregnant.

You could still remember the day she held up the test with trembling hands, tears already spilling over her cheeks. Our miracle, she’d sobbed. Our Lily in the valley.

Now, you pressed a kiss into her hair. “I know,” you murmured, voice thick. “She is. You fought so hard for her to be here.”

Jackie swallowed, trying to steady herself. “I just…sometimes I look at them and I feel like time is slipping through my fingers. Like I’m going to blink and they’ll be grown.”

You brushed your thumbs across her cheeks, wiping the dampness away. “Hey,” you said softly. “You are there for them in all the ways that matter. They know how loved they are. And you are the best mom.”

Her lip wobbled, and she let out a watery laugh. “I hope so.”

“I know so,” you whispered. “They adore you baby.”

She leaned in and kissed you slow, her hands tangling in your shirt. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“For what?”

“For…all of it.” She blinked, her eyes shining again. “For never giving up on this. On me. You could’ve left…I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving.”

You smiled, your own eyes damp. “Never, it’s you and me forever.” you said simply.

And for a moment, standing there in the quiet hall, it felt like time itself had paused, just long enough for you to remember that every struggle, every heartbreak, had led you here. It felt like the first day of your life all over again.

Like you were born the day you met Jackie Taylor.

Later that night, you lay side by side in the dark, the hush of the house settling like a quilt over your shoulders. The kids were asleep. The dishes were washed. The day had finally let you both breathe.

Jackie had her reading lamp on, the soft pool of light spilling over her face and the pages of her book. You stared up at the ceiling, your mind still reeling from the ache in her voice when she’d whispered I wish I had more time with them.

You thought of how your grandpa used to talk about expanding the business before he passed—how he dreamed of converting part of the southern acreage into coffee fields. Craft brewers are going to be the next big thing, he’d said more than once, eyes bright with the kind of conviction that always made you believe in things.

You’d never considered it seriously. You’d already inherited more land than you knew what to do with, and the thought of adding something else to your plate had always felt overwhelming.

But now, with Jackie’s words still echoing in your chest, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt…right.

You turned your head to look at her. She hadn’t noticed, still reading, her hair tumbling over her shoulder.

“Jax?” you said softly, your voice a little unsteady.

She glanced up, tucking her finger into the crease of the page. “Yeah, love?”

You swallowed, heart tripping. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her brows lifted. “That’s never good.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, but it faded as you searched for the right words. “Remember how my grandpa always wanted to plant coffee trees? To make a little roastery and café on the property?”

Jackie tilted her head, studying you. “Sure. You always said it was too much work.”

“I did,” you admitted. “But…if we did it, if we built it up enough to bring in another source of steady money…I could run the business. And you…you could stay home. Homeschool the kids if you wanted.”

The quiet stretched out between you. Jackie’s mouth parted, but nothing came out at first. Her eyes glistened in the lamplight.

“Would you really do that?” she whispered finally, voice trembling. “For me?”

You reached out and took her hand. “Baby,” you said softly, “if you want to stay home and be here every day…I would move heaven and earth to make it happen. I know the kids would love it. And if it makes you happy, that’s all that matters to me.”

For a second, she just stared at you. Then her book slipped from her lap to the floor with a soft thud.

She kissed you hard—sudden, fervent, her hand coming up to cup your cheek. In one smooth movement, she swung a leg over your hips, straddling you as she pressed her forehead to yours.

“Baby,” she whispered against your mouth, her voice cracking, “I love you so much.”

Your hands settled on her waist, heart hammering. “I love you too,” you breathed.

She kissed you again, deeper this time, as if she was trying to pour every unspoken feeling straight into you. You hand held her steady by her waist. Your lips being devoured by the girl on top of you.

“I think now is a good time for some fun.” Jackie mumbles against your lips before pressing open mouthed kisses along your jaw.

You let out a long content sigh. Feeling heat rise within you. Tonight was going to be the death of you.

Saturday morning dawned bright and already warm, the sky a clear blue that promised the first true heat of summer. You’d planned to leave earlier, but Lily had insisted on wearing her pink tutu over her shorts, and then you’d needed to grab your files for the meeting.

Jackie had gone ahead to the field with Josh to help him warm up. You could practically picture her there already, setting out his water bottle, fussing over his shin guards.

You balanced Lily on your hip as you spoke with Mr. Reynolds, the coffee bean sourcer you’d invited to come walk part of the property. His truck idled in the gravel drive, dust curling up around the tires.

“Martinez Farms has a strong yield this year,” he was saying, flipping through a weathered binder. “They’re certified organic, too—good marketing angle if you’re planning a craft roasting operation.”

You nodded, trying to keep your mind on the logistics even as your phone buzzed with Jackie’s texts. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’d like to negotiate a bulk shipment to get the first rows planted by late summer.”

“Smart timeline.” He shut the binder and extended a hand. “I’ll draft a contract proposal this week.”

“Perfect. Thanks so much, Mr. Reynolds.”

You were just shifting Lily to your other arm when your phone lit up again—this time with Jackie’s name and a string of exclamation points.

They bumped the game up. 10am start. WHERE ARE YOU?

You felt your stomach drop. “Shit.”

“Mommy said a bad word,” Lily announced, wide-eyed.

“Mommy’s sorry,” you muttered, already waving Mr. Reynolds off. “I have to run—my son’s soccer game. Thanks again!”

He chuckled as you took off, Lily giggling in delight at every jostling step.

By the time you pulled up to the field, you had barely a minute to spare.

Jackie was easy to spot, her Dodgers baseball cap pulled low, her hair in a messy braid, and the total soccer mom uniform: tank top, sunglasses, clipboard tucked under one arm. She spotted you at once, her face brightening in relief.

“Hi, baby,” you panted, slowing only enough to set Lily down.

Lily squealed and bolted straight into Jackie’s arms. Jackie scooped her up effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before looking back at you.

“You made it,” she said, grinning. “Barely.”

You handed her a cold Gatorade. “I know, I know. What’d I miss?”

“They bumped the game up because the other team had a scheduling conflict,” Jackie said, cracking the cap and taking a long drink. “Josh is over there warming up-he’s so nervous he’s about to vibrate out of his little cleats.”

You laughed, then leaned in and kissed her on the mouth, quick and warm.

“I think we’re going to go with Martinez,” you said as you pulled back, still catching your breath. “Just saw their crops and they look great. I’m going to negotiate a bulk order so we can start planting ASAP.”

For the smallest moment, something flickered in Jackie’s eyes, like a flinch she tried to swallow. That happened a lot. Small things like names seemed to trigger her. Like they carried weight or meaning that was too deep not to have a reaction.

You learned to ignore the flinch, or the fear. She never could talk about it. You knew it had to do with her past. Just as quickly as it came it left. You watched as she squared her shoulders and smiled so wide it nearly undid you.

“God, I’m so excited,” she breathed. “I’ll talk to the school on Monday about the timeline of me leaving.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, studying her face. “You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” she said, voice fierce and a little raw. “This is our dream. All of it.”

Lily tugged at her hat brim, trying to get her attention. Jackie shifted her on her hip and kissed her temple.

And for a second, the whole world seemed to slow—the dusty soccer field, the kids shouting and running drills, the sun warming your shoulders.

The game was everything Josh had hoped for. He darted up and down the field, determined and red-cheeked, Jackie shouting encouragement with all the fervor of someone who’d once lived for this sport.

“Stay on the ball, baby! That’s it—good hustle!” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth.

Lily bounced in your lap, clapping each time everyone else clapped. Including when the opposing team scored. She was everyone’s fan today. You glanced over at Jackie, her eyes locked on Josh with that laser focus and bright, almost desperate pride.

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged on your lips seeing her in her element.

When the final whistle blew, Josh’s team erupted in cheers. He threw his arms in the air, beaming across the field, and Jackie actually teared up.

You leaned over and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re such a soccer mom.”

“Shut up,” she sniffed, wiping her cheek.

The stands began to empty. Parents herded their kids toward snack tables and coolers. You were smoothing Lily’s curls back from her face when you noticed her little hand waving.

“Hi!” Lily chirped brightly.

You glanced up, expecting to see another classmate’s parent.

Instead, a woman stood just below the bleachers, blonde curls frizzing in the heat, her round glasses sliding down her nose. Her blue eyes were wide with astonishment.

“Jackie?” she said, her voice bright with a kind of delighted disbelief.

Beside you, Jackie went utterly still. The color drained from her face so fast you felt your own stomach pitch.

You’d never seen her look like that. Not when your water broke, and she raced to you to the hospital. Not when she went into labor. Not even when she’d held Lily for the first time, hands shaking.

“Um,” you began carefully, shifting Lily on your lap. “Hello? Are you…a friend of Jackie’s?”

The woman didn’t look at you right away. Her eyes stayed pinned to Jackie, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was real. Finally, she blinked and turned, offering a too-bright smile.

“Uh—yes. We knew each other in high school.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly. “I’m Misty.”

Your heart knocked hard against your ribs.

Misty.

That name was familiar. You shot Jackie a sidelong look, hoping she’d offer something, some sign you were overreacting. But she was pale, lips parted, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

Jackie didn’t talk about high school. She’d told you bits and pieces over the years—enough to understand there’d been a plane crash on the way to nationals. Enough to know she hated the survivors, every last one of them.

Enough to know this woman standing here had to be part of that.

Trying to keep your voice steady, you shifted Lily higher on your hip. “I—I’m Jackie’s wife,” you said gently. “And you are…?”

Misty’s gaze finally slid to you, blinking as if just realizing you existed. “Misty,” she repeated. “It’s…wow. Jackie, I didn’t—”

“Why the fuck are you here, Misty?” Jackie snapped, her voice low and flinty.

The moms in the row below turned to look, their brows knitting. You felt Lily tense against you, her little hands fisting in your shirt. “Mama said a bad word.” Lily whispered loudly in your ear.

“And Mama is sorry.” you whispered back to Lily, forcing a small smile.

You cleared your throat. “Ladies…maybe we should talk around the back of the bleachers?” you suggested, already rising.

Jackie shook her head sharply. “No. This conversation won’t be long.”

Her eyes were locked on Misty with a fury that made your skin prickle. Misty’s mouth parted in confusion, but then somehow…she smiled. Small and almost pitying.

“I just wanted to see if it was true,” she said quietly. “You were here. Seems it is. And with kids…and a wife. Didn’t peg you for swinging that way.”

Jackie scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. “You don’t get to joke with me.”

Misty’s smile faded.

“Now you know,” Jackie said, her voice trembling with rage. “Get the fuck out of here, Misty. There’s a reason I left. I wanted nothing to do with you—all of you.”

Misty opened her mouth, but Jackie stepped down off the bleachers, her face inches from Misty’s, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

“And if you tell the others I’m here,” she hissed, so quietly only you and Misty could hear, “I will personally kill you.”

Your arms tightened instinctively around Lily, a chill sliding over your skin despite the warm air. Misty swallowed hard, her eyes wide behind her glasses. For a long, brittle moment, no one spoke.

Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, and backed away without another word. You felt Jackie’s hand on your back, steadying herself more than you. You glanced at her, searching for any sign she was okay.

But Jackie’s eyes were still locked on Misty’s retreating figure, her jaw tight, her shoulders rigid with something darker than anger. And for the first time since you’d met her, you realized you might never fully understand everything she’d left behind.

In the shuffle of it all. Josh was begging to go somewhere, Lily was falling asleep in your arms, and Jackie was shell shocked. She had gone almost nonverbal just a quiet nod of her head and a small shaky “No just feeling a little out of it suddenly.” as an explanation to our friends.

You did the heavy lifting in conversations with the coaches and the moms. And when insistently Josh begged to go to his friends house. You decided that’s exactly what you all needed, the kids needed to be taken care of so you can focus on Jackie.

You pulled the truck up to the curb in front of the Adams’ house, where Josh’s friend’s mom was waiting with pool floaties stacked under one arm. Josh barely remembered to say goodbye, too excited about the promise of popsicles and Marco Polo.

You ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. “Be good,” you called after him.

“I will!” he yelled, already halfway up the walk.

When you turned back, Jackie was sitting rigid in the passenger seat, one hand locked in a white-knuckled grip around her seatbelt. Lily was slumped in her car seat behind her, mouth open in sleep, her curls plastered to her damp forehead.

You stepped around to Jackie’s door, easing it open. She didn’t move.

“Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s get some air.”

She blinked as if coming to, unbuckling with jerky hands. The second her feet hit the ground, she reached for you, clutching handfuls of your shirt.

You pressed your back to the side of the truck, your arms wrapping tight around her. She buried her face in your shoulder, her body shuddering.

“Hey,” you murmured, one hand rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

But she couldn’t seem to stop. Her breath came ragged, almost hitching on sobs she refused to let out. Her voice was low, broken, words tumbling over each other in a panicked whisper.

“…the wilderness…the smell…it’s like being there again…if Misty found us, the others can too…oh God…oh God…the wilderness keeps following…”

You felt your own stomach clench. You’d never seen her like this. Never.

You cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer, your lips against her temple. “Baby, listen to me. It’s going to be okay. They can’t hurt you. Not when I’m here.”

She went completely still. You could feel her heartbeat thudding against your chest, wild and desperate. Then she pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye, her face streaked with tears, her mouth trembling. Like the thought of them hurting you became as real as can be.

“I can’t lose you,” she said, her voice hoarse, almost a rasp. “I fucking can’t lose you. I would die. I—I—”

“Hey,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the wetness from her cheek. “Jax. Look at me.”

Her eyes clung to yours, huge and terrified.

“You’re not losing me,” you said, steady and sure, even though your own throat was tight. “I’m not dying. They can’t hurt you. Whatever that was—whatever it is—it won’t happen again.”

But you could see she wasn’t convinced. She looked like she was about to splinter into pieces. So you took her face in both hands, pressed your forehead to hers, and kissed her gently.

Then you pressed your lips to the space just above her brow, the place that always made her breathing slow. You held her like that, her body trembling against yours, her hands fisted in your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered again, closing your eyes. “I’m right here. You hear me?”

She let out a shaky breath, and finally—finally—you felt some of the tension start to ease from her shoulders. She melted into your hold, her cheek resting over your heart, and you stayed there, under the bright Saturday sky, trying to be enough to steady her.

And in that moment, you swore you’d never let her face any of it alone. But more than that you couldn’t help but wonder. What the fuck happened when that plane crashed?

And how could a group of women revert your strong, loving, full of life, joyful wife…into a trembling anxiety induced state? And what the fuck does she mean the wilderness keeps following?

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

as I said, i’m starving, so can I get a double entree? with matty and frankie? maybe them learning how to share…or some fun in the kitchen ;)

a/n: ooooohhhh... okay... yeah. i can work with this 😏

word count: 1285

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“Uhh…” your feet came to a stop as your eyes swiftly flickered between the two men suddenly before you, “what is this?”

Stirring a simmering pot on the stove, Frank barely lifted his gaze when you entered your home, only to discover both him and Matthew standing in the middle of your kitchen.

“Lasagna with three different types of cheese,” Frank murmured in a low rumble, as if such a gesture was normal for you to come home to.

“No, I mean,” you nearly sounded out of breath as you waved a hand to dismiss his words, “you’re cooking… the both of you… together…” you pointed out before your brows furrowed further, “what happened to ‘either he goes or I do’?” you quoted the gruff man stirring the pot.

Your wide eyes landed upon Matt, his burly arm stretched high above his head as he reached into a cupboard, his fingertips kissing the edges of the stacked baking dishes before he found one in the right size and lowered down to the counter.

“Oh, that was what he said, wasn’t it?” Matt smirked before slipping to your side and leaning in to steal a brief peck from your stunned lips. As he tilted back, his palm not straying from the small of your back where it had settled, he then twisted his head in the direction of the other man, “god, you’re so dramatic, Frank,” he teased with a smile.

“I’m dramatic? Don’t fucking make me break this truce already, altar boy,” Frank swiftly shot back as he finally cast a glance over his shoulder. 

“Truce?” you echoed, your head swivelling between them both, “what are you talking about?”

“Well,” Frank exhaled, before he ominously shared, “we hashed some things out.”

“You–…” breath scarcely filled up your lungs as you imagined the worst, “why are you making it sound like you two beat each other to a pulp?” your glare continued to flicker between their stoic expressions, and as they ceased to change, your eyes promptly widened, “oh my god, you did!” you shoved at Matt’s chest as your words spewed forth, “seriously?” you took a step further back from them both, “you guys can’t even have a simple conversation without breaking someone’s nose?”

“No one broke anything, we’re fine,” Matt uttered calmly and held up both of his hands.

“Mhm,” you hummed as your eyes narrowed, still highly doubtful as you knew the pair of them way too well, “no, please, continue,” you muttered heatedly before crossing your arms, “you were saying how you couldn’t be mature about our little predicament.”

Sucking in a breath, Frank leaned back against the counter by the stove, “we did talk.”

“Eventually,” Matt cocked his head.

“…and?” your glare darted between them both as they ceased to go on, “come on, I’m on pins and needles here. I already told you guys that I won’t choose between you. I care about you both, and if any of you has a problem with that, then you know where the door is.”

Shifting his weight, Matt then murmured, “yeah, well, as good as we are at budding heads, there was one thing that we were able to agree on.”

“And what was that?” you said with a sigh.

And with his stare upon you never wavering a second, Frank then uttered, “you,” sending a trickle down your spine as a sharp breath promptly filled up your lungs.

“We care about you, a lot,” Matt went on, “so much in fact that we have agreed to be all in, both of us.”

Utterly stunned, you blinked, “really?”

“Don’t you see us standing here in your kitchen, cooking you dinner, all civil?” Frank gestured as his dark brows briefly furrowed.

“I mean, yeah,” your eyes drifted and averted to your feet, “but we all know you’ll probably be back at it before the leftovers are even packed away…”

“Well,” Frank cocked his head, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

And as your gaze drifted back to settle upon Frank, Matthew’s voice then found your ears, “…maybe you could give us a hand…”

“A hand?” you looked to him as a smile gently twisted your lips.

“That’s right,” Frank hummed, “teach us how to do this.”

“Uh…” a faint giggle couldn’t help but burst from your lungs, “I guess I could give it a shot….”

“Yeah?” Matt’s face lit up like the sky on New Year's Eve. Rushing to you, he swiftly wrapped you up in his arms as your chuckling kept on affirming their proposition. As his lips once again found your own, his embrace tightened before he lifted you a few inches off the ground, clutching you close as he kissed you fiercely.

Meanwhile, Frank slowly set down the long spoon in his grasp as he let a smile twitch at the corner of his lip. Patiently waiting, he leaned back against the counter, one of his hands briefly dipping down to snatch up a sliver of cheese on the cutting board to nibble on as he stared at the way that Matthew kissed you as if the pair of you were the only two people in the entire world.

Though as soon as your feet once again met the floor and Matt’s lips faded from your own, you barely managed to blink your eyes back open before Frank had grabbed your jaw and twisted your features for your lips to come crashing against his zealous kiss, even though the other man was still only a few inches from you both.

And when one of Frank’s palms eventually began to migrate away from your cheek, drifting down your frame before it found a handful of your ass, a purr tickled in your throat and vibrated against his hungry lips. His touch dug into your softness so boldly that you swore you felt the tingles shoot straight to your clit, making it buzz as he kneaded your bottom. Greedily bringing you impossibly close to his frame, you felt the palpable tent in his pants that was already poking your belly and making your core throb even harder.

However, as he then scooped you up off the ground and tangled your legs around his hips, a squeal promptly escaped you, “wait! We can’t!” you tilted away from his lips and shot a glance towards the stove, “you’ll burn the food!”

“Oh,” a smirk dazzled on Matt’s features, “I think between the three of us, we can make sure that doesn’t happen,” he uttered before clearing a spot on the counter behind you.

“But–,” you tried as Frank plopped you down upon the kitchen table.

Raising a finger up to your lips, Frank muttered, “it’ll be fine, just trust us,” he stole a brief peck before splayed both of his broad palms across your thighs, “but, you know, even so, dinner still won’t be done in at least another hour,” he slowly sank down to his knees before you, “problem is, I’m already starving…” his stare held your own captive as his touch began to gather up the fabric of your dress, “aren’t you hungry as well, Red?”

“Fucking famished…” Matt exhaled as he too kneeled, pressing a soft kiss to your left knee as he came to settle on the floor.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” Frank smiled as he blinked up at you, his fingers now clutching your skirts high enough to reveal your soaked panties, “you think you got a little entrée for us to enjoy?”

“Well…” your teeth briefly captured your bottom lip as your heart continued to hammer in your chest, “only if you share…” you breathed before you parted your legs for the both of them.

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[misaerabl]

HAPPY ENDING - abby anderson

ex wife!abby x fem!reader CW: divorce, soft, emotionally charged smut scene,MULTIPLE SMUT SCENES, tender kissing, mutual undressing, gentle fingering, and implied climax with strong emotional context. (also sorry for the horrible cover lmfao, i can't for the life of me make it better, i swear i'll change this shit) SUMMARY: Two years after their divorce, Abby brings their son back home for the weekend. In the quiet of a shared kitchen and old memories, they talk, they touch, and they fall into something that feels like love again. Is this finally the happy ending that they always knew they deserved? A/N (MUST READ): I was debating whether to post this. I don't know if I'm just hormonal or it hits way too close to home but I legit cried (multiple times) while writing this. I wasn't really done with it yet but I couldn't bring myself to torture myself even more!

The last thing Abby packed was your son’s stuffed giraffe.

It sat on the edge of the crib like it always had, one ear chewed and stiff from months of being a favorite. Her hands hovered before grabbing it, slow, almost guilty. Like she knew this was the part that would wreck you.

You didn’t cry. You stood by the door, arms crossed and chest heavy, watching her zip up a duffel bag that shouldn’t have looked so out of place in the nursery, but did. The morning light painted the room in soft gold, but nothing about the moment was warm.

Your son, just barely two then, tugged on your sleeve, asking for a snack.

Abby met your eyes. She didn’t say anything. She never had to. You both knew what this meant. You both knew the ending was here.

Two years before that, you’d found the house.

It was snowing, the soft kind—quiet, almost romantic. You were walking back from the clinic, one hand in Abby’s and the other holding the test results. Positive. One embryo took.

You were pregnant.

You were laughing about something she said—something dumb and hopeful and laced with disbelief—and then you saw it. The house. White trim. Sloping roof. Just enough yard for a dog and a swing set. And somehow, as if by fate or miracle or whatever lesbians believe in when their IVF finally works, it was for sale.

You bought it two weeks later. The older couple selling it said they were moving to a quiet coastal town in Asia to retire. The woman said she hoped the house would hold joy. “It already does,” you’d told her, one hand on your belly, the other in Abby’s.

Everything was perfect. For a while.

Now, your son is three.

And Abby’s outside, strapping him out of the car seat like muscle memory. He babbles at her, one hand clutching the same worn giraffe. You watch from the window, arms curled around yourself, heart doing that irritating thing where it aches without warning. Like a reflex.

She carries the grocery bags in first, balancing the paper bag on one forearm while unlocking the door. She still remembers where you keep the spare key.

He bursts in a second later—small, giggling, snow stuck to his boots—and you kneel down to take off his coat. He throws his arms around you in the way only toddlers can, all weight and trust.

"Hi, baby," you murmur into his hair.

"Mommy!" he yells, like it’s the best word he knows.

Abby bought his favorite yogurt. The blueberry one with the dinosaur on the lid. She also got him socks with tiny planes, a new pack of crayons, and the exact brand of waffles he likes.

You notice the extra coffee creamer, the one you always used to grab. The spicy trail mix you like. A new copy of that book you never got around to finishing.

"You didn’t have to," you say, standing in the doorway of the kitchen while she organizes things like she never left.

"I know," she says, not looking up. “Just thought I’d save you the trip.”

You nod, chewing your bottom lip. You’re not sure whether to thank her or cry.

You tuck your son in after a bath. Abby sits on the floor beside the bed, holding his hand until he’s out cold. It's so natural, it stings.

When he’s asleep, she follows you downstairs. The silence stretches. You take the leftovers from the fridge—her favorites, coincidentally—and you heat them in the microwave.

She sits at the kitchen table. You pour her water.

"Have you eaten?" you ask.

"A bit earlier," she lies, because she always forgets to eat on long shifts and you know it.

You slide the plate in front of her anyway.

She eats. You sit across from her, your fingertips brushing the rim of your glass just to have something to do.

“You still hang the dish towels the wrong way,” she says, gentle, like it’s an old joke.

You shrug. "Habit."

There’s a pause.

“I miss this,” she says softly. “Not just the eating. All of it.”

Your heart clenches. You push the feeling down.

“I do too.”

You both talk for a while—casual things at first. How work’s been. How your son’s been asking about Christmas already. How the neighborhood got a new streetlight installed and your son insists it’s “his” star.

And then it slips in.

Like smoke under a door.

Abby wipes her hands on a napkin. Her voice is so quiet, you almost miss it.

“Do you ever think we gave up too early?”

The question lands like a weight across your chest.

You blink.

The sound of the fridge hums in the background. Your fork scrapes your plate though you’re no longer hungry.

You don't know what to say.

Because yes. God, yes. And also no. Not at all.

You finally speak. “I think we held on too long.”

She swallows. You see the hurt in her eyes, even if she tries to hide it behind a half-smile.

“I just…” she starts, then stops. “You know I never stopped loving you, right?”

“I know.”

There’s a pause.

“You still do?”

You look at her. Really look at her.

Hair tied back lazily. Dark circles under her eyes. That same sweatshirt from college. Her voice like a familiar lullaby you’d forgotten.

And yes.

You do.

But you also remember the shouting. The slammed doors. The tears in the next room while your son slept. The feeling of drowning in a life that was supposed to be perfect.

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

She exhales. Like she needed to hear it, even if it changes nothing.

“Then why couldn’t we fix it?” she whispers.

You don’t have an answer.

The truth sits somewhere behind your ribs, tangled in all the things you never said.

“I think we forgot how to talk to each other,” you say eventually. “We started fighting to win. Not to understand.”

Abby nods slowly. She looks at her hands in her lap like they’re guilty. “I hated how we were becoming strangers.”

You take a breath. “But we weren’t. That was the problem. You can’t be a stranger to someone who knows how you like your toast, who knows which songs make you cry and what brand of toothpaste you hate. We knew each other too well.”

She looks up at that, and for a second, you see it—the grief, the longing, the what-ifs.

“I miss being home with you,” she says softly. “Even when we were falling apart… part of me still hoped we’d figure it out.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s warm. Sad. Soft.

You rise from your chair and cross the room without thinking. Abby stands too. You meet in the middle like muscle memory. Your hand reaches for hers. She lets you.

And then she kisses you.

It’s cautious at first—like a question. Her lips press to yours with all the hesitation of someone who remembers how you tasted and how you walked away. But you don’t pull back. You sink into it, let her kiss you like she used to, like nothing ever broke between you.

The kiss deepens. Your fingers slide into her hair, and she exhales into your mouth like she’s been holding her breath for two years. Her hand finds your waist, warm and grounding, and her thumb slips beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing against skin like she’s reacquainting herself with you inch by inch. She pulls you closer, the old familiarity settling between you so naturally that it almost hurts.

She breaks the kiss only to tug your shirt over your head, and you let her. Her hoodie comes off next, and you help her out of it like you’ve done a hundred times before. Your bodies fit the same as they always did, no hesitance, just instinct. You tug at the band of her sweatpants, her breath stuttering as she lets them fall. She kisses your jaw, your neck, her mouth moving with intention, slow and reverent, like she’s learning you again. Like she never forgot.

Clothes scatter quietly on the stairs as you make your way up. The hallway light is off, the moon doing the work instead. She pushes your bedroom door open without asking. It’s still half her room too, no matter what the lease says now. Nothing in it has changed much since she left. Same sheets, same low lamp by the nightstand, same quiet.

She kisses you again at the threshold, a little rougher now, her hands gripping your thighs as she walks you backwards toward the bed. You fall onto it, laughing softly into her mouth before she silences the sound with another kiss. She moves over you, the weight of her familiar in the best way. She touches you like she remembers exactly how. Her fingers trail from your ribs down to your hips, dipping below your waistband but never rushing. She watches your face, always needing to see, to know how you feel it.

She doesn’t speak much. She never did during moments like this. Just little exhales, quiet sighs of your name, the way she kisses your collarbone like it means something. And it does. It always did.

She slides your underwear down slowly, the pads of her fingers brushing your thighs as she goes, her mouth trailing behind. When she finally touches you, it’s careful. Gentle. She still remembers how to draw those soft, shaking noises from your lips. You arch into her hand and whisper her name, and it’s all it takes for her to lean up and kiss you again, deeper this time.

You reach for her too. Hands roaming the curve of her back, the stretch of her stomach, the lines you still remember tracing on early Sunday mornings when your son would sleep in. You pull her on top of you fully, wrap your legs around her waist, your mouths never parting for long. The friction is slow, delicious, and every movement draws out more need. It’s messy in the quiet way, the kind of mess you make when you’re trying not to cry. The kind where moans blend with breathless whispers of “I missed you” and “you still feel the same.”

You come like that—together, tangled in memory and sweat, her forehead pressed to yours, her voice in your ear, and the weight of everything you never fixed still lingering somewhere behind your ribs.

After, she doesn’t let go. She pulls you against her, chest to chest, your legs knotted together like neither of you wants to wake up alone.

You fall asleep in her arms.

And for the first time in a long time, it feels like home again.

You wake to the sound of small feet.

Your eyes crack open just in time to see the door swing open.

Your son stands in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, his stuffed giraffe in hand.

His gaze shifts from you to the other side of the bed—to Abby, still asleep under the blanket. His brows pinch together in the way they always do when he’s trying to understand something new.

“Mama?” he asks, voice soft and puzzled.

You sit up quickly, heart stuttering, Abby’s shirt slipping off your shoulder.

“Hi, baby,” you say gently, climbing out of bed and crossing to him. “Let’s go get breakfast, okay?”

He nods, still glancing back at the bed.

“Is Mommy staying?” he asks, tugging at your hand.

You don’t answer. You kiss the top of his head and guide him out of the room.

“I’ll make waffles,” you say instead, hoping he won’t ask again.

He doesn't. He hums something off-key, clutching his giraffe as you walk him to the kitchen.

Behind you, the bedroom door stays closed. Abby doesn’t come out right away.

And as you pour batter into the pan, your back to the hallway, you don’t know what this morning means. If it’s a beginning, or just another soft, temporary reminder of the past.

But for now, your son is laughing at bubbles in the batter, and you’re still wearing Abby’s shirt.

And Abby… Abby’s still upstairs.

Later that day, after Abby’s gone and your son is napping on the couch, your phone buzzes. It’s your sister. You pick up and barely get a hello out before she starts.

“So. You want to explain why your son told me, ‘Mama sleeped with Mommy and she had no socks on’?”

You groan and cover your eyes with your hand. “God.”

“I'm not judging,” she says, which is a lie. “He said, and I quote 'They were cuddling. Mama had no socks on.'”

You slide down onto the kitchen floor with a sigh, your back against the cabinets. “It was just... I don’t know. It just happened”

“Does she want to come back?”

“She didn’t ask.”

“But do you want her to?”

You don’t answer right away. There’s too much noise in your head—memories, pain, last night’s warmth. You press your palm against your chest like it might keep everything from spilling out.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t think I’m ready to know.”

Your sister is quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice has softened. “Just be careful, okay? For your own sake. And his.”

You nod even though she can’t see it. “Yeah. I know.”

Abby comes by again the next day, just to drop off some clothes your son left at her place. You talk more this time, standing on the porch after your son runs inside with his new truck.

You don’t look at her at first. You keep your arms crossed and your eyes on the chipped paint of the railing.

“What happened that night,” she says, and you can hear how carefully she’s choosing her words, “it wasn’t just about missing you.”

You glance at her. Her hands are in her pockets. She’s not wearing her scrubs today—just jeans and that old gray hoodie she stole from you when you were still dating.

“I still love you,” she continues. “I never stopped.”

You swallow around the knot in your throat. “I know. I love you too.”

She looks relieved, but there’s sadness there too, a kind of restraint that hurts to see on her face.

“But,” you add, because it has to be said, “loving each other didn’t save us the first time. It’s not going to be enough on its own.”

“I’m not asking to move back in,” she says quickly. “I’m not asking for us to pretend nothing happened. I just… I want us to try. Carefully. Slowly. I don’t want to confuse him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” you admit. “He’s too little to understand any of this. If we try and we fail again, I don’t want him carrying that weight.”

“I’d never leave him hanging,” she says. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know. That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a pause. She steps a little closer, not enough to touch you, just enough that you can feel the heat of her presence again.

“I just don’t want to do this wrong,” you whisper.

“Then let’s do it right,” she says. “Whatever that looks like.”

It’s not a solution. It’s not a promise.

But it’s something.

You nod. “Okay. We’ll try.”

Abby doesn’t reach for your hand, doesn’t lean in for a kiss. She just smiles. A small, hopeful, quietly broken thing.

“I’ll see you Saturday.”

She steps down from the porch, gets into her car, and drives away. You watch her until the taillights disappear at the end of the street.

When you go back inside, your son is lying on the rug with his trucks, humming the same off-key tune from that morning.

You sit beside him, and he scoots closer without looking up, like he just knows where you’re supposed to be.

You think about what trying means. What it might cost. What it might heal.

You think about Abby’s hand brushing yours under the dinner table, about the old room, about how easily everything came flooding back.

And for the first time in a long while, the thought of a happy ending doesn’t feel like a lie.

One month later.

Things are quieter now—softer around the edges. The air between you and Abby doesn’t crackle as much. It stretches. Breathes. You still keep your distance in certain ways, still don’t sleep in the same bed or leave your toothbrushes tangled together like before. But the rhythm is new, and not entirely unwelcome.

Abby comes over more often, but it’s never framed as anything permanent. She brings takeout when you’re too tired to cook, lingers by the sink to help with dishes, joins you and your son on Sunday walks to the park. She still calls before she comes. She still asks if it’s okay. And you always say yes, even when you’re not sure what that means.

Your son has adjusted, like kids do. He doesn’t ask why she’s here more. He doesn’t question why some mornings it’s only you, and some nights it’s all three of you on the couch, your knees brushing hers, your son fast asleep between you.

You’re rebuilding. Not with grand gestures, but with little ones. The kind that can’t be undone with a single argument.

On a Friday afternoon, your son brings home a drawing from daycare. You’re in the kitchen, packing up leftovers, when he tugs at your sleeve and holds out a sheet of paper, crumpled at the corners, crayon lines jagged and bright.

“For you, Mommy,” he says, proud.

You smile and crouch to take it from him. “You drew something?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Us.”

The picture is unmistakably his—three stick figures, wide round heads and too-long arms. One of them has your hair. The smallest is holding hands with both adults.

But it’s the label that stops you.

He’s written one word across the top in big, uneven letters.

"Family."

Your hands still. You swallow hard, staring at the drawing, at the way he’s drawn Abby beside you without hesitation.

He doesn’t understand what’s happened between you. Not really. But he feels it—that she’s here again, that something has shifted.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he tilts his head, confused.

“Why’re you sad?” he asks.

You shake your head, laughing softly as you wipe your face. “I’m not. Just... happy.”

Abby arrives ten minutes later. You don’t wait. You hold the drawing out to her without a word.

She looks at it. And then she looks at you. And her face softens the way it always has when something knocks the air out of her.

“He made it at school,” you say quietly.

She holds the paper carefully, like it’s fragile. “He called it… family.”

The word sits between you. Not a question. Not an assumption. Just a truth that neither of you has had the courage to name.

Your son is on the floor, already pulling out his dinosaurs. “Mama, come play!”

Abby glances back at you. “Can I stay a little longer?”

You nod.

And she steps inside like she never left.

Things had been going well. Quietly, steadily—like spring thaw after a long winter.

Abby started staying later. At first, it was because your son asked for another bedtime story, or she forgot something upstairs, or she’d dozed off halfway through a movie. You let her stay on the couch those nights, a folded blanket draped over her legs, her hoodie pushed under her head. The first time you found her already asleep, you brought her a pillow. The second time, you asked if she wanted one.

She never asked to stay. But she never left early either.

Eventually, the excuses started shifting. She started saying things like, “I’ll just head out in the morning,” or “I don’t want to wake him by leaving now.” And once—just once—she said, “I like waking up here.” You didn’t respond, but you didn’t pretend it didn’t settle somewhere deep in your chest.

She made coffee before you even came downstairs. She packed your son’s lunch if she heard you hit snooze too many times. She still folded the laundry a little weird, but you let her. You didn’t correct her when she started calling the house home again.

You didn’t stop her when she started keeping a toothbrush in the bathroom drawer.

And one night—when the house had gone quiet and the lights were low and you were sitting together on the couch after your son had fallen asleep between you, curled against her side like it was second nature—you looked at her, really looked at her, and said, “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight.”

She blinked. Softly. Carefully.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want you to.”

You changed into one of your old shirts. Abby wore hers—gray, loose, familiar. She waited until you got under the covers first before crawling in beside you. There was an inch of space between your bodies, at first. Respectful. Careful.

But you turned on your side, and she mirrored you. And before long, your face was pressed against her chest, your fingers curled into the fabric near her collarbone, her heartbeat steady and warm under your cheek.

You lay there like that, quietly breathing together. Her hand came up to rest at the nape of your neck, stroking gently, and your eyes fluttered shut, safety blooming like a slow ache.

She whispered your name once. You looked up.

Her eyes found yours.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

You kissed her.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deliberate, aching. You kissed her like you remembered exactly how she liked it. Like muscle memory, like muscle longing. Her hands found your waist, grounding you, anchoring you in place even as you pressed your body into hers.

Her mouth never left yours. Even when your legs slid between hers. Even when her hand crept under your shirt to touch skin she used to know so well. She kissed you through the weight of every memory you both had buried. Every soft sound you made pulled her deeper. Every soft word she whispered steadied the space between you.

You tugged at the hem of her shirt, and she helped you pull it off. She looked at you like you were something familiar and holy all at once. Her hands found your hips, your thighs, her fingers tracing every curve like she still knew how you fit against her—how to make you melt, how to make you want.

When she touched you, it was with quiet reverence, like she was rediscovering something she thought she’d lost forever. Her fingers slipped lower, slow and careful, her mouth still pressed to yours as she made you sigh, then gasp, then fall apart. She murmured soft things against your jaw—your name, little reassurances, words that made your stomach twist in the best way.

You pulled her closer, dragged her down against you, skin on skin. The warmth of her weight made your whole body hum. You wrapped your legs around her hips, urged her closer, hips meeting with friction and heat. You moved together like nothing had changed and everything had.

It wasn’t desperate. It was deep. Familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that didn’t ask for permission because it already knew it had been given long ago.

When you came again, it was quieter. Slower. Your body arching into hers, your breath caught between a gasp and a cry. Abby held you through it, her hand tangled in your hair, her lips at your shoulder.

After, she stayed close. Your head on her chest again. Her arm around your waist. Her breathing steadied into something gentle and safe.

You didn’t say I love you. Not because you didn’t feel it—but because you did. And for once, it didn’t need to be said.

You already knew.

The morning after, everything feels softer.

You wake tangled together, sunlight pouring through the curtains in golden streaks. Abby’s breath is steady against your shoulder, her arm still wrapped loosely around your waist. She stirs when your son pads into the room, rubbing his eyes with one fist and holding his stuffed giraffe in the other.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands in the doorway, blinking.

Then, with a smile so casual it nearly breaks you, he says, “You sleeped here, Mama.”

Abby sits up slowly, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, bud,” she says. “Just for last night.”

He nods, accepting that, and walks over to climb onto the bed between you. He curls up against Abby, resting his head on her stomach like he used to. For a few minutes, you lie there like that. The three of you. Quiet. Whole.

It doesn’t fall apart all at once.

It starts with a small thing. It always does.

It’s a Tuesday night. Abby had said she’d be home early—that’s the word she used. Home. You’d repeated it in your head after the call, tasting it again, trying to make sure it didn’t hurt. You made dinner. Not anything complicated, just stir-fried noodles, some chicken, the kind your son always picks through for extra carrots. You let him stir the sauce in, made it a game. He kept looking at the door every time a car passed.

But Abby didn’t show.

Not at six. Not at seven.

Your phone stayed quiet. The food went cold.

She came through the door at almost eight, still in her scrubs, her hair a mess, her face drawn tight with exhaustion. And you didn’t yell. You didn’t raise your voice. You just asked, “Why didn’t you call?”

Her eyes flicked toward your son, who had already fallen asleep on the couch, curled up with a blanket and his toy giraffe.

“I was in surgery. It ran long.”

You nodded once, but something in your chest twisted.

“I just… waited,” you said.

“I didn’t mean to be late,” she said quickly, toeing off her shoes. “You know I wouldn’t do that on purpose.”

“That’s not the point, Abby,” you replied, quieter, but sharper. “It’s not about what you meant. It’s about what you didn’t do.”

She straightened, the defense rising in her eyes before she even spoke. “What, you want me to step out of an OR with blood on my hands just to say I’ll be thirty minutes late?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

The edge in her voice made your jaw clench. You took a breath, tried to level it out, but it still came out cracked.

“I’m saying I need to know when you’re not coming. I need to know I’m not just… waiting again.”

Her face changed at that—softened and shut down all at once. Like a door quietly closing behind her eyes. And you hated how fast she retreated. How fast the walls came back up.

“I’m doing my best,” she said, and it wasn’t angry. It was tired. That was somehow worse.

You folded your arms across your chest, not out of anger but to hold yourself together. “I know. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like we’re on the same page. And I can’t go back to pretending everything’s fine just because we’re trying again.”

Abby exhaled sharply through her nose and turned slightly, like she couldn’t stand being looked at. “You think I’m pretending?”

You were about to answer when a soft voice broke through the tension.

“…Mommy?”

Your son stood at the edge of the hallway, barefoot, giraffe in hand, sleep still clinging to his face. His eyes moved from you to Abby and back, small and uncertain.

You dropped your arms. Abby went still.

You crouched down first, your voice gentler than it had been all evening.

“Hey, baby. Why’re you awake?”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed at one eye and mumbled, “Were you mad?”

Your throat closed up.

“No, sweetheart,” you said immediately. “We were just talking.”

He looked at Abby, who hesitated only a second before kneeling down, opening her arms.

He walked to her slowly and climbed into her lap.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, quieter now.

“No,” she murmured into his hair, closing her eyes. “Not mad. Never mad at you.”

He let her hold him for a while, then looked back at you. “Promise?”

You sat beside them and reached out to hold his hand.

“We promise,” you said. “We just got a little frustrated. But we’re okay now.”

You didn’t look at Abby when you said it. You didn’t have to. Her fingers tightened around his back in silent agreement.

You carried him to bed together, tucked him in side by side like you always did. Abby smoothed his hair back and kissed his forehead. You turned on his nightlight and left the door open just a crack, the way he liked.

In the hallway, neither of you spoke for a long moment. The quiet stretched until it ached.

Finally, you broke it. Your voice was low.

“I don’t want to fight in front of him.”

“I don’t either,” Abby said, and for the first time that night, she sounded like herself again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called.”

You nodded. “And I shouldn’t have snapped. I just… I got scared. Felt like before again. Like the slow slipping.”

“I know,” she said softly.

You both stood there, a few feet apart, shoulders weighed down by all the promises you never thought you’d have to make again.

Abby looked at you then. Really looked at you.

“I want this to work,” she said. “Even if it’s hard. Especially because it’s hard.”

You nodded again, slower this time. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything else. But when you both turned in for the night, she didn’t head for the couch. And you didn’t stop her when she reached for your hand beneath the covers.

You tried.

That’s what you keep telling yourself.

You tried more than most would. You opened the door again, handed her a spare key, let her back into your routines, your silence, your bed. You let your son believe it might really be different this time. And maybe for a while, it was.

But cracks don’t disappear just because you stop looking at them. And wounds don’t close properly if they keep getting reopened every time something feels too familiar.

It wasn’t one fight. It was all of them.

The small ones, the tired ones, the ones that started with a sigh and ended in silence. The ones that happened in the kitchen with your son quietly watching from the hallway. The ones that echoed in the car after drop-offs, in the bathroom at midnight, in the way you both stopped touching each other when it wasn’t convenient.

You tried therapy. It helped, at first. You both showed up. Sat on the stiff couch. Said the hard things. Held each other’s hands when you didn’t know what else to do.

You talked about resentment. About fear. About how deeply rooted your exhaustion had become. You told her how afraid you were of being the only one carrying the weight. She told you she was afraid of failing you again.

Your therapist said healing wasn’t linear. That sometimes, love meant staying. And sometimes, it meant letting go.

You both nodded. Pretended that wasn’t a mirror being held up to your last thread of hope.

But the days stretched. And the cracks deepened. And even though neither of you ever said it out loud, you both felt it—the slow quiet death of trying.

She still stayed some nights. Still helped pack lunches. Still left notes in your son’s backpack and sticky reminders on the fridge. But her smile started missing her eyes. Her laughter stopped curling at the ends. She used to reach for your hand in the dark. Now she just turned her back when the lights went off.

You fought in therapy. You cried in the parking lot. You sat side by side in the car, unable to say a single thing because the words felt like weapons, and neither of you had the strength to draw first.

Then came the Thursday she forgot your son’s parent-teacher meeting. You waited outside the classroom with your arms crossed and a knot in your stomach, watching other kids run to their moms and dads, wondering if your son would remember this. Wondering if he’d tuck it somewhere deep, the way kids do, and let it fester years from now.

She showed up twenty minutes late, breathless and apologetic and full of excuses. But you didn’t want reasons anymore. You wanted change. And she just kept giving you intention.

You didn’t talk for two days after that. She texted. You didn’t answer. Your son kept asking when Mama was coming over again.

And then she did. Quietly. Without knocking.

You were folding laundry in the living room. She stood in the doorway like a ghost.

"We can’t keep doing this to him," she said.

You didn’t look up.

"We can’t keep doing this to us," you replied.

It wasn’t a dramatic conversation. No yelling. No crying. Just exhaustion. Just two people who loved each other too much and too badly.

She stayed that night on the couch again. Not because you told her to. But because neither of you could lie beside each other with the truth hanging so loud between you.

The next morning, your son woke up early. He padded into the kitchen with his giraffe tucked under his arm, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He blinked up at you, then turned to the living room. "Mama?"

She sat up slowly, eyes bloodshot, hair tangled. "Hey, buddy."

He walked over and curled into her lap.

You watched them from the doorway. Watched the way she held him like she was memorizing it.

That was the last morning she stayed.

The official decision came a week later. Not in therapy. Not with fanfare. Just two cups of coffee on the kitchen counter, and one long, hard breath.

"I think we need to stop trying," you said.

Abby didn’t argue.

She nodded once. Looked down at her hands.

"Okay."

She packed slow. Again. Her scrubs. Her hoodie. The books she never read. She didn’t take everything. She never does.

When she hugged your son goodbye, she didn’t say it was forever. You didn’t tell him anything final either. Just that Mama would be at her place more now. But she’d always come back. Always see him. That he didn’t do anything wrong.

He cried. Just a little.

You did too. But not until after.

The house is back to quiet.

You still keep the hall light on for him. You still fold his clothes at the end of the day, line up his little socks and mismatched pajamas. You still sit in the same spot on the couch after he falls asleep. You still wonder if you did enough.

Sometimes he draws pictures. He draws you. He draws himself. Sometimes he draws Abby. Sometimes he doesn’t. You don’t ask why.

She still picks him up twice a week. Still texts you updates. Still sends photos of him covered in paint, asleep in the car, giggling at cartoons. He still asks if she’ll come over sometimes.

You say yes. Even when you mean maybe. Even when you mean never.

Some nights, when it rains, you let yourself imagine the way her arms used to feel around you. The way she’d tuck herself against your back like a second spine. The way her voice could break and build you at the same time.

You let yourself miss her.

And then you get up. Close the windows. Check on your son. Crawl into a bed that feels too big and too small all at once.

You stare at the ceiling and whisper the hardest thing you’ve ever had to learn.

Love is not always enough.

Not even when you want it to be.

[syrupyuu]

— 𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘.

ft. m! yandere! monster hunter × gn! shapeshifter! reader

word count: 16.7k || tags: semi-slowburn, murder, descriptions of gore, reader is briefly decapitated for plot progression. it's mostly wholesome until the ending. partially unedited by time of posting.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊, unspoken ones. Learn fast, or leave your guts in the dirt. Watch the wind. Never name what you can't kill. And above all—never trust the partners they assign you.

Kazu had to learn that last one early.

He'd buried too many half-eaten corpses to believe in coincidence. Most died because they didn't listen—blindly thinking they were apex by default simply for being born human—only to die at the maws of the very monsters they sought to outsmart. He had survived this long because he knew better.

No noise was ever just wind. No body was ever just a body. No "lost traveller" ever truly wandered into black pine territory.

And monsters? Not all monsters were disfigured, snarled and bore fangs—no. Some wore faces that smiled too much, spoke sweetly, laughed and chattered with townsfolk like they'd never eaten raw meat by the handful.

That was why he worked alone, or as close to alone as the Guild allowed. He didn't like watching people die, and he liked trusting them even less. Babysitting rookies was the worst kind of assignment—ink-hands in the Guild always threw him one when they'd run out of uses for their wet-behind-the-ears recruits.

'Toughen 'em up,' they'd say. 'if they make it a week under you, we'll know if they're worth keeping.'

But they never make it a week.

So when he got the dispatch with the latest name—no face, just initials and a curt write-up, like the Guild didn't even believe their own pick—Kazu had already written them off. Some no-name wannabe with a polished sigil and a blade, probably. Here to ask too many questions and fall behind when things get bad.

Maybe he’d play along, entertain them for a day or two, let them believe they were doing the work while he cleaned up the mess behind them—then snap the illusion and scare them off before another rookie's name is crossed off the list.

That was the reality of it. He wasn’t brought in for company—he was called when things had already gone to hell. He was what they sent when there was no one left to evacuate, when the town militia was found strung up like scarecrows, when they didn’t care what did it—only that it stopped, and when failure wasn't an option because someone else had already failed.

He never asked for thanks or waited for gratitude, neither did he want it—not from the Guild or survivors, not from anyone still breathing after dawn.

All he wanted were clean kills, silence, and solitude. That was all for the best.

It was a good run, right up until they handed him you.

When he finally meets you—his assigned rookie—you were waiting for him barely past the treeline, sitting squat against the bark like you had nowhere else to be, eyes so dazed you looked like a lost child—as if you weren't in one of the oldest kill zones this side of the ridge.

For some reason, he got the feeling you'd been here, waiting for him all morning. He'd never admit it, but that thought alone sat bitter in his sternum.

And maybe that was the thing that irritated him—the fact that you didn't look like anything. You didn't carry yourself like a person trying to impress, someone arrogant enough to think they could keep up, or a coward scared out of their mind. Just... neutral. Boring. Calm. The Guild had sent him warm bodies before, all nerves and overeager chatter, but this? You didn't say anything as he approached, only watched him like you were waiting for him to speak first.

He didn't. Yet.

Instead, he took one long look at you and committed everything to detail. Your clothes were Guild-issued but too soiled and dirty to be new. Pack was light. Your boots clearly hadn't seen enough mud, and the weapon hung over your back was sharp but discolored—old, but it hadn't been used for any real work.

That was enough to convince him you weren't a normal rookie, at least not in the typical sense.

"...You're quiet." he says at last, low and flat.

The words leave him without much thought, more observation than accusation, but the moment they do—your head tilted slightly, pupils dilating in the process. Not wide-eyed with fear, or to size him up. You were just watching—curious and placid, but a little too still.

You blink once. Then—like you just realize you forgot to reply, "Oh. Should I not be?"

The sound of your voice startled him more than he'd like to admit—not because it was too loud or harsh, but because it was gentle. Wrong. Gentle never belonged in places like this. Not the kind of gentle that cut through hush like a ripple on a stagnant pond. It was a tone better suited for lullabies and nursery tales, never an occupation where recruits die on the daily, oftentimes without carcass to be spared.

For a split second, he wondered if you could be a mimic. He had seen mimics before, beautiful flesh stitched ones that could copy a human's laugh to the breath hitch. They always got the eyes wrong, though—too lifeless and wild, more reminiscent of animal than man—that was always the tell-tale sign, but those eyes of yours...

They gleamed, like maybe you were just happy to be here.

"I read the handbook," you add quickly, as if that might help. "It said not to speak to superiors unless necessary. That is necessary now, right? Since you asked?"

He stared at you.

You stared back, earnestly—but all that he could think was:

What the hell were you?

He didn’t draw his blade. Not yet. But the weight of it suddenly made itself known against his palm, as if it, too, felt the pressure shift. He didn’t trust instincts blindly, but he didn’t ignore them either—not when they hissed like that, low and certain. There was something off about you, something he couldn’t name outright.

You don't smell of danger the usual way—no sweat, no iron, no nothing. You smelled neutral, neutral in a way nothing in the wild ever was—and even if you were human(which he highly doubt), not even the most hygienic of people could ever bore a scent so... devoid.

And yet, you still smiled at him—softly, without guile. Not the grin of someone winning a game, nor the brittle stretch of a liar. None of that—only warmth, like the simple act of standing across from him in the forest had made your whole week.

"You're Kazu, aren't you? I'm assuming you are." you continue to speak, rocking slightly on your heels and ignorantly unaware of his inner turmoil. "You're way taller than I thought. I mean—not in a bad way! Just. Surprising.” there was no fear in your words, no performance, only open wonder.

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out in a thin stream.

"You're not what I expected, either." He says finally—his tone is even, but the statement carried an edge, and he knew it. He meant for it to land that way—a warning. A subtle flag in the earth between you.

You didn't say anything at first, only tilted your head with such an innocent precision it dragged his gut into a knot. "Is that bad?" you ask, "Should I change?"

The question should've been benign, maybe even self-deprecating. Yet the way you asked it—flatly, plainly, like you meant it—sent a subtle chill crawling up the back of his neck. His mind caught on the phrasing.

Before he could stop himself, he muttered, "...What?"

You perk up like a child caught misbehaving, "Sorry!" you say bashfully, waving your hands as though that could brush away the building tension you yourself weren't aware of, "I just thought—you know, maybe I said something wrong, so I could try again?"

You go still for a moment, brows pinching into a tight, thoughtful crease. The change was quick and exaggerated, like watching an amateur actor flick through expressions in a scripted play.

"...If you didn't like my first sentence, I can say it a different way—or in a different tone—or I could even say something else entirely. People usually like jokes first, or compliments—or for hunters—questions about their gear, don't they? Is there a… protocol for this?”

You looked so genuinely curious, face drawn into a serious, almost scholarly concentration, as though the social dynamic of monster hunters was a puzzle to pick apart instead of a living environment. Kazu didn't move. Not forward, nor backward. All he knew to do was watch.

The problem wasn't what you said.

It was how you said it.

This wasn't the oddball rookie trying to prove themselves with overcompensation, or the wide-eyed cadet chattering to fill the space fear usually occupied. It wasn’t that he sensed danger. If anything, that would’ve been easier. This—you—were something else entirely, something fundamentally flawed. You weren't wrong in the traditional sense. You smiled sweetly, your face expressive, but you were... misaligned, like a doll with it's joints screwed backwards. A creature wearing a person's corpse.

And so, without missing a beat, you stepped a little closer. Not enough to be threatening or to trigger a response, but just enough to maybe suggest you didn't quite understand the concept of boundaries.

Then—quietly, like you were admitting to a secret: "I memorized your file." you say, softer now. "..well, what little I could of it. It seems like the Guild doesn't like to share, but they always forget to wipe the backlogs in the archive building." you smile—not conspiratorial, not smug—just pleased with yourself, as if you didn't just admitted to an espionage. "I wanted to be prepared. You've been out here so long, so I thought maybe if I studied enough, you wouldn't think I was useless. Or..." your voice trails off, "..disposable."

He stared at you then, longer than before. Not because he was impressed or because he was moved—but because that word, "disposable", had fallen off your tongue too naturally, with what felt like too much practiced familiarity. It had the same weightless uncertainty, as when a child parrots a word they've heard adults say—only because no one told them not to.

It wasn't pity or concern he felt. No, what stirred in his chest was far from that. Sharper. It was instinct, again—the kind that had kept him alive this long. Something about the way you stood there, proud of the stolen information, easy to be judged, made every hair on his neck want to rise, just barely. You shouldn’t know how to get into Guild archives. You shouldn’t speak of things like that so casually. You shouldn’t be smiling at him like this was a first date of all things.

And yet, you are, eyes wide and waiting, posture open like you didn't fear what he might say. Like you were expecting approval, even.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is dull. Dry. More baffled than accusatory.

"...You're really serious, huh."

It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet, stunned declaration from his side.

For the first time since stepping into the clearing, something inside him shifted. He thought he'd seen it all before: puffed-up swaggers of overconfidence, quiet trembles of fear, the forced calm of rookies too green to realize their bravado was transparent—but you? You weren't faking it. You weren't putting on a show. There was no angle nor bluff to call. You didn't even try winning over. You were sincere, maybe even thrilled to be here.

About him.

About the job.

About being out here—in this forest—like it's some storybook adventure instead of the death sentence it really is.

"Is that a bad thing?" you ask, after a heartbeat of silence.

Kazu doesn't answer immediately. The wind rustles the trees in long, slow breaths above you both, carrying with it the kind of hush that usually warned of something watching. Only- something about you made the familiar forest suddenly feel foreign.

He'd met monsters in his time, had burned things that mimicked wailing infants, hacked apart forms that flickered between man and beast mid-scream. He knew what danger looked like—how it moved, how it breathed and spoke—but you unsettled him in a way nothing else ever had. Not because of how you looked, but rather, because of how carefully you did. Every motion, every word, every tilt of your head came with a precision that felt practiced. It wasn't wrong, exactly—just.. off-mark enough to make him feel like the one under scrutiny, and not the other way around.

You stood there, as you continue to wait for his answer like it actually mattered—your posture relaxed, hands open at your sides, chin tilted up slightly like the breeze was something to savor and not a prelude to something worse. You were smiling again, that strange gentle thing that wasn't quite strained or forced. It sat on your face like it belonged there—that's what unsettles him most.

"No," he says finally, after too long a pause. "it's not bad. It's just... rare."

You seemed to consider that, mouth parting, slightly, brows lifting like you were trying to make sense of something that didn't compute, instead of just listening. "But rare is good, right?" you ask, hopeful.

He watches you, the edges of his mouth threatening something that might've been a frown, or a grimace. In truth, he doesn't know why he's still standing here—still talking and listening to you. Usually by now, he'd cut the conversation short, laid out the bare essentials and set the pace without looking back.

Not to abandon—never that—but to keep things efficient, clean. Detached. The less rookies relied on him, the longer they might last.

But you aren't a normal rookie—it should be a question if you're human at all—and you aren't asking for help, you're just... waiting, watching, and for reasons he couldn't explain, Kazu stayed.

He should’ve left you already.

Should’ve walked away, put distance between you before anything could escalate—but instead, he asks—against his better judgment, before tension sank its claws in deep: “Why are you here?”

The question catches you mid-thought—not enough to rattle you, but enough to give you pause. Then, as if it had been waiting on your tongue all along, you say softly, ‘Because I wanted to be.’

All that did was make his jaw tighten. He almost laughed—wanted to, maybe. Like it was ever that simple. Like this job hadn’t taken better hunters for less.

"No one wants to be here," he says flatly, a little harsher than intended.

You only look at him, unblinking. "That's not true. You're here."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be." he snaps, turning his back to you. "I'm needed here."

The woods swallowed his words as soon as they left him. He started walking soon after. The underbrush gave away beneath his boots with practiced quiet, and he half-hoped you wouldn't follow,

But you did.

Your footsteps were too light—too agile and exact. No rookie should move like that, unless they'd trained far longer than their records implied—or weren't a rookie at all. When he glanced back, you were still there, eyes wide, feet following in the sunken patches left by his, copying his gait like a duckling after its mother.

'Memorized his file'.

That thought stuck to the inside of his skull like rot. There were only three people still breathing who even had access to those backlogs—and none of them were rookies.

"I know I'm not what you expected," you say after a moment, your voice just behind his shoulder, "but I can learn, fast. I'm not strong or experienced yet, but I'm good at listening. I won't get in your way."

Kazu doesn't answer.

The wind picks up again, rattling through black pines in an uneven rhythm. A murder of crows shriek overhead and vanish eastward. He stops and waits, if only to observe. No movements between the trunks, no scent on the breeze—it's still too quiet, though.

And still you stood there, unbothered, still watching him with a face lacking of any fear or caution.

"I don't care about glory," you add, almost absentmindedly. "or the promotions, or the Guild. Not really. I just want to be there—live life to its fullest. What better way for that than this?"

He turns then, just slightly—enough to look at you again.

Your expression didn’t change. If anything, your eyes softened like it was a confession, not a fact. Yet there was no weight to the words, no illusion nor idealization, only... an honest admission, plain and bare.

"Live?" he repeats, in blatant disbelief.

"Yeah," you confirm, the ring of your voice barely above the rustle of leaves. "live."

You don't elaborate. You don't have to. He's a hunter—he's seen enough to know when people say things they don't mean. The way your gaze held his now—steady and sure—like the pain of it was familiar but not resented, he knew that look. Had seen it in survivors clinging to half-scorched homes, orphans clutching talismans over their late parents' cooling bodies. In inns, he'd seen it in mirrors, sometimes, in the silence that settled after grueling missions. That's the look of something that understood living hurt more than dying, yet chose it anyway.

But something about it felt wrong. Not bad, or fake, not exactly—but out of place—reminiscent of when sunlight shone through carbon smoke. There was something about your posture, something about your manner of speaking that screamed not ignorance, but absence; absence of the after-math that follows when world teaches you what it cost to survive, or worse (at least in his opinion)—like it had, but you liked the lesson.

He should've shut you down right then and there—told you living had nothing to do with this job—that survival wasn't the same thing as being alive—only, he didn't. Again, just for a breath, his hand hovered near the hilt—but for some reason, he hesitated, and whatever instinct had flared… dulled. He let it go.

The way you said it—live—like it was the greatest ambition a creature could have. Not glory, or peace, just the raw, senseless choice to keep waking up, keep walking forward, even if the road clawed at your feet.

"You picked the wrong job." he mutters, voice low—not as a warning, but a fact.

You smile anyway—a faint and soft twitch at the corner of your mouth. You agreed, and you knew.

"I know."

It has been a grand seventy-two days since Kazu first met you, and he still can't sleep right.

It's not rare for him to stay up late, near campfire while the moon rises high, sword in reach as he keeps one eye on the forest, and the other on you—sleeping far too soundly for a place like this.

He watches you often, after the fire has burned low and the woods have settled back into their nightly hum—not out of affection, or curiosity, no. He watches you the way he follows blood trails winding from villages into the foliage, the way a herding dog fixes its gaze on a wolf draped in sheepskin, waiting for the moment the disguise falls away.

Except, that moment never comes.

Every night, you lie down without a sound. There's a distinct kind of stillness to the way you sleep—no tossing, no muttering, no restless twitch beneath the weight of slumber. You always lie there, still, breath-slow and arms tucked neatly like a corpse awaiting burial—more statue-like than human, he thinks.

You don’t sleep like normal people do, and yet, for all his suspicion and certainties—he hasn’t done anything about it.

He's had plenty of time, truly. The hunts you've been assigned to aren't easy ones by any means—terrain scorched beyond recognition, pits lined with organic shredded remains, and guideposts mangled into symbols no human hands wwould've ever carved. These past months, you've been witness to what most don't live to describe: a worm that bawled with human lungs, thumb-sized crawlers that picked through corpses for ivory, a small, child-like thing that bled with tar when struck. Despite it all, you never flinched or faltered, and Kazu... he saw everything.

How you don't breathe hard after a chase, don't get hungry at the right time. Some missions, you take wounds that should lay a hunter low, only to shake it off with nothing but a clean, thin wrap around the injured area.

And once—once, you stood with blood trickling from the side of your neck, soaked in someone else's intestines, but for all your wit—the first thing you thought to do was to look at him and ask, 'Did I do good?' like a damn dog waiting for a treat.

He should've run you through then and there—split you from collar to hip and watch to see what came out—but instead, he only nodded gruffly, and told you to clean up. He hated that he did. Why?

Because he knows what you are. He doesn't know your species. No page in the Guild bestiary matches you exactly—too neat, too clean, too weak—but he knows a monster when he sees one. You're one to respond too quickly, speak too evenly, move too smoothly. Real people stutter. Real people get nervous—and yet, here you are, two steps behind him on every trail, asking for instructions, jotting down field notes like a bootlicking tagalong.

And for seventy-two days, he allowed it.

Worse—he's grown used to it.

Somewhere along the line, he started portioning extra rations without thinking, grumbling reminders when you forgot to clean your blade or adjust your grip. He’s begun watching you not out of threat assessment, but out of habit. He knows the tilt of your head when you’re puzzled, the way your eyes squint and wrinkled when you lie. He's seen you laugh and he's seen you panic, usually whenever you trip over your own words and forget what to say next.

And damn him, but it's start to... affect him.

He's begun warning you about the environment before each job, muttering "Stay close." when the forest starts to get too quiet. He yells less when you mess up, and instead just sighs and mutters under his breath like a parent tired of repeating themselves. He watches you bandage wounds wrong and reaches over without a word, fixing it himself, grumbling “Don’t pull it so tight, you’ll lose circulation.”

You shouldn't be under his skin, but here you are—nestled in his routine, engrained in the way he moves now—his pace slower, stride shorter, all so you can match. Every time you forget a task or miss a cue, he finds himself not scolding, but explaining in that gruff, unchanging tone that tries so hard to pass as cold but is far too careful to be cruel.

You've grown on him how moss grows on stone, and just like that—slowly, without his permission—he's started making room for you in the places no one else fit.

That night, you burn the rations, said you wanted to help—so you took the skillet from his hand and waved him off like it was the simplest task in the world. In blatant horror, he watched as you fumble the firewood, watches the flame lick too high, and watches blackened strips of jerky curl into charcoal at the edge of the pan.

You look at him, sheepish. "...Oops."

His eye twitches.

“You absolute idiot.” The words come out with all the dry finality of a death sentence, but there's no real bite to them. Kazu snatches the pan out of your hand and slams it back onto the fire before the next strip of meat becomes another casualty.

You eye the scorched meat with a grimace, nudging a curled blackened strip with the edge of a stick like maybe, maybe, if you prod it enough, it'll look more edible.

"Okay, so, maybe it's a little... crisp." you offer, rubbing the back of your neck in an abashed apology. "-but crispy's a texture, right? Some people like smoky flavors—very smoky—so-"

He stops, and turns to you.

Very, very slowly.

“I like my food not announcing our position to every goddamn thing in a two-mile radius,” he growls, punctuating the sentence by stabbing a forked stick into the blackened heap. “If something with teeth shows up tonight, you’re on bait duty.”

You hold his gaze, too used to the barbs by now to flinch, just standing there with your hands still curled mid-apology, your head slightly lowered in mock defeat—but your eyes light up. You weren't sorry—not really. And worse? Kazu could tell.

“Sorry,” you offer, belatedly. “I'll do better next time."

He scoffs under his breath and turned back to the meat. It's salvageable. Barely.

You sit back across the fire, cross-legged with your chin in your hands, watching him now in the constant quietly devoted way you always did—as though everything he did mattered, as though even his smallest of gestures carried meaning, as though he was your sole anchor in an ever-changing world that kept shifting beneath your feet. You didn't even try to help again. You just kept watching, happy and content, as if this little moment—burnt food and all—was another page you'd commit to memory.

That moment, it hit Kazu in an instant.

He turns his back on you before another word could be said—ears red.

He hates this. Hates that you're worming your way into his habits. Hates that he's memorizing your tells. Hates that he's begun listening for your footsteps when you wander too far out of sight— but more than that, more than anything, he hates that he doesn't hate it.

He doesn't look at you when he sets the salvaged strips of meat on a flat rock to cool, nor when he pushes the least-burnt portion toward your side of the fire and offers a single word, firm: “Eat.” Not an offer—an order, one you obey without question, because of course you do—you always do. That’s half the problem.

You take the food with a small nod and a faint smile, like he’s handed you something like a rare delicacy—never mind that it smells faintly of burnt bark and overcooked sinew. You always look at him like that—like he’s something to be thankful for, something safe and good—that's the one thing that gets his breath stuck in his throat, over and over, because you're not supposed to think that. You’re not supposed to look at him that way, not with that quiet reverence like he’s someone worth being near. It’s not fair.

He's not good.

He's a killer, no different in theory from the very monsters he slays on the daily.

He's murdered people who died shaking, choking on their own tongues in the name of 'mercy', ended the lives of possessed children too far gone to save. He's buried comrades with trembling hands and dug up others just to bring their bones home—because not all monsters swallow whole. The Guild says “no remains recovered”—but most of the time, that just means Kazu was there first, always the quiet end to someone else's failures, cleaning up the mess no other hunter wanted to claim.

And you—whatever you are, whatever you pretend to be—you look at him like none of that matters. You still sit there with singed fingers and soot on your cheek, anyway—chewing through burnt meat with your usual quiet focus, as if eating next to him is something sacred—like he isn’t already building contingency plans in his head for the day he finally has to gut you,

because he knows it's coming.

There's no perfect version of this story where you're just some weird, overeager rookie with too-clean boots and too-perfect manners. The truth is: you aren't normal, no matter how soft your voice is, no matter how flawlessly you imitate the motion of humanity. The seams are too straight, and timings too perfect. Kazu’s spent most of his life watching monsters pretend to be people—watching people become monsters—and the line’s thinner than most would care to admit.

But you? you walk said line like a tightrope, barefoot yet unbothered. It's really only a matter of time before you slip.

Kazu thinks he’ll be ready for that moment—that when it happens, he won’t hesitate—won’t freeze the way he always feared he might if it came to it. He tells himself he’s just playing along, watching from up close to get a better angle. He tells himself that the extra rations, the shared fires, and the too-soft voice he uses with you sometimes—it’s all a tactic, part of the game. He’s humoring you. He’s baiting you.

Except—he isn’t. Not really. Not if he's being honest to himself.

He's letting you get close—has let you get close, for far too long. Somewhere between all the bloodshed and burned dinners, all the eerily silent and strangely peaceful walks through monster-thick woods, you've become his—but not in the romantic sense. He doesn't want to think so. You're not his partner nor his friend.

You're his problem. His burden.

And he can't stop looking for you in the quiet. Can’t stop listening for your steps behind him. Can’t stop the twitch of his fingers toward his sword whenever you stray out of sight. Not because he's cautious you'll strike him, but because he fears something else will.

That's worse, somehow, because it means it's already too late for him.

The thing is: he's killed monsters—beautiful ones—beings that wore the face of lovers, of children, of family. He's done the hard thing—chosen survival over sentiment. It's what he does. It's what he's good at—and yet, when he looks at you, he can't imagine pulling the blade fast enough. He imagines hesitation, a breath too long, a misstep—and he imagines you smiling through it all, asking him how well you did on your last mission together.

He should kill you. He knows that.

But you’re still here, still warm at his side, still tracing patterns into the dirt with your finger while he watches the shadows.

Maybe that's why every night he doesn’t do it—for every night he lets you sit too close, sleep too near—he trades another piece of instinct for something quieter. Heavier.

The ache of almost trust. The dull, sour fear of knowing he's slipping.

The moment lingers, quiet and heavy, only the pop and crackle of the fire filling the silence he doesn’t know how to break. Kazu stares into the embers like they might answer something for him—like the flicker of flame might burn away thoughts clawing too close to the bone. His arms are crossed, legs stretched out but rigid, still plagued by tension he refuses to name.

Then—quietly:

"Why haven't you eaten yet?"

The question breaks the silence gently. There’s no accusation in it, no challenge—just a simple, observant softness that lands somewhere deep. Kazu doesn’t flinch then, but something in him stalls, just a little.

His eyes shift, flickering to you, then away again. He hadn’t realized you were still watching him like that—chin still propped up in your hand, your legs folded close, voice quiet and steady—not teasing, not overly concerned. Just… noticing.

He doesn’t answer right away. There’s no snap, no bark—just a long, slow exhale through his nose like he’s trying to breathe out the weight pressing behind his ribs. Kazu shifts slightly, glancing at the scorched meat still cooling near the fire. His stomach doesn’t grumble. He’s long past the point where it does.

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs eventually, his voice terse and under-breathed, almost an afterthought.

Regardless, you keep looking at him, not pushing, not prying—just, there. Present in that quiet, uncanny way of yours. “You’ve been up since before the sun, but I don't see you eat enough.” you say, and it’s not meant as a scold—just the simple truth, and spoken like so. You've been paying attention to things he doesn't even bother noticing anymore.

That only makes something in his chest stir—nothing sharp, just tired, and old—like dust being kicked up from a corner of an old antique.

He huffs softly and reaches out, slow and quiet, picking at one of the less-burnt pieces with his fingers. The movement is unhurried and mechanical, like he’s going through the motions just to take his mind off static in his head. He doesn’t look at you when he chews—doesn’t grimace either. It tastes like smoke, like ash, and if he were to be poetic; like the draining feeling of countless days blending into each other—but it's food, and he's still breathing. That alone should be enough.

"I'll eat." he says after a beat, quiet and evenly. "You don't have to worry."

You blink at him, and although your expression doesn’t change much, something in your eyes softens.

"Okay." you smile, nod, and settle back into your spot by the fire. There's no commentary nor satisfaction to follow—just the ever-present serene expression you always wear beside him.

You're not harmless and he knows that, but you're his monster now, and that—somehow—that’s worse than anything else. because not like this does he know what to do with something that belongs to him. He knows how to kill, how to end, to survive, but this—this slow unravelling of trust—this presence beside him that’s too steady, too real, too there—it unsettles him in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s not a trick, neither is it a treat. It’s just you, sitting in the firelight, asking him to eat, looking at him like he genuinely matters. He doesn't dare meet your eyes on nights like these.

Perhaps that's the worst part of it all—that he's beginning to believe you.

Kazu swallows, jaw tightening. Silence settles again, but not quite heavy and cold like before, just present, as if the forest itself is holding its breath for reasons he'll maybe never know.

But he's doomed, and he knows at least that.

He's always been doomed. This is just a new shape of it.

Nearly an hour has passed since the Guild representative signed off your latest report, wax seal pressed crooked against the parchment. Since then, you still haven't let go of it. The paper's folded clean and careful, tucked between your palm like a precious keepsake rather than the bureaucratic obligation it really is. Kazu hasn't asked to see it—but then again, he never does. The confirmation of another slain woodland creature had barely left your lips before he was already shouldering his pack, muttering something about supplies and the road ahead.

But then—just as the trees thinned and a few dozen rooftops began to peek through the dusk, you heard it.

Music.

Soft at first, just beneath the blacksmith's clangor and the chatter of open-air market, so faint it could've easily been mistaken for wind blowing through chimes—but no, the melody held shape. You could hardly make out the sounds of flute and drum blending into each other, and the faint rhythmic call of strings coaxed to laughter. It was coming from town square—weaving its way through footfalls and merchant haggling, calling out to you before you even realized you’d turned your head to follow.

..a festival, or so you assume.

Noisy, bright, colorful lanterns crowding the streets where kids ran wild along stalls packed to the brim with sweets you've never seen before. For a moment, you're stunned, just standing there to watch.

Kazu doesn't stop walking until your footsteps don't follow.

When he turns, he's already a few paces ahead on the trail, boots scuffed against the worn earth and stray pine needles. You're not looking at him. Your gaze is fixed beyond the forest's mouth, where the muddy path slopes down towards the town below. Lanterns flicker and dance in the air like firefly between houses, while the faint echo of people's laughter rises with the breeze. The town is alive, breathtakingly so: music that drifts through the air in uneven bursts, the warm scent of roasted grain and smoke curling up from obscured stalls.

You stand there quietly, as if caught in a trance.

"There's a... celebration." you breathe.

His exhale is already heavy.

"We're not staying."

But you're already turning toward it, drawn to the distant flicker of lanterns like moth to a flame. Your face contorts to something like a mix of curiosity and excitement.

You turn back to him, "Just for a while?" you plea.

"No." he cuts in, dry and decisive.

"Not even just to look?"

The silence you receive isn't disapproval, but it doesn't feel like agreement either. Recently, you've begun to recognize the way he hesitates—how he tends to let silence answer for him, as though he's giving you space to reconsider on your own—but he doesn't ever say no.

So you decide to press, softer this time: "We don't have to go in if you don't want to, just.. closer, if only for some time."

His eyes narrow, words that you don't catch tumbling out in a barely audible mutter meant more for himself than you, before his voice finally sharpens with resolve.

"Ten minutes," he scowls, not quite looking at you anymore. "no more."

Your eyes widen—not with triumph or glee, but a quiet, grateful kind of wonder. You hadn't expected him to give you anything at all. "Ten minutes," you echo, the words barely louder than a whisper. You nod firmly, like memorizing the moment. "Okay," you smile, "ten minutes."

Kazu grunts, the sound lacking its usual weight. He adjusts his pack, shrugs his shoulders as if the leather strap suddenly itched, and begins walking again—not looking back to see if you're following.

Of course you are.

You catch up to him in seconds.

The two of you walk side by side, though not quite together. There’s a few inches of space between your shoulders that neither of you tries to close, but it’s not uncomfortable—only existing. As the forest thins behind you, giving way to the stir of town life, Kazu remains quiet. The scent of fried oil and sweet batter hangs heavy, slowly drowning out the damp, piney breath of the forest behind your backs.

The town sprawls before you both, vibrant garlands hung in uneven lines between posts and wooden ledges, while lanterns flutter in the wind like little captured suns, flickering warm hues of gold and red. Music spills like water from every corner—laughter, rhythm, the clap of drums over the murmur of voices calling out greetings and bartering with stall-keepers.

It's... a lot. Noise, movement, light—too much to co-exist.

Kazu keeps you in his periphery as the crowd thickens. Part of it's instinct—he always watches, always prepares for the worst—but another part of him, the part he doesn't like naming, is watching for your sake; for the twitch of your fingers, the quickening of breath, the signs of overstimulation in a place far too overwhelming for your liking. He knows what this kind of environment does to people like you, or—he thinks he should.

But you don't stiffen. You don't even show a flicker of discomfort.

No, your eyes go wide—yes, but not in alarm. It's wonder. Your steps start to slow, and you're stopping to enjoy the moment instead of shrinking away. Your gaze skims over paper lanterns bobbing in the breeze, catches briefly on a vendor tossing sugar over skewered fruit, lingers longer on a pair of children darting between legs with streamers in tow. You stand at the edge of it all, breathing slow, your face unreadable—until it isn't.

There's an awe to your expression that hadn't been there moments ago.

Kazu's brows twitch subconsciously, and he... falters.

He'd been half-ready to drag you out himself if your hands started to shake, or if your voice suddenly dropped below a whisper—but instead, you're here, breathing even. Not just holding steady, but enjoying it.

Your reaction isn't dramatic. You're not rushing to join the crowd and tumbling over yourself in excitement, but there's a subtle ease in your movements. You're letting down your guard without even realizing. He catches it, and for a second—he too, forgot what he was watching for.

Once, you glance back at him, not sheepishly or questioningly, it felt more to him like you were just checking for his presence—to see if he's still with you.

He is. Why wouldn't he be?

And like countless times before, he doesn't speak. Neither does he reach for you. He keeps close though, pace purposely matching yours like that's always been how it's meant to be.

This.. isn't what he expected when he chose to keep you around, but it doesn't matter. Not like he'll ever stop watching you, anyway.

"..It's loud." you comment, but it's not a complaint—more-so a factual observation, like how the sky is blue or blood is red. There's a quiet kind of awe in your voice, almost innocent—the type of fascination you'd expect from a child's first time at a candy store.

"I think I like it."

Kazu doesn't respond as he moves to stand just slightly ahead of you, blocking the crowd's spills from touching you too directly. He doesn't mean to hover, but it's somewhat become second-nature by now. Old instincts, conditioned by numerous prior ambushes.

Places like these breed carelessness, only fools would assume a crowd means safety. You're not even fully in the square, just somewhere past the outskirts, standing where trees thin into cobblestone—but the air's already too different. Charged, restless joy of people who aren't watching for danger—ironically, it only makes him more cautious.

You're still holding the report in one hand, but it's become an after-thought. You've forgotten it was ever there in the first place.

“Kazu,” you say, after a moment. “does it ever feel like… like you’re only watching people live? I think I get it—the purpose, the patterns—but joining in… I don’t think I’d know how.”

He doesn't answer right away. Your words feel too honest for his usual brand of snide dismissal, too vulnerable for him to ignore; honesty that didn't expect anything in turn.

He huffs eventually, low. "Then don't."

You glance over, and he doesn't meet your gaze.

"Just look. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you murmur, surprised by the warmth curling in your chest. "It is."

And somehow, it really is. You stand together in the narrow space between torchlight and shadow, far enough away that no one notices either of you, close enough that you can hear the music rise and fall like waves against stone. He says nothing else, and you don’t offer anything in return. Something about the stillness between you feels fragile, like a thread pulled taut but not yet frayed. You don’t move, neither does he. The world carries on around you and you let it.

Maybe that’s what makes his throat tighten when he glances sideways and sees the firelight catch in your eyes, even here, far from any hearth. For all that you aren't, there's a flicker in your gaze that makes him forget it—makes him wish, dangerously, that you were.

So when a child bolts from the crowd—skewer in hand, feet pounding past without aim—

Kazu doesn't think. His arm shoots out on instinct, hand closing over your shoulder, pulling you in close—too close. As if he could keep that flicker. As if holding you could make the wish real.

Startled, you look at him in surprise.

"Watch where you're standing." he grunts. It comes off more gritty than it needs to—short, clipped, like he's scolding you, though it doesn't land the way he expects. In the end, that's not really what he meant to say.

You blink. Then, without flinching or shifting away, you nod. "Sorry."

You stand there for a breath—no more—just long enough to feel the weight of Kazu’s hand on your shoulder before it slips away, fingers hesitating for a fraction too long before they release. The pressure leaves behind a ghost of warmth, as if some part of him hadn’t meant to let go so quickly, or had only just realized he’d grabbed you at all.

The child’s long gone, vanished into the crowd like a leaf carried by wind, and Kazu doesn't speak again, adjusting the strap of his pack with a sharp tug, like the motion might ground him—something solid and familiar to occupy hands that had moved before he’d thought.

Your gaze flicks back to the festival.

"They're wearing masks." you observe aloud, head tilted just slightly. Sure enough, dancers in painted crane-faces twirl between booths, steps timed with the playful trill of flutes. Their garments are mismatched but vivid—fluttering robes, strings of beads, paper charms trailing from sleeves like falling petals.

He shifts beside you, clears his throat. “...We should go.”

You glance up quickly. “Already?”

His eyes narrow again—not in anger, just a tic. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but when he exhales, it’s softer than before.

“We still have six minutes,” Kazu mutters.

You gape, dumbfounded. "You're counting."

He shrugs, just enough for the strap of his pack to shift. "Someone has to. I said ten, didn't I?"

You breathe out a quiet laugh and take a few steps forward. This time, he doesn’t follow right away, only watches as you approach the edge of the crowd, where a vendor offers candied plums on polished sticks. The smell makes your stomach twitch with unfamiliar interest.

You don't notice when he appears at your side again. He doesn't look at the plums, neither does he comment on the way you squint on the pricing and freeze when you realize you have no money.

He just pulls a coin from his own pouch, tosses it the vendor's way, and walks away.

You accept the sticks automatically, syrup already tacky on your fingers. "Kazu!" you call, hurrying after him before the moment slips away. You're unsure whether to thank him or question what just passed.

...maybe a little bit of both.

He briefly lifts one hand in the air behind him, but you catch the slight stiffness in his movement and the flush creeping up the side of his neck. It's unclear to you if the gesture is meant as a wave or dismissal, and you don't think he knows either.

"...Are you blushing?" you ask, not teasing—just saying it like you're trying to confirm something you didn’t expect to see. Your words hang there, honest and unembellished, and for a moment, the only answer you get is the stiff set of his shoulders as he keeps walking. His pace doesn’t change, but you notice the way his hand drops a little faster than it should, like he's trying to cut off the motion before it gives too much away.

You glance down at the candied plums in your hand, then back at him, lips parting before the words come without much thought. “You didn’t have to buy them, you know.” Again, it’s not an accusation. Not gratitude either—just fact, like you’re still sorting out what to make of it yourself.

“You wanted it,” he replies, brusque as ever, though his tone lacks bite. His eyes flick sideways, almost too fast to catch, as if he’s trying to gauge whether you actually like it, or whether this, somehow, was the wrong call. But you’re already licking a bit of syrup from the corner of your mouth, head tilting in mild surprise.

 “It tastes like plums,” you manage between chews, the stick still at your lips, “but… better?”

 The second plum stick is still in your hand, warm and sticky. without thinking, you extend it towards him. "Want one?" you hum.

But Kazu only casts it a dubious glance, then snorts. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You paid for it."

"I paid for you."

Your head tilts, eyes flicking to him with a sudden kind of confusion.

"..What?"

He scowls. "I meant the plums."

You don’t push—just let the smallest smile curl onto your lips, amused in a way that doesn’t need teasing. Silently, you extend the stick again, patient and insistent. He hesitates, scowls deeper, then mutters something under his breath in what you now consider typical Kazu fashion—before ducking forward slightly and taking a bite straight of the skewer. His mouth pull into a sharp line the moment he chews.

"Tastes like medicine," he mutters with a grimace.

"..really?"

You peer at him, skeptical. “I don’t think it tastes like medicine.”

He gives you a look, flicking a crumb from his glove. “Then you’ve clearly never had medicine.” he jests—you think, and for a split moment, there's the faintest upwards curl on his lips.

You feel the urge to laugh, but manage to hold it in.

"Want the rest of mine?" you gesture, still holding out the second stick.

He rolls his eyes, "No." but he doesn't tell you to stop offering, either—so you just keep walking beside him, still holding the extra skewer in your hand like maybe he’ll change his mind.

The festival continues to bloom around you, loud and alive, music rising from every direction. Drums beat low in the chest, a steady pulse beneath the swirl of flutes and what you think are performative strings that leap with gusts of wind. The same group of dancers from before twirl past with ribboned sleeves and bells wrapped around their ankles, casting ripples of colors across town-square.

Amidst the chaos, someone tosses a fistful of paper petals into the air and children chase them like butterflies. The scent of fire-roasted corn lingers in the space between stalls, mingling with something floral and sticky-sweet—incense, you guess, or maybe sugared rice cakes steaming in their baskets.

You slow down a little, taking it in—not wide-eyed anymore, but still quiet with a kind of awe you don’t really know how to name. There's nothing else you’re supposed to be doing right now. No Guild forms to fill, no other monsters to hunt, no next destination hounding your heels. Just this—music, people, color, your hand sticky with sugar, and Kazu… not exactly smiling, but he seems content.

You glance over again and catch him watching you—he doesn’t even pretend to look away this time.

“What?” you find yourself asking.

He frowns, which is his usual default, but this one... feels different. "...Nothing." he huffs.

You don't push, you've learned not to when it comes to Kazu. Instead, you find yourselves pausing near a game stall—small clay pots lined up in rows, a basket of bean bags beside them and a sign boasting some local dialect variation of three down, prize won. The prizes aren’t anything special, just a mix of wooden charms, glass beads, and poorly-stitched dolls, but something about the way they’re all piled together draws your eye.

Kazu notices your interest and scoffs. "That's a scam."

You squint, looking at him questioningly. "It's a festival game?"

“Same thing.”

Still, you step forward. There’s something oddly charming about the way the clay jars are all different shapes and sizes, and you’re curious if the game’s rigged or just genuinely difficult. The middle-aged man running the booth smiles toothily and offers you a bean bag with fingers bent at odd angles.

When your gaze returns to your trusty travelling companion, he's already fishing coins from his pouch.

You stiffen, brows twitching in uncertainty. "I didn't say I wanted to play."

"You were looking." he says, as if that explains everything.

You accept the bean bag, a little stunned, then weigh it in your hand thoughtfully. It’s lighter than it looks. Your throw isn’t particularly strong—but on the second try, a jar wobbles and tips off the plank, shattering on impact.

Kazu lets out a short breath. “…Huh.”

You look back at him, smug. “Guess it’s not rigged.”

He doesn't reply, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth,again, almost like he's fighting a smile and losing. You miss your third throw, but the man counts the shattered pot with a nod and lets you pick a prize anyway.

You hover for a moment before reaching toward the back of the pile—picking out a tiny carved animal figure. It's some sort of bird, maybe a falcon, its wings out-stretched mid-flight. The carving isn’t masterful, but the way it fits in your palm makes you like it even more. You turn it over once in your hand, then extend it out to Kazu without thinking.

He blinks at you.

You hold it steady. “For you.”

He stares at the bird, visible confusion on his face. “Why?”

You hum, "You paid."

"That's... that's not—"

“Maybe not. Still.” You nudge the figure toward him a little more insistently, and he takes it eventually—slowly, like it burns. His fingers close around it like he's afraid it'll crumble at first contact.

You walk again, weaving between lantern strings and children in animal masks. The candy’s half gone now. You’ve stopped offering him bites, but you keep the second stick in hand anyway. Kazu still keeps the bird, the little wooden carving finding its home within the crevice of his pocket.

Soon enough, your attention is grabbed once more by a fire dance that's about to begin—spinning performers with flares in each hand, breath soaked in oil and exhaled in long, steady ribbons of flame. The crowd gasps in delight. You flinch at the first roar of fire, and Kazu shifts, just barely brushing against you, a subtle check for any tremble in your shoulders.

But you don't pull away. There's no need to.

“…You’ve got syrup on your face,” he mutters.

You reach up to wipe it away, missing by a few centimeters.

“No—left. More left.” He lets out a soft, barely audible huff, then reaches forward and smudges it off himself with the corner of his sleeve. You stare for a second, thrown off, as he draws back.

“There.”

“...Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand lingers in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Somewhere, another chime rings, delicate and high. You tilt your head toward the sound and spot a charm stall—little paper fortunes hanging from strings, inked prayers written down with careful brush strokes. One of the attendants offers you a reed pen and a scrap of parchment without a word. You glance back at Kazu.

“You write one too?”

He gives you a look. “What would I even write?”

You consider, “Something you want?”

“Don’t want anything.”

You raise a brow.

He sighs. “Nothing they can give.”

You nod, and don't ask again

Either way, you still get to write something. You don't think too hard about it, just let the words come as they are, no frills or poetry—just transparent honesty. A wish small enough to feel like your own, but meaningful enough not to lose its shape if ever spoken aloud.

You hang it on the charm line with the others, a flutter of parchment caught in a passing breeze.

Kazu watches.

When you turn back, he still waits for you, hands in his pockets, one still curled faintly around the carved bird, eyes half-lidded beneath the firelight—but present.

You're more than sure ten minutes have passed by now. You're more than certain he knows too.

"Can we look around a bit more?" you ask, careful, watching his face for any flicker of hesitation, already bracing yourself in case he says no—but still hoping he won’t.

He remains silent for a moment, gaze dragging over the lanterns, over the path ahead, over the swell of people beginning to thicken near another bend in the street. His brows furrow—not in refusal, you think—but in a kind of reluctant resignation.

"..If we must."

You brighten, but you keep it mild. No need to spook him now.

Your pace quickens slightly as you lead him toward the narrower part of the plaza, where booths line both sides of the stone path in loose, irregular rows. The heat from the fire dancers still lingers in your skin with each step. It's only been a handful of minutes since you arrived, but something in the air makes time feel weightless—like it’s suspended between heartbeats and flickering lanterns.

You walk without any real aim, letting the sounds and smells guide you. Kazu doesn’t stop you, just lets you lead, his steps always keeping pace. The bird in his pocket taps gently against his leg.

Eventually, you find yourselves drifting near the eastern end of the square, where the lanterns hang lower and the music grows fainter—replaced instead by the soft ringing of chimes and bells. The crowd here is thinner, older. Couples linger longer at stalls, their fingers entwined as they examine trinkets and charms meant to bestow anything from safe travels to good fortune in love.

The mixed smell of incense and pressed herbs is thicker here, but you don't mind. It's a soothing counterpart to the sugary stickiness still clinging to your fingers.

You stop in front of one such stall—its surface cluttered with bundles of dried sage, lacquered charms shaped like hearts and cranes, and little clay animals painted with looping red strokes that immediately remind you of the wooden carvings from the festival game prior.

The vendor is an older woman with curly hair wrapped into a red scarf, leaning over the counter as you approach.

“Ah,” she beams. “Looking for luck, are we?”

You glance down at the display. The hand-painted sign above it reads Fortunes for Love, Fortune, and Friendship! in charmingly uneven script, flanked by a doodle of two rabbits holding hands.

“Not really,” you tell her, but you’re already leaning in a little closer. The trinkets are small, almost forgettable, but oddly compelling—soft-wrapped bundles and little painted stones, one shaped like a fox head with golden eyes.

“You should try the couple charms,” the woman says suddenly, with a conspiratorial twinkle in her voice. “Always been lucky, those ones.”

You pause, “Couples?”

“Aye.” She nods toward a section near the back of the table, where two miniature tokens are bound together with thread. One red, one black. “To bring closeness and good fortune. Bind them together at midnight, and your paths won’t stray.”

You hesitate. "We're not—"

But the vendor only smiles wider, nodding toward the space between you and Kazu, where your elbows nearly brush and neither of you have noticed.

“Ah, don’t mind me,” she muses. “I’ve got an eye for these things. From what I can tell, you’ve got that look about you.” She titters, tapping a finger to her temple. “That quiet kind of closeness. You kids don’t need to say much, do you? You just are.”

The vendor lady gestures to Kazu with a knowing little nod. “He’s got the face for it, too. All grump on the outside, sweetheart on the inside. I’ve known plenty of men like that. My late husband was just the same!”

You turn instinctively, gaze drawn to Kazu’s face.

He’s frozen.

Utterly, unmistakably frozen—stillness that speaks louder than words. His mouth is pulled taut, his eyes narrowed in that flat, impassive expression you’ve seen several times before—but this time, it feels more defensive than annoyed.

“We’re not a couple,” he says flatly, teeth barely unclenched.

The vendor waves a hand. “Ah, not yet, then. My mistake.”

For a moment, you half-expect him to storm off, but surprisingly—he just.. stands there. Bristling, maybe, but not leaving. His shoulder is still angled toward you, his hand tight in his pocket around that little wooden bird. You can’t read his expression anymore, but you think you know him well enough by now to guess he's probably regretting ever letting you lead him into this part of the square.

Nonetheless, you can't help but smile a little, a bit crooked this time.

“Guess we fooled her,” you lean over and whisper, barely more than a breath.

"She's wrong." Kazu argues back, as if your little encounter with the old lady is something that needs clarifying. For a moment, it almost felt to you like he's trying to shake off the weight of that single word: couple.

"I know," you hum. "does it bother you?"

Kazu doesn’t respond right away. He glances off to the side, jaw flexing slightly.

Then: “…No. Just stupid.”

You nod once, and turn your attention back to the charms. Your finger rests lightly atop one of the braided cords again, this time letting it catch against the pad of your thumb.

The vendor watches you both, smile never fully fading, but she doesn’t push. Just leans back and pretends to busy herself with reorganizing her wares.

Kazu exhales slowly, almost a sigh, and after a long moment, he hands you his pouch and murmurs, “Get it if you want.”

You glance over, "The charm?"

His face twitches. "Yeah. Or don't."

You study him for a second longer, then quietly pay for the set. The vendor ties one around your wrist, fingers light and practiced. You thank her with a slight bow, then take the second cord, holding it out to him like an offering.

Kazu stares at it, then at you. His eyes narrow again, hesitant.

“I don’t—”

“It’s just a charm,” you say, voice soft, not teasing. “You don’t have to wear it.”

You mean what you say, but he takes it anyway.

He doesn’t tie it on right away—rather, he takes a moment to hold it between gloved fingers, examining the threads. You don’t press. He can do what he wants with it.

..But, as the two of you walk away again, returning to the quieter paths threading the festival’s edge, you catch the flicker of motion at his wrist. The cord is there—clumsily tied, looped twice, the knot imperfect but secure.

He notices you looking.

"..Did it wrong." he mumbles.

You don’t laugh. “It’s on,” you say simply, as the corners of your mouth twitch for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

He grunts under his breath—you don't know if it's in agreement, or just to fill the air between you. Regardless, he keeps walking. The path is narrower here, veering off from the main lantern-lit square, paved with uneven stone and canopied overhead by willow branches that sway like heavy curtains. With the festival’s noise muffled behind you, the hush that settles feels deeper, more natural.

Crickets chirp softly in the grass, and from somewhere out of sight, wind chimes sound with a fragile clarity, barely there at all.

Neither of you say much for a while after that, footsteps continuing to fall in uneven rhythm. There's no conversation to spark when your shoulders brush once when the path narrows again. You don't fail to notice how the charm at your wrist glints just slightly upon being touched by the low light of a passing firefly.

You guess the same can be said for Kazu, because you catch him staring at it, before looking forward again.

"It's dumb," he mutters after another moment of silence, "the whole binding thing—midnight and all that."

You hum, half to show you’re listening, half because you’re not sure what to say yet.

"Superstition," he adds, a firmer now, like saying it with more conviction would make it sound less like a choice he made.

You glance down at his wrist, anyway. The cord's still there.

"Maybe," you say in reply. "but I think it's a nice kind of dumb."

Although Kazu doesn’t answer that, his pace slows a little. Not a full stop, just enough that you fall into step beside him again, his shoulder no longer ahead of yours but level. He draws in a breath like he’s about to say something else—but whatever it is, he lets it go and resumes walking.

You listen to the crunch of gravel beneath your boots, the whisper of wind through distant banners, and something else—his hand brushing near yours again, not quite a touch, but he's close enough for the heat of your hands to overlap.

It stays like that for a while.

Later, you tilt your head toward him, voice quiet and low. “Still want to head back soon?”

His silence stretches, staying quiet for a beat too long. His jaw shifts—like he’s chewing over what to say. Then, without lifting his gaze: "..Let's walk a bit more."

You nod wordlessly. The quiet has settled too comfortably between you to bother breaking it. the world has dimmed here, quieter. Even the festival seems far off, muffled by trees and distance.

Your fingers drift a little closer. The gap between your hands narrows until your pinkies nearly touch, neither side closing the distance. He doesn’t tense, but there's a thin layer of tension in the way he moves.

Contact never comes between you. What hangs is only thinner than thread, but it holds just fine. It just so happens that lantern light glints briefly off the charm at his wrist, tied haphazardly, a loop barely secured.

No one moves to fix the knot.

Hours later, by the time you finally settle for an inn—the cord remains tied, frayed ends brushing his wrist like it never came close to coming undone.

Kazu's hands are soaked in someone else's blood.

It clings to the lines of his palms, thick and half-dried where it’s seeped into his skin and dark as rust beneath his fingernails. It’s splattered across the folds of his jacket, caked on the blade that remains clenched within his palm, smeared across the earth where your body had fallen.

Your head lies in the dirt, just a few feet from where he’s kneeling. Your eyes are closed. Peaceful, almost. Too peaceful for his liking.

He can’t move.

The air is heavy, weighed not only by the scent of copper and soil but by silence as well. It's the kind to ring hauntingly in one's skull, only ever following after a scream.

Your scream.

His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, everything else the cause rather than physical strain, the weight of what had just happened settling in like stone in his gut. The fight with Tarin had been brief, hardly even a fight in the end.

It lasted only a few seconds.

There had been no real contest, no struggle for dominance or skill. Kazu’s blade had pierced through the other man's skull as easily as if it were soft bark, too quick and too clean for what he truly deserved. A single motion, brutal and efficient, born more from instinct than rage, and it had all been over.

He should feel vindicated. Furious. Something.

Yet all he could do was sit there, knees dug into the dirt, staring at the limp body that refuses to die. He watches the faint twitch of your fingers, the barely-there shudder of your chest. It should be impossible. It is impossible. He'd saw the wound, the severing.

But your body doesn't go still.

He stares at it, unmoving, as the blood dries sticky between his fingers. A bitter taste creeps up in his throat, foul in its essence. It's then that without meaning to, his mind flickers—not to the moment of the fight, but to the one that started it all.

It began with a voice.

"Well, I’ll be—didn’t think you’d show up again, Kazu. Haven't seen 'ya 'round these parts for some years now."

A man stood beneath the dappled shade of pine, leaning against a sloped tree trunk. His stance was relaxed, one thumb hooked in the strap of his gearbag, the other hand loosely holding a waterskin. His clothes bore the practical wear of fieldwork—dusty hems, scraped leather, streaks of what looked like dried blood clinging to his inner tunic. His hair was longer than Kazu remembered, sun-burnt at the tips, and messily half-tied.

His voice came from behind, breaking the hush of dusk like a twig underfoot—too easy in its humor to be entirely casual. Kazu stopped dead in his tracks, bootheel pressing into old pine needles as he turned just slightly to confirm the voice. He didn’t need to. He already knew.

There was an easy grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes—they didn’t match it, steel-colored and sharp. Those eyes were shaped too alert to be relaxed. He wasn't looking at Kazu.

He was looking at you.

"Tarin," Kazu said after a beat, his voice flat with recognition. He didn’t offer a greeting so much as confirm the man's name like he was clocking a piece of intel. Whether that was how he usually greeted old colleagues or just the ones he had reason to be cautious around—it wasn’t always easy to tell, even for him.

The other hunter didn't seem the slightest bit offended in response. If anything, the lack of warmth only made him smile wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Kazu grunted but said nothing.

Tarin pushed himself off the tree and approaches without hesitation, gait easy but measured. Automatically, Kazu stepped half a pace to the side, angling himself in front of you.

“I didn’t expect you this far north,” Tarin remarked nonchalantly, “last I heard, you were working eastern routes—contract cleaner for the old southern garrison. Rumor was, you went solo.”

Kazu finally spoke, low. “I did.”

“Hah,” Tarin exhaled a short laugh, “figures. Coordinating never seemed like your scene."

There was amusement in his voice, but something colder pulsed beneath. His gaze slid past Kazu and landed on you, sharp and deliberate. It lingered too long to be casual, eyes flicking over the guild seal tucked at your hip, the way you shifted your weight, the subtle closeness you kept to Kazu’s side—

"You his new side-kick?" he asked, not unkindly—but the way he phrases it makes his intention clear. This wasn't a genuine question, but a probe.

You hesitated.

There was something in his eyes—not quite humor, nor hostility… yet. It felt more like a weighing—a quiet, deliberate measurement, masked by a lazy smile. He’s not looking at you, but through you—toward whatever connection you might have to Kazu.

Kazu didn’t give the silence time to stretch.

"They're with me."

Three words. Flat. Final.

Tarin raised a brow, not at what’s said, but at what’s not. He held up both palms, mock-apologetic. “Didn’t mean anything by it, just saying. I'm surprised you’re letting someone stick that close. You used to bite the heads off our quartermasters just for trailing behind you.”

Kazu didn’t rise to it. His stance didn’t change, but there was a faint shift—just enough that someone like Tarin would catch it. And he did. His smile dimmed by a fraction. He looked down at the waterskin in his hand, turning it once by the neck, almost absently.

“You headed for the old ridge route?” he prodded, voice turning casual again. “Heard a few things about movement up there, not just the usual strays.” another look your way, then back to Kazu. “You might want a second map.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Kazu replies.

Tarin held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His hands dropped from his belt, the weight of his stare lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then, like it had cost him nothing, he added, “Mind if I stay with you for the road?”

The question hung there, like it wasn't already assumed. Kazu saw the shift of his pack strap, the way he was already moving like he expected to join. He almost said no. It was right there on the tip of his tongue.

“We’re two days out from Western HQ,” he says instead, voice clipped but level. “Keep up, and don’t get in the way.”

The memory loses its grip, lacking in closure. The air has changed. The silence isn’t the same anymore; not quite lighter, but disturbed, as if the forest itself had shifted position while he was locked in thought. His eyes return, slowly, to the ground in front of him.

You lie there, unmoving. The space between your head and your body still hasn't changed. Nothing has moved, yet, something is wrong.

Kazu pushes himself to his feet. The stiffness in his joints doesn’t come from exertion, but tension. The blood has begun to dry at the edges of his gloves, flaking where his knuckles flex. He ignores it.

He steps carefully, almost piously, toward your body.

It's then that he sees it.

A thin strand—no, not quite a strand; something organic, wet, and pale, like a vine or a root—has stretched from the exposed flesh of your severed neck. It snakes out in a cautious, almost tentative motion, glistening faintly in the dappled light that breaks through the treetops. A matching branch extends from your neck stump, twitching once before stilling, as if sensing its counterpart nearby.

His breath stills.

More follow. Fine, translucent threads, branching out like veins or mycelium, begin weaving their way through the dirt. They move slowly, with purpose, like limbs remembering what they used to be. The distance between your head and body isn’t much—barely a few feet—but the quiet persistence with which your biology reaches out to reconnect it is enough to make his stomach turn.

Not out of fear, nor revulsion like he'd expected.

It’s awe—a twisted, reverent kind of awe. Awe that burrows itself in his chest and leaves no room for fear.

He swallows hard.

Your body doesn’t convulse. There’s no violent jerk or grotesque movement. The regeneration is quiet, solemn. A biological process, he supposes. Already, the strands are reaching one another, brushing together with cautious, delicate touches, then winding tighter, almost tenderly. They pulse faintly, like breath, and begin pulling.

Kazu feels his heart hammer once, painfully.

"You know what they are, right?" Tarin’s voice had cracked, caught somewhere between incredulity and desperation, his heel scraping backward in the dirt. He’d raised his bloodied hands, as if it could stall what was already coming. “I’m doing you a favor, Kazu! Why are you looking at me like that?!”

He tried to justify it, even then. As if mere words could scrub clean the horror written into the scene. What was already done is irreversible. Kazu knew what you were—what the Guild would call you if words got out: abomination, liability, target. Tarin had only acted accordingly. Kazu understood that. But he didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Not since meeting you. He's been defying his duties as a monster hunter for a while now.

The moment he turned a blind eye to the odd cadence in your steps. The moment he started making sure you slept first during rotation shifts. The moment he adjusted your cloak in the rain— even to the moment he stitched your arm himself after a raid and muttered about how “lucky” you were to heal so well. Each choice he's since made was a quiet defection to everything he's ever known.

In the past, he used to tell himself it was only tactical patience—that he was only waiting for you to slip—but deep down, he knew the truth: he had already chosen you over the Guild a long time ago.

Kazu drops to one knee again, carefully, the ground still warm from spilled blood. His breath clouds faintly in the cooling air, though sweat dampens his collar. One leather gloved hand hovers above the rejoining strands for a moment, uncertain, then slowly lowers until his fingertips graze the dirt beside them. He doesn't dare touch the threads themselves—not out of fear, but some distorted version of worship.

You’re not screaming. You’re not writhing. Fortunately, there is no pain he can see; just a peaceful stillness still etched into your face, made grotesque only by context. Your head lies inches from reattachment, and already your body has accepted the command. Your flesh has begun to knit, slow and subtle, with a movement that feels less like tissue repairing than instinct falling into place.

A new silence has fallen. No longer one thick with death's undertones following your decapitation—a different kind; silence that watches. That waits.

Kazu briefly glances back at what remains of Tarin’s corpse. It lies a little ways off, face-down in the underbrush, half-concealed by ferns. Blood still seeps slowly from the base of his skull, forming a dark pool that soaks gradually into grass and soil. He remains motionless. Dead. No magic nor crawling resurrection to follow his current state.

It's a morbid little reminder that only confirms what Kazu already knows: some things stay dead. Other's don't.

He turns back to you. The strands have grown thicker now, winding together in wet coils, anchoring your spine to itself. There’s no tearing or tension, only seamless reconnection. A seam being steadily stitched close. The process itself is as meticulous as it is surreal—terrifying only in its elegance.

Kazu breathes in, slow. The iron stink of blood hangs sharp in his nose, but beneath it—faint and earthy, something else has begun to rise: a fungal note, rich and wet. Mycelial. That’s what it reminds him of. He wonders if this is the smell of the forest reclaiming its own.

Had he half a mind, he would be preparing to put you down properly. He would be finishing it—ending this with the same mechanical efficiency he'd shown Tarin. That would be the clean answer. The right one.

But at this point? He's far from sane.

So he lowers himself until he’s sitting cross-legged beside you, if only just to keep watch—not protectively, not yet. Curiously. He's decided to be a witness of what comes next. You’ll wake soon. He knows this the same way he knows how to draw a blade—instinctively. Maybe, somewhere along the way, your rhythms had long since wounded themselves into his own.

He waits only a moment longer, watching the fleshy threads draw closed like the last pull of a careful stitch. It’s not done—not fully, not yet—but it’s enough. The connection has been made. The rest, he knows, is just time. Time and care.

Kazu breathes out, steadies himself, then moves.

The act of gathering you is delicate and measured, you deserve that much. He starts with your head, fingers careful as they cradle it. He lifts it slowly, keeping it level, letting the organic threads still connecting you stretch rather than break. The strands are wet and pale and flex like tendon, but they don’t resist him. They yield, slackening just enough to accommodate his movement. He cups your cheek with one thumb, brushing away a smear of dried blood with the edge of a knuckle, and carefully presses your head against his chest—one arm wrapped beneath it, supporting the base.

Your body comes next.

He shifts to crouch beside it, lifting your shoulders first and then your torso, careful to keep you aligned. Your limbs dangle limply, like a doll’s. Too limp. He doesn’t like that. So he adjusts your arms—folds one across your abdomen, the other beneath it. There you go. That’s better.

You’re not heavy. That's not it. If anything, you feel too light—too insubstantial for something that had the chance to end him—for someone who’s become the axis around which everything else revolves. It unsettles him, this frailty. The soft quietness of your breathing, the looming sense that your body is only borrowing time. That, he thinks, has always been what terrifies him most.

Still, he keeps you close. Closer than necessary, really. He doesn’t realize how tight his arms have wound around you until a twig cracks beneath his foot, snapping him forward, and instinct tightens his grip without thinking.

“…Tch.” He exhales through his teeth, readjusts, and moves.

You don’t stir then.

..Good. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

The place he takes you isn’t far—just a small cave set into the hillside, shallow but sheltered, obscured by a veil of hanging roots and vine. He's camped there before, some years prior to meeting you. It's a fallback spot for poor weather or retreat—dry, cool, defensible.

He moves quietly, despite the burden in his arms. The weight of you—your blood-soaked cloak, your slack limbs, the faint warmth of your head resting against his shoulder—ought to unnerve him, truthfully. Would've for any other person. Instead, it calms him in a way he can’t fully explain, something about it steadying. Grounding.

Once inside, he lays you down as though you are a relic he dare not mar. Which, of course you are.

The coat goes first—spread out neatly across the stone floor like a makeshift bedroll. He carefully lowers you onto it, adjusting the angle of your head so it rests aligned with your spine, his fingers subtly tucking the cords that have begun to fuse along your neck. He doesn’t rush nor fumble. Each motion is deliberate. Intimate, in a way.

A small fire follows, meant only to sterilize. He sets water to boil, sprinkling in dried herbs from his pouch. Pinebark and feverleaf rise on the steam, filling the cave. When he comes back to you, he’s stripped his gloves, sleeves cuffed past his elbows. None of the marks matter. He’d earn a thousand more to ensure this never repeats.

Barehanded now, he works quickly: he unclasps his satchel, retrieves the sterilizing tincture, and the few supplies he’s hoarded over months—not Guild issue, but things he stole from clinics, traded for in hushed corners of waystations.

Not for himself.

He dips the cloth into the cold, astringent-smelling brew, then presses it to your skin, wiping along the raw edges of your neck where the muscle jerks in shallow pulses.

His hand trembles once before he steadies it. “No sign of infection,” he mutters, almost trying to convince himself, “Tissue’s holding... good.”

He doesn’t look at your face right away. His focus stays on the mechanics—cleansing the blood, wiping away the dirt that clings in the creases of your skin like soot.

It isn’t until he’s halfway through cleaning your chest—until the worst of the blood has been cleared and your breathing, though shallow, has steadied—that his gaze finally rises. He looks at you then—really looks.

Something in him pulls taut.

Your face is still slack with unconsciousness, and although you're still alive—still breathing, that peaceful, calm expression you wear only reminds him of the dead. He stares for a long moment, fingers stilled, cloth limp in one hand. A breath catches in his throat and shaky upon its release. He leans back on his heels.

“You idiot,” he breathes, barely audible. "reckless, stupid thing…”

The senseless accusation lingers for only a moment before it turns back on him like a blade flipped in reverse. He exhales a bitter, humorless laugh, and his fingers slip through your hair, combing gently through the blood-matted strands.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “That’s not fair, is it?” his hand stills. “You didn’t let him. I did.”

The truth of it hits like a punch to the chest. His other hand drops to the ground beside you, palm flat against the blood that stains the moss in dark, drying patches. His hand finds the ground there, steadying himself from the slow press of something he doesn’t want to name.

What really gnaws at him—was that he had known. A part of him had, from the very moment he noticed Tarin eyeing you with that predatory gaze barely hidden beneath all his easy charm.

Just like Kazu had, Tarin saw right through your disguise.

It wasn't hard to tell he knew; the tilt of his stance, the angle of his questions—how his eyes had lingered when they shouldn't. He'd notice it all, every single fraction of a second he laid his eyes on the other hunter.

And yet, he let it slide.

He’d told himself it wasn’t worth drawing blood over, that keeping things civil was smarter, that he could control the space between you, that Tarin wasn’t foolish enough to try anything while Kazu was watching.

Ultimately, he just hadn't been watching close enough.

Look where that got him now.

This wasn't a slip, the same way it isn't an accident of timing or tactics, or a failure borne of his oversight.

He made a conscious choice that let someone close enough to hurt you.

Worse than that—he had stood there, thinking he could afford to wait, as if mere caution and observation on his part would be enough. He'd seen the warning signs, knew something was wrong—but didn't act.

He gave Tarin the chance to strike.

He nearly let you die.

For a moment, Kazu is no different from a statue. When he moves again, it's to pull his blanket free, gently spread it over you to keep your limbs from cooling, then sit behind you, cross-legged once more, your head resting just inches from his thigh.

He says nothing when he reaches out, brushing a thread from your cheek. It sticks faintly to his skin—warm, damp, fragile. It reminds him of the way veins are fragile. The way hearts are.

His eyes linger for a moment, and it occurs to him, distantly: he has never seen you look so peaceful.

A flicker of something wicked twists behind his ribs.

“Whatever you are,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the lines of your skin, to the rise and fall of your chest.

“Abomination. Anomaly. Miracle.” his voice sinks, “It doesn’t change anything." he murmurs, barely any louder than a whisper. “You’re still mine.”

He doesn’t realize his hand is still resting against your cheek until the heat of your skin begins to seep through his callused palm, a fragile pulse beneath the thin layer of tissue that has only just begun to re-knit. The contact is absurdly intimate, out of place with the sterile logic he ought to be clinging to—yet he makes no move to withdraw. His thumb drags a slow path across the arch of your cheekbone, feeling the slick tack of drying blood in its wake, and something within him twists so sharply it feels like it might split him down the center.

Minutes drag by. He busies himself with small, necessary things—tending the fire, re-wetting the cloth to dab again at the edges of your wound, checking the pulse in your throat. Each motion is clinical, precise, but beneath the practiced detachment there is a relentless, gnawing preoccupation: the certainty that nothing he does will ever be enough.

He cannot clean you of what you are any more than he can scrub his own hands free of everything he’s done.

The threads at your neck have begun to thicken, taking on a denser, more opaque color, darkening where they knit themselves deeper into muscle. If he listens closely, he can hear the tiny, wet sounds of regeneration: soft clicks and damp little pops, like raw wood splitting under slow pressure. When he glances at your face, your lashes have begun to twitch, small spasms that hint at returning consciousness. He doesn’t know if he hopes you will wake soon or if he dreads it.

With a quiet exhale, he presses the back of his wrist to your cheek—testing for fever, but also reassuring himself that you’re still warm. Still here. Your skin is cool, but not dangerously so, the faint heat of life still pulsing beneath it. He lets his hand linger, thumb brushing the fine edge of your jaw. The sensation grounds him, a tactile proof that you are no phantom.

His mouth is dry. The fire flickers, sending restless shadows crawling up the cave walls—sharp and wavering and alive in a way he feels he no longer is. He wonders, distantly, what this will mean when you wake. Whether you’ll remember what happened, whether you’ll understand that even now he can’t make himself finish it—can’t do the thing he’s been trained to do all his life.

That thought alone leaves him feeling raw, skinless, like every inch of him has been scraped open to the air. He shifts, letting his palm fall away to rest on the edge of the blanket, careful not to disturb the delicate strands still knitting your throat together. The mycelial cords flex with each subtle movement of your pulse—faint but steady, an undeniable proof of life. It feels profane to look at it so closely, yet he can’t look away.

He can’t help but think how grotesquely beautiful it is—this process by which you refuse to stay dead. There’s a gentleness to it that’s worse than any horror, a quiet certainty in the way your body repairs itself. He finds himself pondering if you even need him here, or if you’d have reassembled yourself just the same whether or not he’d laid a hand on you.

Kazu draws in a slow breath, feeling the way it catches on something heavy in his chest. He rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though he could physically dislodge the ache lodged deep in his chest.

Outside, night is falling properly now, blue darkness pooling between the trees like ink poured over the land. The fire offers only a small radius of light, and beyond it, the forest waits, unknowable. He tries to tell himself that’s what he’s listening for—any sign of pursuit, any consequence to what he’s done—but it’s a lie.

The only thing he’s listening to is you.

Your breathing is shallow but even, and every time your chest rises, it loosens something tight in his throat. It is an absurd thing to feel relief over. You were decapitated, he thinks, almost distantly. You should be dead.

But you aren’t.

He wonders if you’ll hate him when you wake. If you’ll look at the corpse cooling somewhere out in the ferns and see only the hunter he used to be—see that, in some ways, he still is. He wonders if you’ll know that, if Tarin hadn’t made the first move, it might have been Kazu himself someday, blade in hand, duty outweighing anything else.

The thought makes him sick.

...He'll remember to properly dispose of that man's body later.

Slowly, he shifts to brace one arm along his bent knee, lowering himself just enough to study your face at closer range. You still carry a strange kind of innocence, even with the dried gore painting at your hairline. The pulse at your throat has steadied to something approaching normal, and he watches it a moment longer than is necessary, almost hypnotized by the fragile proof that you are here, still by his side.

He thinks of all the things he has never said aloud. The long, silent hours spent letting you move ahead on the trail, cloak dragging in the underbrush, the strange pang he felt every time you glanced back to check that he was still behind you. The first time you’d laughed, soft and startled, at something he’d muttered under his breath.

He has spent too long pretending he does not care.

His hand lifts again without conscious thought, fingertips hovering just above the place where the strands of your spine have begun to fuse. He doesn't touch them. Instead, he drags his knuckles lightly along the curve of your jaw, tracing the line where skin and hair meet.

“You’re still mine,” he repeats, softer now—as if by saying it, he can bind the words into the space between you—make it something solid and undeniable. His breath trembles as he draws it in, releases it again.

He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to promise he’ll never let this happen again. He wants to ask you what you truly are, to hear you answer in that low, careful voice that has always felt like a secret kept just for him.

But none of it comes out.

And as if in surrender, he leans forward until his forehead brushes lightly against yours. The contact is brief, the barest graze of skin, but it leaves him feeling stripped to the bone. His eyes close. For a moment, he lets himself imagine that this is something he deserves—that whatever you are, there is still something between you worth holding onto.

When he pulls back, your breathing hasn’t changed. You don’t stir. The cords at your throat flex faintly, still working to mend the last of the damage. Kazu watches them, feeling a strange kind of astonishment hollow him out.

His hand drifts to the blanket covering your chest, smoothing it once before falling away. He doesn’t move to clean himself—doesn’t bother with the blood drying in cracked lines across his skin. It feels almost appropriate that he should wear it, like a mark of what he’s chosen.

He settles in behind you again, one knee drawn up so he can rest his elbow across it, keeping his weight low. His gaze never leaves your face. If anything comes for you now—guild enforcers, scavengers, the rot of his own conscience—he’ll be there to look out for you.

His thoughts continue to circle, uncapable of settling. He thinks of Tarin’s final expression—shock, confusion, that flicker of something almost plaintive. The moment the blade went in, all that pretense had dropped away, leaving only the raw human panic of a person who realized too late that he’d overplayed his hand. Kazu wonders if, in that last instant, Tarin understood how inevitable it had been.

He almost hopes he did.

But then his gaze returns to you, and all that grim satisfaction curdles back into a softer feeling, sick with regret. He can’t pretend this was only vengeance—that it was only Tarin’s death he’d chosen, because in that split second, Kazu had decided to kill for you, to do whatever it took to keep you breathing—even if the price was the last of whatever loyalty he still owed to his old life.

He sighs, dragging a hand over his mouth. His throat feels dry, scraped raw from the inside.

Your breathing hitches.

The first sign is so slight he nearly misses it: a faint flex of your fingers, the slow curl of one hand against your chest. Your eyelids flutter again—this time not a spasm.

Kazu’s heart lurches. His hand drops back to your shoulder, steadying himself more than steadying you. For the first time since he laid you in this cave, he feels an honest surge of relief—hot and almost painful in its intensity.

Your head shifts against the folded edge of the blanket. The damp strands bridging your neck flex wetly as you move. A thin sound escapes your throat—an unformed, husky exhalation—and then your eyes crack open, unfocused and glassy.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it shakily rushes out of him.

You blink, once, slowly. Your pupils contract against the dim firelight, tracking with a sluggish, dreamlike quality. He waits, afraid to speak, afraid that if he breaks the silence you’ll reveal yourself as simply some illusion conjured by the exhaustion and grief of his mind.

But you don’t vanish.

Your gaze drags over the cave, then over yourself—taking in the state of your body, the stitched line of tissue at your neck. Your brows knit faintly, as if puzzled, though there is no immediate panic. He wonders if you’re even fully aware yet of what happened.

Your eyes finally find his.

It feels, absurdly, like impact—like being struck square in the chest. Even half-lucid, you still look at him with earnestness in your gaze—death, blood, the sheer monstrous fact of your survival somehow only sharpening the terrible softness within your eyes.

Kazu wets his lips. His voice feels terribly rusted when he tries to speak.

“You’re awake,” he says. It sounds too small and inadequate for what this moment should be.

Your mouth moves as though you mean to answer. No words come, only a rasping breath. You try again, throat working. He can see your confusion sharpening, awareness creeping back in, and with it, the knowledge of how close you came to ending.

Guilt coils through his gut like a python, twisting until he has to drop his gaze to your chest, to the quiet lift and fall of your breathing. He can’t look at your eyes any longer—he can’t bear to see recognition bloom into fear or accusation.

He feels your hand shift, clumsily reaching out. It lands against the fold of his coat draped over you, your fingers twitching weakly. You don’t try to push yourself upright and a part of him is unspeakably grateful for that. He doesn’t think he could stand to watch you strain right now.

Your fingers curl into the cloth, like you need something—an anchor.

He understands. He feels it, too.

Kazu exhales, long and low. Slowly, he slides his hand back to yours, covering it with his palm. He doesn’t dare squeeze, afraid of jarring your freshly-mended body, but he holds you there, offering what he can.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, some pathetic bastard of a promise and confession. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Safe, he thinks, but the word tastes like a lie. Nothing is safe anymore. Not you. Not him. Not whatever life might await you on the other side of this cave, if word ever get out of your true nature.

Still, looking down at your hand in his, he knows there’s no part of him that regrets it.

He would do it again, a thousand times.

He shifts and lowers himself further until he’s leaning over you, so you don’t have to strain to see his face. He doesn’t bother to hide the weariness there, nor the raw, inexplicable tenderness that tightens his throat when he meets your eyes.

“Rest,” he murmurs, softer than before, his thumb brushing across the line of your knuckles. “I’ll keep watch.”

Kazu doesn’t say the rest—that he’ll keep watch as long as it takes—that he'll be here, whether you wake in ten minutes or ten hours. After all, he's already surrendered something of himself to you, something that can never be reclaimed, and he is too exhausted to pretend otherwise. In the quiet ruin of this night, he's found something steadier than loyalty or duty—a need so profound it no longer has the shape of desire but of inevitability.

You are his now, the same way he is yours—whichever way the claim runs doesn’t matter. Oath or confession, no words he can dredge up will ever be large enough to encompass the gravity of what he feels.

That is why he sits here, beside you in the dim light. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in an unthinking rhythm, memorizing the minute twitches of your fingers as sensation returns. The world has shrunk to this single point of contact, the slight give of your knuckles beneath his touch, the fragile heat that reassures him you are still real.

He wonders, distantly, whether this is what it feels like to be damned—if damnation is nothing more than the recognition that you will choose the same person, over and over, no matter how much it costs you.

He lets the thought settle, heavy as wet earth in his chest, and feels something give way beneath it—quiet and inexorable. Your breathing evens out by degrees, the shallow hitch smoothing into a steadier rhythm, and he watches each rise and fall of your chest as if it alone could anchor him to what remains of his purpose. The fire has burned low, shadows lapping at the edges of the cave like dark water, but he makes no move to feed it yet. He can’t bear to break the quiet that has settled between you.

In this thin margin of time—after violence, before consequence—he allows himself to believe that nothing else matters—that if you open your eyes again and call him by name, it will be enough to absolve every sin trailing behind him like a long, bloody wake.

His hand tightens fractionally over yours, thumb sweeping a final, trembling arc across your knuckles.

If it is damnation, so be it. If this is the price—this ruinous devotion, this soft annihilation of everything he once thought he was—he will pay it gladly.

When the fire gutters low and the dark presses in, when the guild’s retribution finally comes to collect what he has stolen, he will not run. He will not yield you up to them, or to any other power that dares claim the right to unmake you.

He will be the last line between you and every blade that would see you undone.

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Cassian, Winslow, You/Reader

WARNINGS/TAGS: Nagas/snakes, hypnosis, parental yanderes, kidnapping, infantilization, failed escape attempt, gender neutral reader

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Two writings posted in one day? Perhaps I felt generous. I've changed up my original plans for them a tiny bit, but not by much. I hope you like it!

The air in the forest is cool, but there's an unnatural stillness that unsettles you as you walk through it. It makes sense that you haven't seen another hiker, the place just feels... off.

It doesn't matter, though. You got several good photos of some plants, and a beautiful waterfall and lake with pristine blue water; probably the bluest natural water you've ever seen.

You have what you came for, but you want to get some more photos.

It started off as just a hobby, but when a local nature organization noticed your photos posted on social media, they were really interested in hiring you to take pictures for them. It was more comparable to a gig or freelance work, since all your pay is done by commission, but it's fun and makes you enough extra money that you don't mind keeping at it.

After snapping some photos of some mushrooms growing from a rotting log, you hear the sound of talking.

Maybe there are hikers, after all.

You see two people in the distance.

"Is the fresh air helping at all, my love?" a slightly deep voice asks. He has short black hair, and strangely bright yellow eyes. He has a scar across his left eye, rendering it milky white, likely blind.

Eyes that you know you've never seen on anyone else before.

Next to him, is a much more sullen-looking taller man. Taller by quite a bit, though they look the same age. He has longer white-blond hair tied into a loose ponytail, blue eyes, and... black scleras?

Surely you must be seeing things wrong. You use your camera to zoom in on them.

"I told you, fresh air does nothing," a more soft voice hisses, though there's no true anger in it. It sounds more... sad. Exhausted.

Zooming in on them doesn't help. You truly realize how tall they are—even the shorter one could still tower over you.

And then you realize the other part about them both that is unnatural.

They have tails. Tails like a snake, to be exact. The shorter man has a brown-gold tail, and the other has a light-brown tail, with darker brown-black markings.

That doesn't make sense. No way you aren't hallucinating. There isn't any poisonous fungi around here, right?

It's impossible, yet you keep looking through the lens at those two men.

You accidentally snap a photo of the pair, both of them whipping their heads in your direction immediately.

In a moment of sheer panic, you start sprinting away. Your heart races in your chest so hard it might just break out as you force yourself to run faster than you ever have in your life.

You look back after some time, and you're too distracted to notice the raised tree root, tripping over it and hitting the ground with a thud.

To make matters worse, you tumble down a hill and roll onto the cold rocky shore of the lake. Your head is throbbing, and you try to sit up only to get dizzy. You press the palm of your hand to your forehead, pulling it back and seeing red. With a wince, you notice the small scrape on your arm that's also bleeding, plus your knee hurts from when you landed on the rocks.

The voices come back from a distance, but still close enough for you to hear them.

"What do you think it was?" the softer voice asks. The one from the taller man you assume was melancholic—based on his slumped posture—though now you can clearly detect curiosity. "A deer?"

"I can smell its blood," the other voice murmurs. "Doesn't smell like deer. Whatever it is, I'm hungry," he states excitedly.

Oh god. You feel even dizzier than before, and not from your fall, either. You manage to stand, ignoring how unbalanced you are as you run towards a large boulder sitting near the shore of the lake. You hide behind it, praying they don't find you.

Your luck quickly runs out.

A hand grabs your ankle and drags you out of your hiding place, so quickly you don't even have time to react.

They both gasp. You look up at them both in fear, trembling underneath their gazes. You glance towards your camera; it didn't take a beating from the fall, somehow.

Not like it now matters. This is where you meet your death, you're sure of it. So you shut your eyes, and await the inevitable.

"A human," the taller one whispers. "Oh, Winslow, look at them...!" He coos, scooping you up into his arms with a scary amount of ease. His gaze softens. "A baby. Aren't they precious? They look so perfect... Look how little they are..." He sounds adoring, talking to you as if you're an animal who can't understand him.

But wait. Does he know you can?

"You're right, Cassian," the other one chuckles, running one of his claws gently across your face.

"My hatchling," Cassian shakily says. His grip on you somehow tightens. "I won't let anything happen to you... not like..." His voice cracks, like he might cry.

"Cassian," Winslow chides gently. "This time we won't lose them. I promise you." He looks down at you, smiling, but... it looks strange.

"Right. It'll be different this time," Cassian agrees, blinking tears away. They both seem to have this inside conversation, and your presence seems to have slipped their mind. Until the attention shifts back to you, anyway. "Our baby must be so scared," Cassian coos sadly, petting your head. "That was such a tumble you took..."

You continue to pretend to not understand them. Maybe if they realize you aren't comprehending their words, they'll leave you be.

"They probably have no idea what's happening! Poor thing..." Winslow sighs.

Cassian hums. You crack open one eye to see him staring at you fondly. When you first met gazes, he looked depressed; exhausted. Now he looks content and at peace, even.

You start to wriggle, trying to escape his hold. You manage to get yourself out, but your injuries don't allow you to run anywhere.

Winslow acts faster, grabbing you again into his arms this time, which are more thick and muscular. "No no no, sweetheart, don't hurt yourself!" Winslow exclaims. "It's okay, don't cry! Papa's here!" He bounces you in his arms, like soothing a crying baby.

And unfortunately, you realize he's not lying, because you can feel the tears streaming down your cheeks, burning the cut by your mouth as you sob.

They're much larger than you. There's no escape. Not right now, anyway. So you lay limp in Winslow's arms, sniffling, knowing it will help nothing.

"We're taking them," Cassian mumbles, but his tone leaves no room for argument.

Winslow pecks the side of your head. "Of course we are."

The exhaustion from the past hours suddenly catches up with you.

...

When you wake up, you hear the sound of humming, accompanied by a fire. You're wrapped in something that doesn't feel quite like a blanket... or any fabric, for that matter.

You struggle to move at first, feeling dizzy, until your vision finally focuses and you can see where you are.

The cave is somewhat dark, but there's a large hole showing sunlight, a large tree beneath the sunlight, roots reaching through the top.

Vines cover the ceiling and most of the walls, making for a very natural yet cozy-looking place.

You look down and realize the 'blanket' isn't a blanket at all. It's... a tail, leading up to reveal who you remember as Winslow. The memories from earlier flood back into your brain, causing you to shrink under his touch.

He's laying next to you, asleep. One of his arms is underneath your head like a pillow, and his tail has curled itself around you.

There's a fire crackling. You lift your head to see Cassian tending to it, cooking something in the flames. The heat from it warms the cave nicely. Your head starts to pound as soon as you've raised it too far off the makeshift pillow that is Winslow's arm.

Suddenly Cassian whips around at the sound of your slight whimper, moving faster than you would have ever guessed possible.

"Good morning, my little one," he whispers, brushing some hair off of your face, examining your forehead. "Poor dear," he sighs sympathetically. "Papa and Baba will take good care of you."

"Baba?" you repeat. You panic for a moment when you see Cassian blink in shock.

"Oh, Cass! They said 'Baba'!" Winslow gasps.

Oh, thank goodness. They both still have no clue you can truly understand them. You try your hardest to play up the innocent act. Winslow hugs you, cuddling you close to him and kissing your cheeks repeatedly, making kissy noises.

You get the impression these two have no experience with humans. If they did, they would likely notice your skin crawling at the interaction.

Then you're scooped up again into Cassian's arms. You squirm, kicking your legs against him, which makes his smile grow wider.

"So lively!" he chuckles. He holds you by tucking you into his arm as he feeds the fire more wood with his free hand.

"Are they acting fussy, love?" Winslow asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he gets up. He makes grabby hands towards you.

"I guess you could say that," Cassian replies, handing you over to Winslow. "I think it's simply normal, though. Maybe this is a sign they are hungry. Don't worry, sweetheart, food is almost done."

Food. You're unsure how your stomach feels about that.

After the events that occurred, you feel... hollowed out. Like all your energy is sapped from you. Maybe it actually is. You're a bit achy all over after you went tumbling down the hill.

What a horrible day. But you wonder, what did they mean before? About this time it would be different? What happened?

Maybe you don't want to know. In all honesty, you shouldn't care. You just want to get out of here.

Cassian stands near the fire, seemingly cooking meat of some sort, with vegetables on sticks. It smells heavenly, despite your nerves and lack of appetite.

"Look at what we're having for dinner, hatchling!" Cassian coos. "Doesn't it look so yummy?"

Well... it does.

Winslow hugs you tight, his chin resting on your head. You squirm uncomfortably in his hold again, but it does absolutely nothing except cause Winslow to pull you impossibly closer. It makes sense why you're unable to escape from him, considering he could probably crush a tree trunk with just his arms. He seems stronger than Cassian despite being shorter.

But not short compared to you in the slightest.

Eventually, Cassian pulls away the fire-roasted vegetables from the fire and sets them aside on some makeshift plates made out of bark from birch trees.

Then he turns to the meat skewered on a large stick.

"Food is served!" Cassian announces.

Cassian scoops you up from Winslow's arms again. He gently sets you on a cushion made of moss, and sits down beside you. "Dinner," he says. He smiles when you don't reply, assuming it's because you don't understand him.

Or at least that's what you hope he assumes.

He basically hand-feeds you, delicately placing bites of vegetable in your mouth. It's surprisingly tasty and well-seasoned. Maybe it's your hunger making everything taste better.

Winslow eats his much less elegantly than his partner, finishing it all relatively quickly. Only after does he look at you, his smile soft, but almost sad. "I'm so glad we can be a family again."

Family?

"Me too," Cassian smiles, but it seems melancholic, his eyebrows turning downwards as if reminiscing about something.

"What's wrong?" Winslow frowns, tilting his head. He knows exactly what's wrong.

"I should've protected them all better," Cassian sniffles. His blue eyes begin to gloss over. "It never should have happened."

"It wasn't your fault," Winslow soothes. "Don't ever believe that for even a second, darling."

"If I was stronger—"

"No, don't blame yourself." Winslow scoots over to hold his mate. "Please don't. You know we couldn't do anything."

Cassian nods solemnly. "Thank you..." He sighs sadly. "It doesn't make me miss our other babies any less. But this time, it'll be different." He then looks over at you. "Won't it, little one?" You feel a spike of embarrassment when he wipes your cheek with the pad of his thumb, catching a crumb left over. "Messy, messy," he tuts, but his tone is somewhat playful.

Winslow kisses your forehead. "They certainly eat like a hatchling."

You'd be more insulted if you weren't so focused on their previous conversation.

It's obvious they've had past children, though you can assume they were likely still eggs when they lost them. But who—or what—hurt them?

Whoever it was, you're sure either of them showed no mercy.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Cassian gently grasps your arm, lifting it up and squinting. You realize most of the injured parts of your body are wrapped neatly with makeshift bandages.

"These will need to be rewrapped later," Cassian murmurs. "Luckily they'll heal fast, considering how young you are... Humans scar much easier than our kind does, it seems."

Cassian shifts behind you. A tail comes slithering forward and wraps around you loosely, yet securely.

His tail is much softer and smoother than Winslow's, less scaly. You guess he's some kind of constrictor snake. You squeak when his soft tail squeezes you slightly, like an affectionate embrace.

As you sit there, stuck in the coils of a creature that can easily kill you, all you feel is dazed, exhausted, and confused.

Winslow places the leftovers into a pot, then moves it near the entrance to the cave. Next, he takes the dirty bark plates, exiting the cave presumably to clean them outside.

"Come here, baby," Cassian whispers, pulling you backwards until your back is pressed against his chest. "Baba's got you." It's a possessive hold. You try to squirm away, but it only causes him to hold you tighter. He's careful with where he touches, being mindful of your injuries. You bite your tongue to distract yourself from the stinging pain in your head.

He continues to speak lovingly to you as his grip gradually tightens around your form, like a snake would coil around its prey. It hurts, but not nearly as bad as some of the wounds you have.

Eventually he loosens his grip, letting you catch your breath as he cradles you instead. It makes your stomach twist with guilt when you realize he's crying.

"You won't leave us," he mumbles softly. He's so delicate and gentle; like he's afraid you'll break.

It's hard to imagine that someone who can handle you with such tenderness could snap you like a twig if he wanted to.

"We love you so much already," he sobs. His arms come up around you again, clutching you protectively, desperately. As if you could leave at any given moment.

Even if you wanted to (which you very much do), his tail's grip on you is strong enough to keep you in place.

...

You don't know how long its been since you were taken away. The sun is rising through the top of the cave opening when you wake up in the morning, but that doesn't tell you how many days you've been here.

A few, you've deduced. At least three, but possibly more.

Cassian tends to the wound on your head multiple times a day. It has a constant bandage over it now. Your sprained knee and scraped-up arm aren't wrapped anymore, since they've healed nicely according to him.

You hate to admit you're now a bit curious about these two nagas.

More specifically, what happened to their past children? Were they like humans? Naga hybrids, or full nagas?

Why did they take you?

These questions—and many more—swirl through your head while you eat another plate is prepared by Cassian. It's starting to drive you crazy, how curious you are. You want to ask them. You need to know, like an itch begging to be scratched. The only reason you haven't, is because you hope to still give them the impression you're just the dumb human (child?) they believe you to be.

Once breakfast is over, you've finished eating all Winslow has fed you, so he lays on a mattress made of moss and vines that hangs between two trees in the cave. It's basically a hammock.

Winslow seems more emotional, openly clingy, but more scary, despite being the smaller naga.

Meanwhile Cassian has the aura of a stern but caring mother. He's patient and nurturing, and clearly devoted. Terrifyingly devoted.

What makes your chances of escape worse, much to your dread, is the fact you've gathered Cassian is mostly nocturnal, while Winslow is mostly awake during the day.

Most of the time, Winslow likes sleeping on the ground, while Cassian prefers the tree or hammock.

It's hard to have them both sleep at the same time unless its a short nap. Not to mention, Cassian seems to rouse easily.

So you continue playing along with the child role. Hopefully they'll grow careless as you gain their trust and let you go do your own things.

You'll escape one way or another. You don't intend to stay and play house with them forever.

Something to your advantage you have noticed, is Cassian is much slower than his mate, probably about a similar speed to your own if you were to break out into a sprint.

Winslow, however, is quick and fast. From what you've seen, at least.

Hopefully you won't have to test those odds.

For that reason, you've decided the smartest course of action would be to attempt escaping during the night rather than day, since that's when Winslow will be sleeping. Yet that still comes with the next challenge; Cassian keeps his eye on you just as often as Winslow does, sometimes even more. He spends a lot of the time curled around you, watching you closely as you play with twigs or leaves he hands you.

He thinks it's adorable, seeing you play around with them like a baby with building blocks, or something to that effect.

At first you didn't even bother wasting energy trying to entertain yourself, but with Cassian's expectant gaze boring holes into you, you figured doing something wouldn't hurt.

Playing around with various objects helps the time pass, too. It's not much, but better than nothing.

Soon enough, nightfall falls upon the forest once more.

One thing you have learned during the small handful of nights spent in captivity is that Winslow has a habit of sleep-cuddling, clinging, and often mumbling in his sleep. Sometimes you can understand his sleepy speech, other times it sounds like a bunch of slurred mumbles.

Your sleep schedule has become pretty unpredictable, having two "parents" who only spend a few hours awake at the same time normally.

Regardless, you think this might help your potential plan. If Winslow is holding you tightly, all you have to do is somehow wriggle out of his arms and tiptoe around Cassian in order to get to the opening of the cave.

And then hope you make it out without being caught, considering you'll be traversing the forest in almost complete darkness.

You toss and turn in Winslow's grip, which makes his grasp on you tighten even further. It's less suffocating than Cassian's, but still not pleasant. You let out a frustrated sigh. If you can get him to loosen his hold, you can crawl out.

With enough shifting and shimmying around in his grasp, it works.

His arms slip away from you, leaving you free. Somehow. It must be fate granting you this luck. A chance opportunity you'd be crazy not to take advantage of.

Your feet hit the cold stone floor quietly. It doesn't stir Winslow from his slumber at all. Just as you expected, though. He's a heavy sleeper.

The challenge is going to be sneaking past his husband, who you know is wide awake and probably outside now. At night he usually is hunting or collecting resources.

Or keeping watch.

If your luck is consistent, maybe he'll be off doing something else and your chances of successfully escaping will grow significantly.

All you know is you have to at least try.

You make your way to the entrance, pausing every time the leaves rustle or twigs crack under your feet.

Walking slowly is painful. All you want to do is run. Run out and never return.

The air becomes more crisp and cool as you approach the front of the cave. With a last glance behind you to ensure Winslow hasn't stirred, you inch yourself forward through the last stretch of tunnel leading into the wilderness. Moonlight shines through the leaves above you. Crickets chirp softly. Your eyes begin to adjust to the dim light of the forest.

There's a path. You're positive this trail leads back to the road that passes through the woods.

The faster you walk, the louder your movements become, snapping branches and crunching leaves under you. And still, you continue to push forward until you're practically sprinting through the foliage.

Your lungs burn, your limbs ache, and your muscles feel weak, but adrenaline pumps through your veins as you fight against the pain to reach your goal.

Finally, you spot a small sign marking where the path splits off into two directions; one leading to town, the other going deeper into the forest towards who knows where.

And then...

"I smell them," Cassian's voice rasps. He doesn't sound far away at all. "Sweetheart?! Where are you?!" he calls. "Oh, they must be so scared..."

Then, Winslow's voice. "We'll find them, darling. I won't let them get far."

You panic, diving into the nearest bush to hide. Its thorns dig into your skin painfully. You have to bite your hand in order to not cry out in pain. Tears stream down your face, but you dare not make a single noise. Your breathing slows to almost nothing as you struggle to contain sobs.

"How could this happen?" Cassian whispers. Just from the sound of his voice, you can tell he's been crying, too. "I can't lose another one, Winslow..."

"We won't, love. We won't. It'll be okay."

You can hear Cassian's choked sobbing now. They both must be nearby. Very nearby. Too close for comfort, that's for sure.

But if they're comforting each other, that means you can possibly sneak around them while they're distracted.

It's worth a shot. Maybe the only one you'll have.

As silently as possible, you crawl on your hands and knees away from the voices, making sure to avoid stepping anywhere near them in case they hear movement. They don't seem to notice, so you move faster, hoping to put distance between you.

Unfortunately, with how dark it is out here, you stumble upon a rock and fall face-first onto the ground with a loud thud.

Cassian's tearful sobbing stops suddenly.

Your heart pounds wildly.

"Oh, honey! B-Baba is coming, stay where you are," Cassian cries, followed by a deep inhale, no doubt to scent you out, now that he knows the general direction you're in.

The way he says it makes you wonder if he even thinks you purposefully tried escaping. Does he truly believe you think of them as your family?

Of course, you don't listen. You take off as fast as you can, climbing over fallen logs and weaving through the dense underbrush. Anything to get farther and farther away from where you are now. However, the more you move, the louder you become. More twigs and dry leaves crunching beneath you, no doubt leading them to you even more.

But what else are you supposed to do? It's not like you have many options at this point.

You need to escape.

Even though Cassian isn't quick, Winslow is.

And boy does he live up to that observation.

In a flash of golden scales, you're thrown to the ground. The dirt cakes onto you, and before you can fully react, Winslow scoops you up into his arms, holding you as tight as possible without crushing you. You thrash and kick as much as you can, trying desperately to break free from his iron-like grip.

"Don't worry! Papa's here! Ssh ssh ssh!" Winslow hushes, kissing your forehead frantically, like a worried parent. He's looking over your body, checking for new injuries or cuts you could've obtained.

Cassian catches up, much more out of breath. You can tell from the tremble in his tone how angry he is, how concerned, how hurt and betrayed he feels. He kneels down to meet you and Winslow's crouched position, hugging you both so tight you wheeze.

"Let me go!" you yell. At this point, you don't care about being silent to them anymore. "I'm not your kid!"

That startles them both. They stare at you with wide eyes, jaws slackened.

"You can... speak?" Winslow gawks. His pupils shrink into tiny slits.

"Did you think all humans couldn't speak, or did you just assume I couldn't?" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter. Let me go!" You try escaping with even more fervor, trying to claw your way out, anything.

"Honey," Cassian whispers, trembling. It's as if you've broken him, and part of you hates it. "This entire time you understood us...?"

"Yes! And I have my own family! Please, let me see my family!" you wail. This isn't fair. You didn't do anything wrong. "They probably think I died..." The thought alone makes you choke up with tears.

Winslow frowns, turning his face to bury himself into your hair. "You are home," he croaks. His hug on you gets stronger.

"No I'm not!" you protest. You bite down on Winslow's arm, hard enough to draw blood. He recoils, which gives you a brief window of opportunity, allowing you to slip through their hands momentarily.

Cassian wastes no time in recapturing you. "Stop, please stop! You'll get yourself hurt!" he pleads. It's not long before you're completely trapped by his tail wrapping around you snugly once more.

"No! You stole me from my life! I can't stay here!" you cry, struggling harder against his coils. "Please!"

Cassian frowns, exchanging glances with Winslow, who looks more equally frustrated and hurt. His hand holds the bleeding bitemark. You refuse to feel guilty for it. Winslow looks ready to scold you, but Cassian puts his free hand on his forearm.

"They don't know any better, sweetheart," Cassian tells him, expression strained. "They're just frightened and overwhelmed."

Winslow's anger wanes a little bit.

"But, we saved them! Why don't they understand that?" Winslow asks desperately, as if you still can't communicate. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously, looking down at you like he needs validation from you that he's done a good job taking care of you.

You don't want to give that to him.

"I don't belong here," you protest, squirming around angrily in your cocoon of Cassian's tail.

"You do belong here," Cassian argues. His expression turns upset to worried when he notices how hard you're breathing. "Breathe, dear. You're going to hyperventilate."

When your breathing only gets worse, he cups your cheeks and guides your head to tilt upwards, looking him directly in the eyes.

His eyes are glowing, colors swirling inside of them.

"Breath slow," he commands. "Follow Baba."

As Cassian counts up and down, demonstrating to you with exaggerated breaths, Winslow rubs your back soothingly with the hand that isn't injured, making shushing noises in hopes of calming you down.

And unfortunately, it works. You feel tired, so much so that even thinking is hard.

"Calm now, sweetie? No more fussing?" he coos hopefully. The strange swirls in his irises are gone now.

"...Mhm..." you murmur reluctantly, barely audible. Your eyelids flutter open and closed, feeling weighed down as if lead is tied to them. Drowsiness settles deep within your bones. There's no use in fighting against it. Not right now, anyway. Sleep wins over escape, apparently. You rest your head against his shoulder defeatedly.

"There we are..." Cassian whispers. "No more running."

Winslow looks around. "We should start heading home. I can carry them back, you look tired." Winslow holds out his arms expectantly.

Cassian hesitates briefly before handing you off to Winslow's embrace, where he proceeds to snuggle you closer into his chest.

"Are you sure? I did wake you up early..."

"I'll be okay, love," Winslow smiles tiredly. "Besides, I'd feel better having them in my arms right now. I'm still processing that they could understand us this whole time..." he sighs.

Cassian frowns sadly, brushing the hair off of your forehead. "Me too... but that's a conversation for tomorrow. Let's go home"

[fimbulvetr-now]

I think there's another element to this discussion that's worth addressing, and that's that we have created an academic environment, especially in the US, which heavily incentivises using something like ChatGPT.

Think about it. How often are we told that we have to perform well in school in order to avoid a lifetime of destitution and shame? And in the US once you get to university, if your grades slip, you lose your grants and scholarships, and for a lot of folks, that's going to mean dropping out(this also heavily discourages exploration, curiosity, and academic growth by only pursuing things you know you're very good at, but I digress).

The message is clear: the grade matters way more than the learning or the knowledge.

On top of that, you have the exhausting pacing of many academic programs. It's a lot of work, a lot of information to take on board very quickly, on top of the basic admin of keeping yourself alive, a social life, and a job if you have one of those.

Stack all of these together, and honestly? I get it. I understand why the siren song of AI is so alluring. We're mired in an unhealthy cultural soup of puritan work ethic, frenzied work pacing, and valuing only the output, never the process(because fast and cheap is all that matters). And that only intensifies as you transition from academia to the corporate world.

But AI as a tool for working more efficiently is a poisoned chalice. Once you start, it's very hard to stop, for two main reasons.

The first is that it becomes harder and harder to do the thing yourself when 1) you know you can push a button and it'll magically be done, and 2) your skillset to do the thing atrophies from pushing the button to do the thing instead of doing it yourself. The second is that the rapid output becomes expected, and it's very hard to explain to your boss that you want to work more deliberately (read: more slowly) to produce better results.

Pushing back against the fake immediacy of most office work is going to be a huge part of fixing this AI problem. Pushing back against grades above all else is going to be a huge part of fixing this AI problem. Luckily, these are already important and valuable causes for other reasons, so let those other reasons be your angle when you approach the work.

It's also worth remembering that ChatGPT and its ilk are designed with emotional dependence in mind. So when you're trying to convince someone to abandon gen AI usage, you're effectively asking someone to leave a parasocial relationship. In some cases, it's equivalent to asking someone to leave a cult.

It won't be easy. But we have to try, because there's so much at stake here.

i suspect that a huge factor in the defense of students using gen ai (and academic dishonesty in general tbh) comes from the fundamental misunderstanding of how school works.

to simplify thousands of educator's theories into the simplest terms, there are two types of stuff you're learning in school: content and skills. content is what we often think of as the material in school- spelling, times tables, names, dates, facts, etc.- whereas skills are usually more subtle. think phonics, mental math, reading comprehension, comparing and contrasting; though students do those things often, the how usually isn't deemed as important as the what.

this leads to a disconnect that's most obvious when students ask the infamous "when will we use this in the real world?" they have- often correctly- identified content that the content is niche, outdated, or not optimized but haven't considered the skills that this class/lesson/assignment will teach.

i can think of two shining examples from when i was a kid. one was in middle school when they announced that we were now gonna be studying latin, and we all wondered why on earth they would choose latin as our foreign language. every adult promised us it'd be helpful if we went into medicine, law, or religion (ignoring that most of us didn't want to go into medicine, law, or religion), but we didn't buy that and never took it seriously. the truth was that our new principal knew that learning languages gets harder as you get older, and so building the skills of learning a language while it was easy for us was more important than which language we learned, and that's an answer twelve year old me would've actually respected.

similarly, my geometry class all hated proofs. we couldn't think of a single situation where you'd have to convince someone a triangle was a triangle and "look at it, of course it's a triangle" wouldn't be an acceptable answer. it was actually the band director who pointed out that it wasn't literally about triangles; it was about being able to prove or disprove something, anything using facts.

and so, so, so many assignments that are annoying as hell in school make more sense when you think about the skills as well as the content. "why do i have to present information about something the teacher obviously already knows about?" because research, verifying sources, summarizing, and public speaking are all really important skills. "why does this have to be a group project?" because you will have to work with other people in your life, and learning how to be a team player (and deal with people who aren't) is an essential skill. "why do we have to read these scientific articles and learn about graphs?" because if you can understand them, people can't lie to you about them.

now, of course, there's a lot we could do better- especially we as in the american school system. the reason i have an education minor but am not teaching is because of those issues. there are plenty of assignments that are busywork and teachers that are assholes and ways that the system is failing us.

but that doesn't mean you should cut off your nose to spite your face!

the ability to learn and grow and think critically is one of our most powerful tools as people. our brains are capable of incredible things! however, the same way you can't lift a car unless you consistently lift and build up to that, your brain needs to train in order to do its best.

so yeah, maybe chatgpt can write a five paragraph essay for you on the differences between thomas jefferson and alexander hamilton's governing philosophies. and maybe it won't even fuck it up! congratulations, you got away with it. but by outright refusing to use your brain and practice these skills, who have you helped? you haven't learned anything. worse, you haven't even learned how to learn.

[oddlylovingaddiction]

Part 1: here , Part 2: here , Part 3: here , Part 4: here , part 5: you’re here!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family, Reader x Conner “Kon-El” Kent (romantic.). Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest

TW: Angst, abuse in the form of neglect, descriptions of anxiety, reader’s dead mom gets brought up, pregnancy.

You made a good choice to spend the day in bed, your body felt almost like mush and you had no energy to do anything but relax in the comfort of your husband and bed. You could hear your joints pop every time you stretched almost like bubble wrap, your belly felt a comfortable full from the breakfast and lunch Conner and watching your favourite show? Absolute bliss.

But the gnawing feeling in your stomach is still somewhat there, and Conner notices it. “You feeling okay?” He nudges your side playfully making you laugh softly.

“I’m fine, I just think there’s just the residue of anxiety that’s kind of lining my heart, you know what I mean?”

He chuckles, “oh I know that feeling. It feels like it’s chewing on you.”

“Exactly!” You smile, happy he understands what you’re talking about. “Perhaps I feel this way because I’ll eventually have to talk to my family about what I saw… I’m really not looking forward to that conversation.”

There’s a moment of silence, you don’t expect him to reply just to listen. The TV sounds kind of muffled as you stare at his hand unconsciously, you can feel him staring at you as well. The setting sun gently cracks through your curtains and shines on both you and him, almost illuminating you both like you were some tragic scene from a movie. Two people who needed their family but ended up creating their own. Conner brings his hand down and towards your belly, gently touching it before awkwardly pulling away.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters which catches your attention, making you look up at his face.

“For what?” You ask confused at his sudden apologetic behaviour.

“The fact I didn’t tell you that your family were superheroes.” He whispers, his face scrunching like it was physically hurting him which earned a soft chuckle from you.

“Oh please, don’t be sorry. You didn’t know I was a Wayne. Still have my mother’s maiden name after all.”

“Yes but…”

“No, you didn’t know and you said it from the first time you revealed the fact you were superboy along with telling me about the other super Kents, that you didn’t want to tell me the other heroes identities to protect me. I respected that so neither of us knew.” You firmly reply, you don’t want him to feel guilty by your other family’s mistakes.

“Yes I know but if I had known that you were in that house and I had met you earlier maybe I could’ve protected you from getting hurt.” He genuinely looks like he’s about to cry. “I never want to see you crying. Especially the way you cried on the floor like that.”

You softly laugh again, “jeez, if I had known I was marrying such a caring man, I’d probably have married you sooner.” You pinch his nose teasingly, to which Conner makes a fake ‘gah!’ Sound like it’s personally hurting him even though it’s definitely not. Perks of being a super. “I remember the first time we met drunk at a bar and the next morning I remember I caught you trying to leave me your number on the nightstand.” You suppress your laughter. Conner groans at the memory.

“Don’t remind me of that okay?”

“Remind you of what? The fact you tried ditching your future spouse?”

“I wasn’t doing that! I had work to do and you were still asleep so I thought it would be okay since you would just call me later.” He whines dramatically

“I don’t knowww…. Seemed like I was nearly ditched, because how do I know you would’ve picked up?” You grin at his exasperated expression.

He trips over his words momentarily struggling to explain himself before he sighs, “You know what? Keep believing I was going to ditch you hot stuff, because no matter what in the end we got married and have a beautiful child on the way, so no matter what I see this as a win in my books.” He gloats patting your pregnancy bump, as you scoff playfully.

Conner gentle rests his hand there as you both bask in soft marital bliss before you both suddenly feel a soft kick.

“We should sign the kid up for kickboxing.” You laugh.

“Does it hurt or something?” He asks concern once again blooming on his face.

“Surprisingly yeah. It’s not super painful but still a bit uncomfortable. That’s the thing about pregnancy nobody tells you that the kicks hurt.” You shake your head shrugging.

“It’s lucky the baby can’t catch any sunshine otherwise those kicks would just hurt.” He huffs making you laugh.

“Yeah lucky me otherwise this would all be way messier. Thank god I’m not see through.”

“You may not be see through but I do have X-ray—“ he says making you laugh before getting cut off by his phone ringing.

He glances over at the phone and gives you an apologetic look, “one second love.” He says kissing you on the cheek before grabbing his phone and walking out the room. You decide to relax and rewind the movie since you both weren’t paying attention at all.

“WHAT THE HELL YOURE DATING ONE OF MY SIBLINGS AND YOU DIDNT TELL ME?” Tim yelled into the phone which made Conner wince and pull away, he did say he’d call Tim later but to be honest he was kinda just saying that to get Tim off his back.

“I didn’t even know dude! It’s not like you both share the last name either and you never mentioned having another sibling.” Conner groans annoyed that he had to be stripped away from his love, however he does his best not to be too mean to Tim, he is… was? his best friend. Honestly he’s not sure where he stands with Tim right now. The love of his life was neglected and Tim took part in that neglect, even if it wasn’t deliberate. But that doesn’t erase him and Tim’s history, he was someone on his side during the rocky times of his life before you came into the picture.

But Conner also knew about your history. It was something you bonded over late at night as you stared down at the city, both of you sat on the edge of a random building, he remembered that moment because he never felt more understood and in love in that moment. If you asked him it would probably be that moment he decided he wanted to marry you, not only because he felt seen but when you looked down at the traffic below, the soft yellow lit up your face making his heart feel like it had stop beating. He swore in his vows to protect you and not let you get hurt ever again, especially not like that.

And he’d be damned to the hell inside his head if he saw you on the floor crying again.

He knows you’re not bothered by the fact you were sobbing on the floor, he remembers you telling him about your childhood and how you used to do the same thing occasionally when something triggered the memories of your mother who you told him had passed, so it’s no wonder you’re probably less shaken up about that part. But he can’t get it out of his head.

“How could you not know?! We even look alike!” Tim squawked breaking Conner’s train of thought and bringing him back to reality as he furrowed his brow, pulling his phone away a second to think about what he just heard before putting it back to his ear.

“You’re both not even biological related to each other though?” Conner monotones.

“Still though.”

Conner rolls his eyes, before replying “anyways to be serious, I… I’m not sure what to do.”

“What do you mean ‘what to do’?” Tim replies confused, his voice a bit concerned.

“You know, I.. our friendship.” Conner pauses, the silence is deafening from the other line. He’s not sure what to do, he cares about both you and Tim. It’s just that if he were to choose, it would be you. “I want to stay friends but.. I just..”

“… I get it.” Tim’s voice doesn’t sound malicious or angry, maybe a little sad? But he didn’t sound like he was crying. “I understand man, A spouse and a child on the way, of course you’d be upset and worried especially about it all and you’d want to stand by their side, it’s only natural.” He paused not saying anything for a phew seconds before adding on.

“I never knew how much I was hurting my own damn sibling, I thought it was the right thing to do. I wish I never listened to Bruce, the damn man probably couldn’t tell a hug from a threat and now I can see not just I but this entire cursed family fucked things up royally.” Tim’s voice cracks as he sounds like he’s about to cry. “Hey… how is…” He trails off, too nervous to say your own name but Conner was the same way. The whole situation made your name feel like glass that could be shattered, it made them both nervous but Tim far more. Like he never deserved to say it in the first place.

“Doing well. We are just watching a movie in bed, it was a rough night but we are doing well, including the baby. To be honest I think we are lucky that nothing else happened, stress isn’t good for anyone especially pregnant people.” Conner gives a forced laugh trying to make the situation lighter.

“Yeah.” Is the only thing replies, and Conner winces when he hears soft sobs on the other line.

“Hey man. We.. are still friends. I still care about you… just right now-” Conner goes to say but is cut off.

“I’m not crying over that dumbass, it’s the fact I made someone cry like that… that’s making me cry.” Tim sniffles, and Conner internally sighs in relief because he really didn’t want it to be because of him. “I’m going to fix this okay? I’ll work on my family here, it’ll take a bit but just make sure both of you are okay alright?”

Conner smiles softly before replying, “Yeah, if you need help call me okay? Though knowing you, you probably will because I don’t mean to brag but I am literally super—“

“Alright wrap it up.” Tim snorts smiling softly, “I’ll… call you later.” He adds on softly

“Alright.”

Then Tim hangs up and Conner breathes a sigh of relief finally feeling like a small weight was lifted off his back but that didn’t the largest weight.

What about you? Will you end up reconciling with them? Do they really deserve your forgiveness? Abuse is abuse even done with the best intentions. It made him anxious. But for now he knows you are waiting for him in bed and that’s what he needs to focus on.

Worry can come later. You come first and always will.

[lilywritings]

Little "time travel" au with gen!lilia and human reader!

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟

I can't stop thinking about "time travel" ughhh i love that au, imagine you two are already very deep into your relationship in current time then

Poof.

You're accidentally transported to the past only to meet general Lilia the second you land ( you already knew how he was bc of his dream in book 7 but now you're legit in the past).

You choose not to tell him that you're actually together but rather his future "friend" ( he is not buying that ) you knew general Lilia would've NOT taken it well bc you're a human that magically popped infront of him at the worst time possible, a little before the war.

But the way you said his name , had a blessing upon you and the way you looked at him made him a bit hesistant and unsure so he pulled his magearm away from you and took you to his dear friends to get the truth out of you.

Lucky for you Levan saved your ass here from his wife and best friend bc meleanor would've fried you by now . A human trespassing JUST before the war!?

And what added the oil to the fire was the fact that malleus put a blessing upon you ( the one mentioned up) after the whole book 7 heartbreak. Meleanor sensed it was a draconia family blessing IMMEDIATELY and was VERY suspicious and angry at you.

So you explained everthing to them and made them sort off belive that you're from the future and searching for a way to get back after you mentioned Malleus. Nobody should've known that princess was about to have a baby and you even knew his name. Meleanor was thinking of zapping you right then and there but Levan held her off and made an agreement.

And thus they put Lilia to supervise you while they work on a way to get you back and think about your words.

Let me tell you something, Lilia HATED IT . why HIM!? THIS HUMAN THAT WON'T STOP STARING AT HIM WEIRDLY AND CLAIMING TO BE HIS FUTURE "FRIEND"!? he wanted to hiss at you at least.

While Lilia was having a crisis you took this situation to try and get closer to him and find out more bc your lilia didn't really talk about his past SELF! that much he is a man of secrets after all...

This was your chance to get to know his past self better and maybe try to open him up a bit and help him.

You knew what was about to come and you know better than to mess with the fate in this "time travel thingy" but was it really that?

Your mind was boiling at tge idea to spoil him ROTTEN & show him how loved he is. But you couldn't do that rn at least not so sudden ...

Ahh loving this fae is complicating.

After some time of looking at him training the troops & being busy but still having to take you with him everywhere he finally sat down with you to talk about how you're bothering him.

And truly , what made lilia irritated and bothered the most was. Your gaze.

Ah those eyes that never stopped looking at his directly, firmly ,not an ounce of fear in them.

The way you gazed upon him like he was a treasure that you couldn't bare to look away from not even for a second or he might just slip away and never return.

Whats that emotion inside your eyes?

Whats that warmness?

It feels familiar yet different ? Nobody has ever looked at him that way . He is not used to it and it makes his skin crawl.

Are you bewitching him human?

He still doesn't trust the fact that you're magicless ,not when you're doing something to him .

Your damned gaze made him feel ... something at least.

Yet he couldn't help himself to brush you away completely you were ... interesting?

On the other hand you were fighting inside bc of the fact that you couldn't shower him in love right this moment and tell him who you are... You must focus to find out more.

And just as he was about to say something your vision got blurry~~~

.

.

.

"Darling you've been sleeping for a bit too long aren't you going to wake up soon?

"..."

"I might even make you a meal how about that? Oh i know you're going to love this one♡"

You stirred awake and found yourself on your present Lilias lap.

"Lilia?" you looked up at him all confused ( Was that all a dream?Does he know, does he remember?)

You didn't even notice you fell asleep on him while he was gaming for god knows how long.

He was caressing your face at your call and cooing at your sleepy state. My how adorable you looked to him right now.

"Hm?"

"Did we perhsaps meet before?"

Lilia smiled wide at your question before bending down and kissing your forehead gently.

"Perhaps my love, perhaps~"

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟

Ps. I would love to know what do you think guys :3 (i had a bit of help)