#it; 2) I started writing it and it’s still in my drafts and has been for. potentially years. 3) tumblr is doing this new glitch for me wher

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

hello! can you talk more about that vault(?) fic? the one where afo manages to bring his brother’s consciousness into Izuku’s body

Oh I love this fic. Trigger warning for discussion of suicidal thoughts/tendencies.

The premise is that AfO figured out decades ago that One for All likely held a copy of his brother, and that he could get him back if only he could get his hands on that Quirk. Gran Torino made the call that All Might needed to go to America for his own safety because of how desperately all for one was pursuing him, thinking he was trying to kill him before he got strong enough to stand against him. No, he was trying to do to all might what he eventually achieves with Izuku, which is force his brother behind the proverbial wheel.

And the thing is that in his dream world, he doesn’t actually want his brother in someone else’s body. That’s entirely too mobile. Too fragile. His brother can run from him and die again, and All for One wants to foreclose the possibility. He wants a world where he never loses his little brother again.

One for All cannot be taken by force. I know that canon made it more of a battle of wills when it came to this, but I like that rule as more of an absolute. He has absolutely no way to take his little brother by force. The person holding one for all needs to give it to him.

So he realizes he has two options 1) convince the current user to give up one for all, or 2) force his brother’s consciousness to the forefront, keep him safely contained (so fucking vaulted), and then wait him out. His brother is a bleeding heart who is likely to give in so this boy gets his body back. Or, he’ll force him to accept so many regeneration quirks that he’ll never die, and all for one will therefore never lose him, as long as he keeps him contained for his own safety (so so fucking vaulted). Either way, he gets his brother back.

Izuku gets kidnapped from the training camp. His arms are broken to shit from his fight with Muscular, he can barely access any of one for all when his body isn’t shattered, and he’s told, in no uncertain terms, that if he tries anything that Bakugou will be murdered in front of him with excruciating care. Bakugou gets the sales pitch, and Izuku is taken into a back room and strapped to a table.

All for One approaches him. His offer is simple. Give him One for All, and Izuku and Bakugou will live. If he refuses, things will get… extraordinarily painful for him.

Izuku refuses.

All for One doesn’t argue. He just places once hand to Izuku’s face, and there’s an odd sensation like a fish thrashing against a line coming from somewhere deep in his gut. The last thing he remembers is feeling like the fish had been pulled free of the surf.

First doesn’t wake immediately. All for One needs time to repair his new body, and his little brother also always reacted… strongly to things. Prone to irrational fits. Running. Harming himself. He truly was someone who needed to be protected from himself, honestly.

The heroes are coming. They’ll take his brother from him again, just like that horrible whorish vigilante from all those years ago. But All for One has prepared a safe, secure vault for his baby brother to help him with this transition. He knows Yoichi will react poorly. He knows he’ll be upset. He always was so sensitive about things like forcibly occupying a high schooler’s body. But they’ve been apart for two hundred years, and All for One is convinced that they can rebuild with time. This will be good for them. They’ll be happy again, eventually.

The heroes arrive. He arranges for some of twice’s doubles of Dabi and Compress, with the real Spinner, to secure his brother and take him to the vault he prepared for him. He is excruciatingly clear that if they hurt his brother in any way, he will skin them to make tasteless boots. They seem to be operating under the illusion that he is being hyperbolic. He is not. Here is the pattern he will instruct garaki to use when repurposing their husks, and it is fucking ugly. A single rash moment in battle that was definitely, absolutely not his fault deprived him of his baby brother for two hundred years. All for One will not lose him again after searching for this long. They will ensure he escapes this battle unharmed and alive or All for One will ensure that such terms can no longer be used to describe them.

Which is a strong energy to bring to your newly hired villains.

Based on how All for One speaks about his brother with the League, they’re expecting this delicate, sensitive little daffodil who needed to be coddled and may end up all snotty and weepy if he woke up while they were moving him.

First wakes up and immediately tries to kill every single person in the room including himself.

The last thing he remembers is what he thought was a very successful sacrifice play that ensured his husband and the rest of the resistance escaped and him succumbing to bittersweet death in his brother’s arms. Like, it was very dramatic. He promised his brother that he wouldn’t haunt him because no part of him would ever pick to stay by his side. Really pulled it all out for this one. Everything goes black with damning finality and then suddenly he is awake and In A Place. First is used to suddenly being In A Place. It is a universally bad thing for him. His brother is a fucking asshole kidnapper who has no respect for personal boundaries or autonomy or First telling him to his face to go fuck himself and usually if he wakes up and is In A Place, then his brother is the reason. His husband doesn’t pull this shit. He is considerate and sensitive to First’s instinctive distrust of Places. First gets to decide if he wants to be in a Place when his husband’s involved. Even if he had no choice, even if First passed out and he had to get him to safety, he’d be there or someone First knew would be there when First woke up, instead of these…

Literal clowns?

They’re dressed like fucking idiots. He doesn’t recognize them. Definitely not part of the resistance. Based on the Everything Else happening, he assumes they’re a new batch of the goons that his brother goes through like fucking disposable razors. Goons styled by colorblind clowns and possibly a ninja turtle enthusiast?

There’s a mirror. Now there was a mirror. Obviously these guys were not using it. First lashes out and breaks it with his own fist. He grabs the biggest shard and slams it into Compress’s neck. Clown #1 dissolves into a puddle of boiling black shadow

Spinner, was not expecting this energy: WHAT THE FUCK

They are surprised. This is good for First. He is also surprised but knows better than to let that stop him. He uses the opportunity to stab the one with the shitty fucking Matrix coat in the eye. He also dissolves into boiling black shadow.

Spinner, backpedaling hard: oh fuck no no no I’m real—

First does not see why this would stop him. Like. He is sort of trying to kill his brother’s men here. That’s like. Implicit in the war thing they’ve got going on. He goes for the eye again.

Spinner does not feel this is a safe environment for him to be in, suddenly.

All for one’s gentle soul and fragile disposition baby brother has a weapon and a willingness to kill. Spinner feels he was not adequately briefed on the situation. He is the only one who is not a copy. He can be killed for real. And he will be turned into a pair of ugly fucking boots if he hurts a single hair on this kid’s psychotic little head. Spinner does what he feels is his only option and flees the scene.

First was not expecting this but will take it. He gets off the table so he can get the fuck out of here.

Huh. That feels. Weird.

He feels like absolute shit, which isn’t a shock. But his body just feels weirdly different. Like everything’s been taken out and put back together incorrectly. He feels. Shorter?

First chalks it up to the disorientation of whatever the fuck his brother did to him. But there’s a window to escape with and it’s closing. Time to get the fuck out of here.

The way he sees it, he’s got some very limited options. He can escape, find his husband and the rest of the gang, and go back to trying to tear down his brother’s operation through blood, sweat, and tears. Or, he can try to escape and fail, in which case he needs to kill himself while he still can.

He just. He can’t go back in the vault.

He knows his brother wants him back in there. He spent like ten years in there the first time. He cannot end up back in there and just hope that his husband is alive and that he’ll find him again and save him again and that he won’t spend another fucking decade staring at walls. His brother kept him alive against his will the first time and he’ll do it again.

He made it clear to Kudo before they got married. He just couldn’t do it. If he had to pick between dying and being recaptured with a hope of rescue, he was picking dying. He is more scared of going back into that vault than he is of anything else in the world.

He makes it outside. It’s chaos. He doesn’t recognize the city. He doesn’t recognize any of the people.

There’s a man there, fighting what appears to be his brother in some kind of fuck off ugly metal helmet thing. The man is tall, and he is golden, and he is dressed like the heroes from his comic books, which gives First pause, because he thought that only their resistance had started going for the comic book motif, and none of them looked like that. Their outfits looked like Red Dawn meets the dumpster behind a Spirit Halloween.

This man looks like a real superhero.

And that’s his fucking opening right there. Superman got a blonde dye job, moved to Japan, and was punching his brother in his dumb fucking steampunk headpiece that he now wears for some reason. That’s a fucking great distraction that First can now use to fuck right off and find his husband. No vaulting him today, no siree.

He can’t explain it. It’s like muscle memory. He sees his brother gear up to strike the man, and his body moves before he can think about it. He doesn’t even realize what he’s done until he’s already slammed his foot into his brother’s kneecap.

Oh. So. That’s different.

Using One for All now is sort of like finding out your Razor scooter got upgraded to an F-22 Raptor. He barely used any of it and he feels like he just feels like he did the superpower equivalent of huffing cocaine. What the fuck happened to it?

But he doesn’t have time to inspect that. He hasn’t been this close to his brother since he escaped the vault. He’s only seen him in the distance, once or twice, during close calls. And, you know, when he thought he was dying in his brother’s arms what feels like minutes ago, but he’s not counting that.

First, looking at his grunge fucking darth Vader headset: *flat as a board* oh no what ever could have happened

All for One: you’re awake

All Might, also here: my boy thank god you’re okay

First, ignoring the Superman cosplayer, really, really hoping his husband did that: does it hurt. It looks like it hurts.

All for one, taking a step towards him: you shouldn’t be up so soon

First, immediately putting his mirror shard to his own throat: dont fucking come near me

First feels weird. His voice sounds weird. He doesn’t recognize anything. And he’s really thinking he should have run when he had the chance.

His brother does that thing he fucking hates. That thing where he acts like First is a lunatic on a ledge and he’s the saint trying to coax him down. It was always like that with him. His brother acted like First was crazy and needed to be placated and confined for his own safety. And anything, anything he did got that treatment. He doesn’t like his brother fucking killing people and wants him to stop? First is just irrational. emotionally unstable. He doesn’t want to stay with him? It’s because of his Problems. He tries to kill himself after years of isolation and, and having nothing? Just the proof his brother needed that First was an mentally unwell danger to himself.

All for One tells him to put down the shard. He’s just disoriented still. He needs to rest. He needs to calm down. If he just goes with his men, they’ll take him somewhere safe, and they can talk about thi—

They’ll lock him in a fucking bank vault. No thanks. If he takes a single fucking step towards him, First is slitting his own throat.

All Might is confused. He doesn’t know why they’re acting like this. But his priority is getting Izuku the fuck out of dodge. He begs Izuku to run while he covers him. Everything is all right now. He’s here.

First:

First:

First: okay I’ll bite who the fuck is this guy

All Might, in dawning horror: Izuku?

First, squinting: who?

He must not have realized yet. All for One was hoping he could explain everything to him in… better circumstances, but he guesses not.

Yoichi has a mirror shard. Perhaps he should look at whose throat he’s holding it against he does something he can’t take back.

First looks in the mirror shard. Some random fucking kid stares back. He drops it in shock and it shatters on the ground.

What the fuck. What the fuck.

It’ll be an adjustment. All for One knows that. It’s—it’s been a very long time since they’ve been together. Longer than he thinks. Things will be different now, but they’ll be better. They can finally be together again—

What the fuck did he do. Is this. Did he put him in someone else? Who—Whose fucking body is this

All for One promises him that he was nobody. Nothing. He wasn’t important. And first just. Laughs. All this goddamn time and his brother still couldn’t get that whoever he is was important. They all had been important to First. That’s why he couldn’t fucking stand to stay with his brother.

And all mights just. Despondent. No. No, he couldn’t have—

First is so fucking sorry. He is so fucking sorry.

All for one insists it doesn’t matter. He got him back. All this time, and he finally got him back, and that is all that matters now.

First asks him how long it’s been. And all for one tells him that he lost him two hundred and thirty nine years, seven months, and eighteen days ago. He has missed him for every moment.

He knows how it ended between them. He knows. But it will be different this time. All those people who forced themselves between them are gone. They can be happy again—

First wants to know how he died.

All for One doesn’t need to ask who he means. He knows. That stupid, asinine, brother-stealing bastard from all those years ago. He always suspected that something happened between them. In those months his brother was being kept from him, he caught sight of them, once or twice. There were a few scant moments that made him wonder. A clip of panic in his brother’s voice when he called that bastard’s name that seemed too personal for comfort. Second letting his hand linger at the small of his brother’s back. He never could confirm it, but doubts lingered

All for One tells him that Second killed himself two weeks after First’s death.

First, immediately: you are such a fucking liar

All for One: he deserved it

First: you’re PSYCHOTIC

All for One: he took you from me

First: I LEFT YOU

All might, the other heroes, the fucking news, wondering what the fuck is going on: …

First is straying dangerously close to a panic attack. He’s in some random fucking kid’s body. This kid’s dad(?) is here and he is dressed like a fucking idiot and that feels really mean to think considering First is possessing his child. He admittedly regrets thinking that. It is two hundred years in the future and everyone First loves is dead. His husband is dead. His brother is still alive and he has not changed at all, thereby proving that he can and will keep this up forever and he will never ever fucking change or let First go. Actual, literal death was apparently not enough to save him from his brother.

And then All for One does that thing again. That fucking soothing placating voice bullshit that makes First feel fucking insane and he’s not crazy he’s not he swears he’s not. He’s not crazy or unstable for being upset that his brother put him in a boy.

It’s not going to be fucking different. It’s not going to be fucking better. He’s unhinged. First wants nothing to do with him. God, fuck, why can’t he ever get that? It is not that First is unstable or that other people got between them or turned first against him or however the fuck he lies to himself. First hates him—

All Might Detroit Smashes.

He’s just. He’s at his limit. His boy is not his boy. He needs his boy to be his boy again. All for one is right fucking there and entirely too close to his boy who is not his boy but who will be his boy again because All Might will move heaven and earth to get Izuku back. Detroit fucking smash.

Things get very tense after that.

First tries to help. He has no idea what the fuck is up with this Quirk but he’s a very dirty fighter who is willing to bite. All Might insists that First get to safety while he holds all for one off. First tells him that he’s not exactly doing hot on his own. he’s like. Literally turning to smoke. And he knows his brother—

All Might tells him that this is not for his sake. That’s his boy’s body. Please.

There are. Random fucking children soaring over head? Another child flying to them on handheld explosions? God, what the fuck is the future. And First thought his time period was weird.

They’re screaming at him to take their hand. And All Might begs him to take it.

First jumps.

The kids turn into another agonizing moment in what First is rapidly realizing is just his life now.

They touch down, and these kids hug him like he’s their world. They call him Midoriya and they ask him what happened back there and they never let go of him, not even for a moment. There’s a boy with red and white hair split right down the middle, and no one even bats an eye at that, even though in First’s time that would have been enough to get him killed in the middle of the city square, depending on the city. First’s hair had him on thin fucking ice more often than not and he could have just been like. Albino. One of these kids has fucking engines in his legs. Are engines in legs a thing now. First doesn’t remember seeing that in his time.

The kid with red and white hair never lets go of his hand.

And all he can tell them is that he’s sorry.

He ends up in a random, shitty, deserted ramen shop out of the way with these kids and the atmosphere is fucking tense. If he is not Midoriya and that is not his body then Todoroki wants him fucking out of it. They all do but Todoroki specifically is bringing an Energy. Where the fuck is Midoriya.

And First doesn’t know. He doesn’t know who this kid is. He doesn’t know what his brother did. Last he remembers, it was two hundred years ago and he was fucking dying. He woke up after it was already done.

Look. He. He cannot possibly be more sorry this happened. He’s going to try to find out what happened to their friend? Brother? Collective boyfriend? He doesn’t know, this is just an incredibly strong energy right now. He’s going for try to figure out what his brother did to him. If there is any way to give him his body back, First will do it.

But he needs to make tracks for right now. His brother is going to be after him.

It was on the news, playing in the corner of this ramen shop. All Might won, but it cost him everything, and all for one still escapes in the end. Some guy with a teleportation quirk gets him out of there while the other heroes are detaining him.

First needs distance to stay clear of his brother, and he needs distance to have an absolutely nuclear grade crash out, though he does not say the second part out loud.

First knows himself. He can admit that he was a very self destructive person, but only when he is feeling particularly self destructive, because it feels too much like admitting his brother was right about him.

They were sort of locked in a vicious cycle. His brother controlled every single aspect of his life and First started self destructing because it was the only control he had in his life. His brother then used his self destructive tendencies as proof that first needed to be protected from himself, and then he controlled him more, which made First more desperate, which made him more self destructive, which made his brother control him more. It was all very chicken and egg of them.

He was reckless. He had suicidal tendencies directly correlating to his ability to open the door of whatever room he is in at any given moment. He goes very south very quickly if he feels trapped. He was an asthmatic smoker in shitty post societal collapse Japan where he had no reliable source of inhalers. He took his first run at vigilante justice when he first escaped his brother and he was like a buck ten soaking wet and had no special powers and was very physically below average and it involved a lot of hitting people with pipes in shady back alleys and culminated in him getting shot in the fucking chest and his brother finally catching up to him and putting him in a fucking vault for ten agonizing years “because look at what happens when you’re on your own, you end up homeless and shot, this is for your own good”

First is, frankly, horrifyingly self aware of the fact that he would have killed himself in a flame out in like two weeks max post-vault had it not been for Kudo. He doesn’t like this about himself. But he is aware of it.

His husband is not an option right now. His husband is dead. He was alive an hour ago, and now he’s been dead for two hundred years.

They’re all dead. His husband. Bruce. Their entire team. His brother probably fucking murdered them horribly and if First ever confronts him on it he’s going to act like First needs to get over it because it was so long ago

But it wasn’t long ago for First. It was an hour ago. They were alive an hour ago. Two hours ago? He hadn’t even realized that his brother had found him. He was happy. They were all together, First and his husband and Bruce. They were laughing about something. He can’t remember what. He forgot in the panic. It was the last time he ever heard them laugh and he can’t fucking remember what it was.

First needs to get the fuck out of here.

He cannot launch himself into a self destructive spiral. He cannot. This isn’t his body. This is some kid’s body, and he’s obviously very loved based on how much everyone fucking hates first for this.

So he just needs space. He always does better when he knows he can get space. He gets worse when he feels like a rat in a cage. He just needs to get space, and breathe, and then maybe he’ll figure out how to stop feeling like the universe ended around him and forgot to take him with it. It blinked into nothing and he’s left suspended in this sucking, agonizing void of nothing.

His husband was alive an hour ago, and now he’s been dead for two hundred years, and First is used to losing everything so he doesn’t know why he isn’t any better at it by now. It hurts so goddamn much every time.

He just needs a minute. He just needs to cry, and break down, but not the kind of breakdown that ended up with all those wanted posters of him that made him look like the unabomber. He needs to get the fuck out of here. He’ll—fuck, with any luck, he will never see these kids again. He’ll figure out how to make this kid’s life his own problem again and the kid will see them around. First is out of here.

It is then that he realizes those sirens were coming their way.

Huh. Did they. Call the police on him?

He sort of. Huh. He sort of forgot they could do that.

First was in shitty post societal collapse Japan an hour ago. Police stopped being an option when he was like, fuck, sixteen or so? Hard to remember, what with how the crippling stress and hopeless depression and also his brother secretly fucking with him with a weird psychic quirk in an attempt to “improve their relationship” sort of ate holes in his own memory. Very fuzzy about his own life at times. Police haven’t been an option for a long time, is the moral of the story. And he. Huh. Sort of forgot that they could do that. He’s honestly impressed at the foresight that would have taken them. They really called the cops on him in advance?

Iida, blustering: no, don’t be ridiculous, we didn’t—

Todoroki, vitriolic: yes

That is NOT his fucking body and he needed to get the fuck OUT of it. And since it’s not his fucking body then if he walks off with it Todoroki is treating this like another kidnapping and he is not fucking around after the last one. Which is exactly what he told Mr. Aizawa while texting him under the table to send fucking swat because no one was going anywhere until this shit was fixed

Aizawa has had a long fucking day. He had to be airlifted here to find his fucking students. Midoriya is apparently possessed. The Symbol of Peace has fallen. His fucking students went rogue and ran an illegal rescue mission in the middle of a goddamn war zone. And Todoroki Shouto just sent him his location with a phone book of information that can all be boiled down to “I need you to get this guy out of Midoriya’s body right fucking now.”

He sends himself. He sends police backup. He sends EMTs. The HPSC sends Hawks, who is existentially exhausted.

First needs a fucking cigarette that he can’t have because this isn’t his body.

Todoroki, the second he gets out of the car: *jabbing a finger at First* there he is sensei erase him

First: *laborious sigh*

Aizawa:

Aizawa:

Aizawa: give me a second to catch up

Aizawa cannot just fucking erase him. He wishes it was as easy as simply erasing him. This doesn’t work like that. He could have erased whatever Quirk All for One used on him while it was happening. But all for one (fucking hopefully) is nowhere near them and isn’t like, actively projecting his brother into Midoriya. His brother is just there now. Aizawa’s quirk is just a pause button. They need to hit rewind.

Todoroki thinks they should try it anyway just to cover their bases.

First eyes the incoming cop cars. Yep, a lot of them. And more adults dressed like fucking cartoon characters. He is plagued by the suspicion that this is his fault.

He asks to clarify that this all means that they will not let him bounce.

Todoroki, advancing on him: you are not taking that body anywhere you son of a bitch

Iida: *has to hold him back*

Hawks is tired. He is eyeing the intolerable amount of camera phones recording this from the edge of the police line. He claps. He says they should take this somewhere private. First looks at him with a withering exhaustion and asks him why he’s dressed like a fucking boy band member. Hawks says that everyone needs to find a car and get in it.

First ends up in room with Aizawa, Hawks, some weird talking bear-rat(?), a guy actively on fire, an old man, and a collection of other people who dress like fucking wizards. Wizards with bad taste. And, hauntingly enough, a completely normal man wearing a trench coat and a tasteful hat. This horrifies first, because it means that dressing like a normal fucking person is still acceptable in the future and all of these other outfits are choices. First is again tormented by the suspicion that this is his fault.

The kids are gone. They were not allowed to come in for many reasons, including how Todoroki kept trying to start shit with him. First feels like he’s appearing before a fucking wizard counsel.

This admittedly reminds him of being rescued from his fuck ass brother’s vault and meeting with the resistance leaders for the first time. He recognizes this bit. These are the people who have assembled to fight his brother who are seeking to combine their collective pools of information. First is, however, a naturally unhelpful person, so he’s gonna let them go first.

They do not say anything. Fine. Okay. He actually has a question.

Why do these kid’s bones fucking suck?

No one was really expecting that question.

First is really not trying to complain about the body he is occupying against everyone’s will including his own. He is neither a beggar nor a chooser and is sensitive to the fact that some of them knew him. He asks this out of growing concern. From the bottom of his heart: What the fuck. Does this kid have extremely early on set arthritis or something? First legitimately thought this was some underlying injury he didn’t know about or a side effect of whatever his brother did but the longer it’s gone on the more he’s started to suspect that this kid just walks around like this. He has constant, chronic, and unbearable pain. Please know this about him and put him on some kind of industrial grade pain killer when he’s no longer possessed. Actually please tell first that they already knew about this and that he was already was because this is legitimately terrible and he’s hoping this kid wasn’t walking through life like this.

Aizawa was not aware. He is now. He’ll address it with Midoriya when he returns. It’s not surprising. First should actually be aware that Midoriya’s body suffers severe backlash when his quirk is used. So first should refrain from using it and damaging his student’s body further while he’s in control.

Oh. That was his next question. Why the fuck does this kid have his Quirk?

It’s definitely his. It feels exactly the same, just… dialed up by a million. Like the same song being played on the radio versus played over concert speakers. But it doesn’t make sense that he has it again. First gave it away before he died. Even if his brother somehow brought back his Quirk with him, he shouldn’t have it—

Wow, lot of blanks stares. First reevaluates what’s happening. You people don’t know anything do you.

Okay, how about everyone else tells him what they think is happening right now. First still needs to decide how honest he is going to be.

Bear-rat man cuts in to say that on that note, he believes protocol dictates this meeting be postponed. All Might is the designated lead on this case, and much of the information is obviously confidential. It shouldn’t be discussed or disclosed further without him there to… moderate.

First decides the bear rat definitely fucking knows what’s up.

The other heroes are like. Fuck that. what the fuck just happened. Who the fuck was that guy. How the fuck did he have multiple quirks. A city ward is destroyed do they get that. Kamino ward was leveled in large part by this fucking fight. They were so outclassed it wasn’t even funny and they feel like they got sent in blind. Did all might know about that fucking guy before they went in

In the end, it turns out to be a nonissue. All might forces his way into the meeting against medical advice. He is still sort of bleeding. An extremely disgruntled doctor followed him from the hospital and is trying to reapply gauze with great distress.

All Might ignores everyone. He just looks at First. He asks him if Izuku is still in there.

First wishes he fucking knew the answer to that. This kid was obviously loved, based on how fucking angry everyone is at him. And he wishes. Fuck. He wishes his bullshit with his brother hadn’t ruined another host of lives.

He really is sorry, for what it’s worth. And don’t worry. He already knows it’s not worth anything.

First is going to try to get his kid back. He just… is a bit dry on ideas about how to do that in the instant moment.

First knows the look of a man who knows exactly how far his brother will go. This is the guy who has been after his brother. He asks All Might if they’re doing this here or getting a room.

The heroes are empathic that they’re doing this here, except for Aizawa, who is emphatic that they are getting a room that he will also be in. He needs to know whatever secrets these are for his student’s sake but no one else can know them until he decides it’s safe for his student. It is not a popular stance.

All Might doesn’t care. The secret of All for One is out, and the secret of one for all is so compromised already… and it’s going to get worse from here, based on what he’s heard. If All for One recovers, he will be increasingly aggressive from this point forward. He’s going to come looking for his younger brother. Is that right?

First laughs. It isn’t funny. Yeah. Yeah, he’s gonna start razing cities to the ground the second he manages to patch together enough lung tissue back together to take a full breath.

Nice work on that one, by the way. Really. He means it. And was the helmet All Might’s work too? Impressive. Did more damage to his brother than First ever managed.

The secret of one for all cannot become public. But all might can no longer help in the fight against all for one. Yagi won’t recover from this. Responsibility will fall to the people in this room. So it’s only right they know what’s happening.

Aizawa has to be restrained.

He’s furious. Yagi gave a two hundred year old power of apocalyptic potential to a fucking fifteen year old and now that fifteen year old is fucking possessed. He broke all of his fucking bones with that power. He broke all of them. And he didn’t tell Aizawa anything.

Yagi could not care less about anything happening around him. He cares about Izuku. Thats his boy. He can’t have been too late. There has to be a way to get him back.

Maybe. First doesn’t have a clue. He just woke up like this. He doesn’t know if his brother buried the kid or just.. scooped him out. Like evicting a fish from a tank. He doesn’t know where Izuku went.

Yagi tells him that he didn’t know. He didn’t know that all for one was still alive, and he didn’t know he’d do this to Izuku. He wouldn’t have—he’d have done better, if he had known.

Gran Torino blames himself. He should have known.

Gran Torino had the dubious honor of bridging the gap between seventh and eighth when it came to managing all for one. After Nana’s death, but before Yagi was grown.

All for One tore the country apart looking for who had inherited the Quirk. He had been desperate to find them.

At the time, Gran Torino had thought it was a bit strange. He figured he wanted to kill Yagi before he became a threat, but. All for one wanted the next One for All alive.

There was nothing official about Nana’s tie to the boy, and they had been careful when they met with him. Yagi was one face in a crowd, and All for One spent years spinning his wheels tearing through Nana’s old allies.

All for one once became convinced that nana had passed it to one of their old buddies. He went after him, but before he could capture him or Gran Torino could warn him, some two-bit villain looking to collect on the bounty killed him.

All for one had him vivisected for it, then floated the video of it through the criminal underground to make a point of what happened to people who showed initiative with All for One’s marks. If he wanted someone alive, they’d better be fucking alive.

Gran Torino forced Yagi on a plane to America after that. It shook him too badly. He was barely holding it together, and there Yagi was just bleeding grief over Nana, Gran Torino knows he did a shit job at helping him through it. Yagi kept trying to help. He wanted justice for what All for One did to his mentor. And Gran Torino was so terrified of fucking up the last thing nana left to him that he just… came down on Yagi like a sack of bricks for it. He shouldn’t have. He knows it hurt their relationship.

He should have realized back then that this was about more than neutralizing a threat. All for One was acting too oddly after that. He was too desperate. And it makes sense now, knowing that he was searching for his brother. One for All was his link to getting him back. If the Quirk was lost, his brother finally slipped from his grasp.

The meeting devolves quickly.

First is on edge. The more this goes on, the more he’s certain that he’s not going to be free to leave at the end. They’ll be nice about it, sure. They’ll say it’s for his protection. His brother loved that line himself.

He’s boiling in anxiety over it and trying not to show it. He hasn’t had the time to process anything that happened or his grief over losing all his loved ones. And he was kind of an abrasive person in life, frankly? He was physically pretty weak and spent most of his life under someone’s thumb. Verbally lashing out is one of the few ways he could push back.

He can tell the heroes are sort of disappointed by him.

The bullshit he and Kudo and Bruce and the rest pulled to fuck with his brother, apparently, turned into the model for a society. He doesn’t know. It wasn’t ever supposed to become this. They didn’t even think of themselves as superheroes, really.

They started just. Putting little fucking flares on their outfits. Doing some more visible, showy rescues of random people. Thats it. It wasn’t. It wasn’t a full super hero thing.

A lot of it was to fuck with all for one. First knew how to get under his brother’s skin. And his brother hated superhero comics. He thought that they were ridiculous. He thought they were impractical. He thought they gave First too many bad ideas.

But it was also a bit of a PR move? Society fucking sucked when he was alive. There barely was a society. Japan had dissolved into a fractured mess. They were basically living in fucking city states by the end of it.

People were afraid. They didn’t have anything to rally around or trust. They didn’t have a government they could really rely on.

Superheroes were just a familiar image they could use as a reference point. Comic books, manga, the fucking marvel movies that blew up right before it all went to shit—people recognized superheroes from them. They could use that familiarity to build trust and support.

Apparently the PR campaign did too well, because he’s getting the impression that they viewed the first heroes as these upstanding, reasoned forces of justice and first is just a some guy with a bit of a foul mouth trapped in a kid’s body.

It just. He’s not his best self in that meeting. At one point he asks endeavor if his flame mustache is involuntary or if he’s just compensating for something. It. Is not taken well.

First does recognize that his emotions are more unstable than usual. He assumed it was a side effect, and then he has a horrifying realization

First, stopping dead: is this kid in puberty right now

Aizawa: … I assume so

First, burying his face in his hands: oh my god

Aizawa: are you okay

First: i had a fully developed brain this morning and now I’ve got the cognitive skills of a toddler. You don’t think you can feel when you don’t have a fully developed frontal lobe but you totally can. No I am not okay. I thought I was concussed. Oh my god I feel like I just got downgraded from windows 10 to windows 1.

Aizawa:

First: I think it’s only fair to warn you I think I’m like 900% more impulsive now and I was already very impulsive before this

The meeting ends. Hawks tells First that they have a safe house for him. He’ll be safe from his brother there. Hawks will escort him personally.

Ah, first thinks. This is not an optional activity.

He’s very cooperative. He gets in the car. He makes a few nervous comments about his brother and if he’ll be able to find him at the safe house.

He then brute forces open the locked car door and flings this kid’s mortal body out of it at 75 mph before fucking off into the night.

WHAT FIRST IS DOING:

It was an impulse move okay he warned them he was more impulsive than usual okay if anything this is on them

WHAT FIRST IS ALSO DOING:

He’s not doing captivity okay he’s just not. These guys suck and he’s not staying with them. He doesn’t trust them and he won’t do it

He has a loose set of priorities. The number one priority is getting this kid back in his own fucking body. He doesn’t actually trust those guys to make that their priority.

Okay like. He trusts some of them to prioritize that. Guy who fucked up his brother and keeps looking at him like he’s gonna cry, sure, this kid is his priority. The kid’s really angry teacher. Whoever that red and white kid with all the aggression was.

He doesn’t fucking know about the rest. But he’s pretty good at reading the writing on the wall. His brother just permanently injured their main fighter. This kid’s body holds that guy’s Quirk. Out of the two of them, one of them is all for one’s brother who has insider information on him, who has an emotional advantage, and who has experience fighting him. Meanwhile the original kid has been doing this for like four months and has chronic bone pain.

He’s the more strategic option. But he’s not going to fucking abscond with this kid’s body. Like, yes, admittedly that’s what he’s doing right now, but it’s so he has better odds of ultimately getting the kid back. He doesn’t trust those guys to do the right thing so he needs to fuck off and stay free long enough to get the fuck out of this kids body and go back to being dead.

This is frankly very long already so a more loose outline of the rest:

Throughout this all there are flashbacks to first growing up at the dawn of quirks. Except they’re not flashbacks. They’re Izuku, trapped in the depths of First’s memory.

First is in a diner with his brother, before it really went to shit. Before society completely dissolved and before he ran the first time and before his brother locked him up. They were fighting, like they always were now. His brother stomped off to the bathroom. A man sits down in the booth across.

But it’s too soon. He’s not supposed to meet him yet. This isn’t how it went.

All the patrons are frozen around them. You can’t change memories, after all, and this isn’t how it went. Second didnt meet First until the vault, more than a decade later. But this isn’t really the past, and he’s not First. He’s Nine. And he needs to concentrate on what Second is telling him.

Existing in One for All is wonky. It just collects everything. It’s a wad of gum stick to the bottom of your shoe picking up dirt with each step. Every memory, every feeling, every person who’s ever imprinted on it is still in here. And it’s all mixed together and it’s easy to get lost in the memories.

It’s hard to navigate. You have to fight to maintain a sense of self. Imagine every person is a glass of water. One for all has nine of them all dumped in the same bucket. It’s so easy to get confused, and it’s slippery to navigate. If you think of something, you risk getting sucked to the memory and slipping back into it. You forget it already happened. You live it all again. A lot of them just get trapped in a loop when they die and join the rest. Third thought his life was flashing before his eyes until first and second found him and pulled him out of it.

First was better at navigating it than the rest. He had the most practice. But he’s not an option for obvious reasons. Nine needs to focus now. He needs to remember who he is. They need to get out of the memory before Nine forgets again. What’s his name? No, he’s not Yoichi. He needs to remember his nam—

His brother calls his name. And First is sitting in the booth alone.

All for One just fucking tossed Izuku’s consciousness into the collective. He could have been in any of millions of moments that any of them lived. It was like trying to find a specific pebble thrown in a fucking ocean. The past users just started combing through everything trying to find him so they could get him back in charge of his body.

Third falls on the fucking grenade that is searching through all the memories of First and Second being disgusting together. Someone has to, and Second fucked off to go do whatever the moment he realized what All for One had done. Second has been. Not okay. He wants his fucking husband back.

First and Second were so goddamn repressed about it the first time around that Third honestly didn’t know what he was going to walk into. Watching them dance around each other was like watching two aliens who learned how to be human exclusively from bbc period pieces try to imitate human courtship. He had no idea what the fuck they were doing in the moment. He asked second one time if there was anything going on that he wanted to talk about and Second responded with a singular and unyielding “No.” and you know what? Third was fine with that answer.

Whatever the case Nine is like five years old and Third cannot have him personally living Third’s idiots reenacting the hand flex scene from pride & prejudice 2005 on infinite goddamn loop. He cannot even begin to conceptualize the developmental damage that would do to him. Second took off in a fit of manful emotion before Third could force him to go search the memories of those repressed fucking finger grazes before the memory of their bullshit did permanent damage to this kid’s ability to form relationships or experience healthy emotions. Oh okay. No it’s fine Third can do it.

Third always joked that those two assholes could have either never gotten past charged eye contact and suffocating tension or they could have fully gotten married and simply never told anyone. He still somehow did not genuinely expect that they got fully married and never told anyone. What the fuck guys.

Okay so they didn’t legally get married but laws had an iffy relationship with “existing” when they were alive so it wasn’t so much an option. Also they were both considered terrorists by the majority of the people claiming to be the Japanese government back then so legal marriage wasn’t so much an option. But still he did not expect to stumble on a memory of those assholes deciding that they were married and doing their own private vows thing which they did not invite Third to. He was like their only friend. Come on guys.

Admittedly he sort of gets it? Like. He doesn’t. That’s actually insane. But he also knows First and Second are so fundamentally fucked in the heads that he can kind of see how they got to that point. Both of them lived like they were in deep cover hiding from their own fucking lives. They played things so close to the vest that they had fused with the vest. He wishes they lived in a time where therapy was an option because no one has ever needed it more than those two.

First once told him, in a profoundly uncharacteristic moment of genuine and honest vulnerability, that he tried to never let it show when he loved something because his brother would find out and take it from him. It always went that way. His brother had decided, years ago, that First would have no choice but to love him again if he was all that First had. And so he wasn’t allowed to have anything but his brother for the longest time. There was a reason why the room they found him in was fucking empty.

Third always sort of counted that confession as one of the biggest honors of his life because he’s never seen someone with trust issues like first and it meant something when he gave you even an inch.

He was closer to Second than any other person alive (or dead, he guesses) save First, and the closest Second ever got to an emotional confession with him was after First died. He told him, out of the blue, that he was so goddamn lonely now. Then he was dead by the end of the week.

Third always sort of assumed that First and Second still held back from each other because that's what they did with everyone, and maybe that's why Second took his death so bad, because he regretted not going for more. But the more Third intrudes into the memories of just the two of them, the more he realizes that they didn't hold back. It didn't make sense. They didn't even make it a year before First died and Second followed. And Second would not tell Bruce his name for the first year they knew each other. After three years together he confessed that he had lied about what his name was because he wasn't sure if he could trust Third yet.

It's somehow worse to know that they let themselves be reckless with the other. That they'd been open with the other. Because Second was cold and calculating and impenetrable and First was like a feral dog who bit. Like. Third's life had not been a walk in the park but if he thought about Second or First for too long then he risked actually crying. Second appeared to assume that every single person in his life would sell him out until thoroughly proven otherwise and it was very clearly a learned behavior. Third asked First what his name was on the day they met and he did not fucking know. His brother only ever called him little brother, and he wasn't allowed to see anyone but his brother while he was in the vault. He hadn't needed it in so long that he guesses he forgot.

Neither of them ever seemed to want anyone close enough to stab them in the back. They both made themselves so alone in life, and then to catch glimpses of them as open and vulnerable and happy--

Second really must have been so fucking lonely after First died. Third understands why he did what he did a little better now.

Second had some kind of serious damage in his past that he never told anyone, except maybe first, considering they were fucking married. Third didn’t know what happened and was not going to ask. Five once slipped (he claims accidentally) into Second’s memories and saw something, though he never said what. But he looked at Second kind of sadly after, and Second then refused to acknowledge him for an entire calendar year. And third is talking about real world time. They exist in a weird dream logic mind scape. Time moves differently here. Five was intolerably moody about Second icing him out and First had to intervene to put an end to it which makes more sense now since First was his secret fucking husband—

Third, when he finally finds Second: you got MARRIED and didn’t TELL ME

Second:

Second:

Second: it never came up

Third: oh FUCK OFF

If Third is being very, very generous, he gets not telling anyone while they were alive. All for One had some kind of psychopathic control freak sixth sense for when First had literally anything good in his life. He remembers that after All for One caught sight of the two of them one time for maybe three and a half seconds and suddenly shit got weird

All for One had a habit of getting ahold of one of their comms units or finding a way to get one to them just so he could be a freak about his brother. He knows it made First uncomfortable. All for One would always demand to speak to him and Second absolutely fucking refused to allow that unless First wanted it, which he never did. So the calls would always descend into extremely explicit threats about what would happen to them if First was hurt when he came to collect him. It was never about giving him back, because all for one was killing them all for this no matter what. Returning him wouldn’t save them. But there was room to negotiate on how painful it needed to be.

This would go on until Second would get fed up and shoot the fucking comms unit, which usually was like three minutes in tops

Anyway after the one (1) time all for one saw them together suddenly all for one felt the need to include threats about what would happen if anyone had been inappropriate with his brother or he if he found out that Second specifically had taken liberties with him. Third never found out what the actual threat was because second immediately fucking shot the comms unit and refused all questions.

Second got a lot of side eyes after that.

Okay but after? After?? They have had several hundred years to bring this up. What the fuck guys.

Second feels they are getting off topic. The point is finding Nine and getting him back to his body and First back with them. (Third: yeah I bet you want your husband back with—) Why was third even in those memories.

Uhhh Third was saving Nine from the irreparable fucking trauma of remembering what it’s like to date and apparently be married to Second. Nine’s slipping around all over the place. No direction. Total crapshoot about what memory he’ll end up in. They can afford to miss him slipping into one of the million fucking times First tried to fight some bitch with a pipe. But they seriously cannot have him stumbling around in First’s marriage. Like. For ethical reasons.

Second: *profound silence* there are some moments he should not se—

Third: I KNOW

Third is really taking a fucking bullet here. God he does not want to see this shit. He has to live in Nine’s bones with these assholes.

It also just feels really weird? The three of them really were friends, but Second and First had so many goddamn issues that they just struggled horribly to ever really talk about anything. Except with each other, apparently, because he knows way more about them from glancing furtively at these memories than he’s learned in like two hundred years of friendship. Their romance was sort of like when the really angry feral shelter dog got inexplicably attached to the quiet neglected one. It was kind of sweet, and also the weirdest goddamn thing Third has ever seen

First is in their makeshift gun range. Second is helping him learn to shoot. He steps up behind him to help him position the gun—

Third: And that’s where we call time folks. God that’s not even proper gun handling they sicken me. Nine trust me you want to follow me out now

It takes them a couple tries to get Izuku to remember himself long enough to shake free of the memories. It’s not that unusual, honestly. Most of them spent a while after they died slipping. The rest of them have to constantly go fishing for them while they’re still new.

Second and Third explain to Izuku what happened. Third separately explains to Izuku that he needs to swap back with first asap because second is so pathetic and sad without his husband that it’s hard to watch. The last time he was this visibly upset was after First died.

Third: god look at him. He’s a wreck

Second, in the distance: *emotionless, unmoving*

Third: i don’t know if ive ever seen him so emotional

Izuku:

Second: *scratches his nose, still emotionless*

Izuku:

Third: ugh it’s hard to look at

Third tells literally everyone First and Second were married by the way. They all live together in this kid’s bones and the fact that two of them are married is relevant to the group. Everyone was very upset by the news, except nana. This means she won the bet.

Izuku: so uh. What do you think first is doing with my body

Third, knows him too well: oh he is having a nuclear grade crash out right now

Izuku, eyes wide: oh

Second:

Second, clipped: probably.

First is and he’s making it everyone’s problem. Fundamentally he has spent his entire life trapped in a profoundly abusive relationship with his brother and it reached such levels of toxicity as to have societal impacts still felt centuries later. He and his brother have not improved or changed and they are in fact doing what they have historically done and escalating their relationship problems to an issue of national security.

He’s back on his vigilantism bullshit. He feels obligated to be the one going after his brother because of the everything. Besides, it’s bad enough that he hijacked this kid’s body. If he can do something to handle his brother so this kid won’t have to then he owes it to him. So he’ll do what he can while he’s figuring things out.

The league is so fucking distressed by this fact. What was expected in First’s time is not what is expected in the modern day. They’re operating in two different genres entirely. Fundamentally the league thinks they are in a slightly edgier version of Megamind and First thinks he is in the Vietnam War.

Shigaraki: which one of you fuckfaces ordered pizza to our fucking hideout—oh my god it’s a bomb

It does not help that all for one is a delusional freak on main about his little brother. The league has borderline developed a psychic link with one another just from the amount of uncomfortable and charged eye contact they are making.

It’s sort of like when you realize halfway through the story that your friend sincerely was the problem the entire time. Like there is something profoundly wrong with All for One and it fucking shows when his brother is involved.

First is trying to carve a path through whatever criminal underworld he encounters because he is a man on a level 900 crash out who was just handed a cataclysmic trigger for all his trauma, like all of it, and the superpower equivalent of a hydrogen bomb. He doesn’t have time to figure out what of this bullshit is his brother’s fault so he just adopts a razed earth approach. He’ll fight all of them, honestly

All for One: my brother has always been very emotionally sensitive. He upsets himself so easily.

Dabi, distressed: he fucking stabbed me

All for one: yes he does that sometimes. It’s how he handles is emotions. He isn’t well. He needs to be in an enclosed space with soft lighting and low levels of stimulus to manage his mental health

Dabi: are you talking about that room with no windows and a bank vault for a door. wait are you saying you put him in that thing for his mental health?

All for One: I took care of my brother for many years I know what he needs

The issue with this is that all for one will kill everyone if First dies in a terrible passion again and he needs people to understand this. The first time someone actually manages to land a serious hit on First, All for One decapitates him and sends the head to his wife and the body to his child. There was no reason for the separate shipments. They lived together. The behavior is simply unhinged.

During this time First is the vigilante equivalent of an endangered owl on a golf course that the criminal underworld is trying to safely and gently capture before they get in trouble with the game warden, who is his insane fucking brother. Meanwhile he’s an adult man from two hundred years ago who thinks he’s at fucking war and is trapped in a body ravaged by puberty. He’s running around doing the most out of pocket shit and screaming at his brother to fuck off. Absolutely everyone is profoundly disturbed by first and his brother’s relationship and would like to be less involved in it. But this is not an option.

The League is trying to quiet quit their own criminal enterprise. They are so profoundly uncomfortable by whatever it is that All for One is doing now that they feel like they just need to do the villain equivalent of going out for milk and scratchers and never coming back. Except they feel like all for one will take that poorly so they found a new hideout and are just slowly moving their things over there. Every time they leave to do something they just fill their pockets and bags with anything they can and move it into the new place. They’re gonna do a hard rebrand into the Coalition of Villains and try to distance themselves.

Meanwhile first is hitting a bump in his vigilante career because this kid’s friends appear to be hunting him for sport

Class 1-A wants Midoriya back. Whoever is in his body appears to be working through… a lot of things. But he can’t do it in Midoriya’s body.

First does not fucking want to he wants to be dead with his husband and also he cannot emphasize the chronic pain enough. He has been trying to find a psychic quirk that could help he has been breaking into this kid’s apartment to talk to his mom he binge watched the entire mighty movie franchise trying to spark something and he is getting shit. Can someone please believe him because he feels like he’s made his overwhelming desire to not be here super clear. He is so sad and generally despairing and he misses his husband so much

Leading the charge is the red and white kid and the explosions boy from before. They both appear to be dealing with a lot of personal things. Not that first has any room to judge, but.

Both appear convinced that They Hold The Secret To Reawakening Midoriya and the secret is to scream at him that they know he’s still in there before confessing shit that they should be telling their priests. He just. He doesn’t know. First has been generally tired for most of his life. This is not an exception. This all feels like really private information that he should not have and does not want.

The spiky haired kid appears to have carried a lot of guilt around like a cross that he is trying to lay at First’s feet. Something about how he was there too and didn’t save him and wasn’t good enough and regretting everything that happened between them. First isn’t sure. He’s getting the sense that there was something up between him and this Midoriya kid and he thinks that helping him reclaim his body is the road to absolution. Something about a river? First is begging people to stop trying to achieve emotional reconciliations with him he does not know the lore

Todoroki meanwhile is gay

He’s had a lot of time to think about Midoriya and what he means to him. More time than he’d like. He’s had to live without him these past few months and he doesn’t want to. He wants to spend every day together. He wants to be heroes together. And they’ll never be able to do that if Midoriya doesn’t wake up

Todoroki sleeping beauties him

It does not fucking work

First was honestly not expecting that and less than thrilled. Like yeah he’s running on fifteen year old hardware but metaphysically he’s an adult and he’s married and his husband is dead and he’ll never be over it. Um. Let’s never talk about that again.

First is pretty sure this is not an emotional actualization thing. He’s tried that already. He voluntarily subjected himself to like 9 million of these kid’s baby photos while his mom cried and tearfully told him how much he meant to her. He let fucking All Might cry on him on a moonlit beach and tell him that he thinks of him as his own so son please come back to him. If there is a single emotion that could bring him back to the surface surely First has sparked it by now. He needs a Quirk to get this kid back a Quirk he is begging people to stop trying to connect emotionally with him he’s very skittish about that kind of thing it feels like a trap

Izuku also thinks he needs a Quirk and knows which one it is. And, great news: they already have it

He slipped into Six’s memories by accident. Once, Six was patrolling the streets and ended up chasing a bag snatcher. When he caught her, he grabbed her arm, and in that moment he felt the same thing Izuku felt when all for one did this to him. All for One took her Quirk and used it to swap him with First

In the memory, Six exploded with his own smoke.

Six tracked her down later. Her quirk let her activate and manipulate other people’s quirks. All for one didn’t use some psychic quirk to swap them, because he didn’t need to. He used One for All.

One for All is a stockpile Quirk, but not in the traditional sense. Stockpile Quirks usually required a stockpile to work. Yaoyorozu required a stockpile of body fat; it didn’t build up fat to begin with. But one for all was actually stockpiling everything it came into contact with. It had a perfect copy of First already stored inside of it. All for One just activated what was already in its stockpile. And if he used one for all to do it? They could use it to reverse it.

They just. Don’t know how yet.

One for All is just really goddamn weird. They’ve clocked up two hundred years of experience between them and still are surprised by it. Seven was the first one to realize that the emotions of past users lingered. Eight was the first one to turn into a different fucking person with one for all. He was the only one who got a Hannah Montana form and honestly none of them know how he did that. Five and Six are convinced that Nine will be able to use their Quirks and they want him to try as soon as he gets his body back because it will be so fucking sick

So they’re trying to figure out how to swap out consciousnesses. It is. Going slow. Like this shit is difficult. It is weird dream logic bullshit. The human mind was not made to exist in harmony with eight others. And it was not made to exist purely in a mental state. Learning how to navigate one for all is like learning how to swim in a pool without buoyancy. It took them years to figure out how to make chairs. They were really gearing up to try and contact nine through his dreams, dramatic style, sitting in the chairs. It was going to be sick. But that’s the culmination of 200+ years of work. Chairs and spooky dreams. They need more.

Izuku can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t going to work without First. He’s at the wheel right now. He’s in control of their Quirk. Part of the reason why it’s so hard to navigate OfA is that it’s infinitely more difficult to activate it or use it at all when you’re in it. Literally the only time they managed to trigger it from the inside was during the sports festival with Shinsou, and that was only for a moment. He thinks for this to work, First needs to do it from the outside. And for that, they need to talk to him or Izuku will never wake up from this

Oh look. Izuku's awake.

The LoV and the Shie Haissaki still end up collaborating, but its even more tense right now, because All for One is out and a grade a freak and the League is in the process of trying to leave before all for one realizes that’s what they’re doing. Dabi does not want to fucking be here okay they would have left already but shigaraki and twice got into a three hour argument about whether they could practically smuggle their beds out or if they should just get new ones and now Dabi has a piece of baseboard strapped to his leg beneath his clothes and it feels like a wingnut has fallen into his sock. He doesn’t want to be here he just doesn’t

First was doing something unrelated and one of the Shie hassaiki clobbered him from behind and only realized who he was later and took him to Chisaki in a panic for the damage to be fixed before all for one found out about it and honestly it’s the most stressful thing to happen to them in a long time. He woke up after he was brought down there and his instinctive distrust of waking up In A Place kicked in and he started biting immediately. Then one of them shot him in a panic with a quirk destroying bullet and he dropped like a sack of fucking rocks. No one can remember if the gun was loaded with the temporary or permanent kind and they are absolutely begging the league to be cool about this and not tell AfO. And honestly? Dabi doesn’t want to tell that guy. He’s sort of team psycho biting little brother. Like holy fuck Dabi’s a villain but he’s not that kind of villain. Every time he sees that vault he feels like a creep by association. AfO has such a rancid family dynamic that it’s making Dabi rethink his own. Should he call his mom.

Izuku wakes up

And he locks in

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He doesn’t know where he is. There’s a man here who has paired his feather boa lined fur coat with a plague doctor mask and Izuku feels profoundly judgmental about that and inexplicable responsible for it.

He does not ask questions. He does not hesitate. He has a lot of memories in living in a much more hardcore time and has inherited first’s profound distrust of being In A Place. Plague doctor mask has a highly destructive five point contact quirk he is not afraid to use and Izuku knows where first likes to hide his knives.

From the Shie haissaki’s perspective all for one’s freak of a baby brother lunged up from being dead unconscious and immediately started cutting off fingers. What the fuck

At around this same time the heroes launch their raid to save Eri

For the moment Eri is just fine because Izuku is riding on fucking instinct. He stole a gun, shot some people with god knows what because these are NOT bullets, sprinted off down a random hall, and found a little girl obviously being abused who was locked in a random room

Izuku has very strong feelings about this for all of the old reasons and several new ones

He offers her his hand. He asks her if she’d like to leave this place. He promises he won’t let anyone hurt her

Eri takes his hand

Now they’re escaping together. From what, Izuku doesn’t know. This compound seems to have a lot going on right now. He can’t access One for All, which makes sense. It must be erased somehow if he’s awake. He just. Really, really hopes it wasn’t permanent

Dabi, stumbling on them: oh fuck which one are you

Izuku: *wild eyed, has a gun*

Dabi: you know what? I don’t want to deal with either of you. Do whatever the fuck you want *walks off*

Lemillion led the charge into saving Eri. He ran off ahead of all others, and he encounters Izuku first. He recognizes him immediately. All Might has been coming to Night Eye for help getting him back into his body and he has a picture in his wallet of Izuku that he keeps showing mirio while crying. But he thinks First is still in charge, so he approaches the situation like a horse girl attempting to soothe a wild stallion

Izuku, squinting at him, profoundly confused: don’t you go to my school?

Lemillion: oh my god Midoriya is that you??

Izuku: yes??

Lemillion: what are you doing here???

Izuku: I DONT KNOW I WOKE UP AND I LOCKED IN

Lemillion, immediately and instinctively recognizing that they have the same soul, tearing up slightly: fuck yeah little man let’s get you two out of here

Izuku’s confused but enthusiastic about whatever this is. He doesn’t know this little girl but he would die for her. He shoots people and their quirks stop working. He’s a great shot now. Second was a great teacher when Izuku wasn’t being hurriedly ushered away from the gay bits. Fuck is that Kirishima??

Izuku: KIRISHIMA

Kirishima, immediately recognizing his homeboy is back: YOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Mr. Aizawa is here too. Mr. Aizawa looks at him with such a profound exhaustion that Izuku assumes it’s about something he did. He’s sorry, Sensei.

Aizawa: fuck Midoriya??

And I genuinely was going to try to get this to a decent stopping point but this post is so long now that it is crashing tumblr. It has taken me five minutes to get this sentence to type. So we end here before I lose this whole post and cry

[jazz-the-writer]

YAAAAAA LEEKNOW.

There’s a STORY WHATS THE STORY???? WHERE IS IT ??? WHAT IDD I MISS !!!?

Dime PINCHE CABRON. DIME CÓMO CHINGASTEs LLEGASTEIS A ESA PINCHE NOMBRE????

Look I’m a dummy Spanish speaker. No sabo speak okay??? I’m roughly fluent cause it’s a second language and I never learned proper grammar for it so I sound illiterate.

Lee know tell me how the fuck Channie got the nickname Buchou ???

Cause it’s cute as fuck and omg can I use it ???????

My bestie hasn’t watched any videos with me since SClass era idk I can’t remember anymore it’s been so long and so many comebacks \(//∇//)\

I’m missing skz so much and my bestie won’t even watch any vids with me ✌🏼🥲

[nightcxty]

VS STUDIOS - VALORY'S INTERVIEW

NC'S DOWNLOW MAGAZINE - ISSUE 001 [MUSIC EDITION]

There’s a nip in the air today—but it doesn’t make Watson any less popular with it’s usual tourists flooding the streets and hogging the food vendor stalls. Despite the ever rising crime rate in this district, the nightlife scene and cultural diversity still pulls people in on the daily, making this place one of the hottest spots in the bustling city.  Known for it’s many music bars and spectacular live act performances, it’s here where ‘VS Studios’ has made it’s home.

With the address of it kept a secret to the public, the location is far out of reach from any wandering tourists, locals or other prying eyes. 

Upon reaching what initially seems to be an abandoned lot, studio co-owner Valory Burton is already awaiting us at the side entrance with a welcoming smile. She’s opted her usual heavy black clothes for a light brown jumpsuit with her green hair tucked into a ponytail—she’s oozing the relaxed vibes one would only have on a day off.

“Was worried you guys got mugged,” Valory tells us with a cheeky grin, before shaking both our hands and leading us into the side entrance.

Entering the place, the phrase ‘never judge a book by it’s cover’ seems applicable here.

There’s an immediate living space upon entering, the smell of incense heavy in the air; the brown and green painted walls are aligned with shelves of books and golden records. The room has a T-design, with a comfortable seating area and a kitchen opposite of that.

“Books are my partner’s, he’s a real nerd,” Valory tells us with a loving grin, before offering us coffee and a homemade scone.

After our brief introduction, she takes the time to show us around; the door next to the seating area leading to the production unit. “This is where the magic happens,” Valory announces, while giddily showing us all the panels and gadgets, explaining what they’re for. 

The room in front of the production unit is where the artists are being recorded; her partner is sitting there strumming away on an acoustic guitar, a pen behind his ear and a notebook propped on the AMP next to him.

Upon spotting us and Valory through the glass panel window, he merely looks up with a glare and gives us a nod.

“Don’t take it personal—he’s not big on media,” Valory says apologetically before leading us back into the kitchen again.

So, Valory. First of all, congratulations on your recent success with “Requiem”. 

Oh, thank you so much. I’m so happy.

Did you ever expect it to be this big?

Nah—I genuinely can’t believe it would attract attention but I guess with my partner’s influence… *laughs* People were probably curious about the rumors and I don’t blame them. Just glad they actually stuck around for the music—means we did something right.

Was it a challenge to work with your partner on this? You both co-own the studio, correct?

Yes to both *laughs*. Kidding.

We got the idea a year ago to start our own production company—it was definitely a test but for all the good reasons. Same with the album—I expected it to be difficult but I was surprised at how easily we flowed together, creatively and intellectually. We’re very similar with our views on the world in that regard—we know what we want out of life.

How did you divide the work? How did you decide who gets what parts?

Oh that’s easy. I did the drums and a few key sections. My partner did both the bass guitar and electric guitar plus vocals. Most of the writing we did together, a few songs are ones we wrote completely by ourselves. You can hear me do a few backing vocals. 

The production, mixing and mastering we did together.

The writing is impeccable. What was the inspiration behind the project?

Thank you! 

I can’t say too much about that—-it’s classified. *laughs*

To put it in a nutshell, we both went through some heavy shit these past 2 years. 

This album was our way of healing in a way. It was an incredibly grounding experience.

We won’t pry. 

Thank you. Never actually done a personal interview before, so.

And we wanna keep that a positive experience!

Would you mind telling the readers a little about yourself? Where did you grow up?

I grew up everywhere and nowhere at all. Sounds awfully cryptic but I’m a nomad.

My clan originally hailed from Europe—-the Netherlands and the United Kingdom to be exact. When the flooding and riots started in both places, my clan jumped ship—literally. They thought the NUSA would give them better opportunities and they had contacts there.

That sounds quite intense.

I mean, I wasn’t alive yet to witness any of that—the badlands is all I’ve ever known. Although, I’ve been all over this country really.

Got a favorite place?

It changes from time to time—I’m too fucking nostalgic for my own good. Right now I really miss Colorado but I bet tomorrow I’ll be missing Nevada again.

What was it like, growing up in a clan?

My answer is always changing to that one, too. One day you hate your family because no family is perfect, the next you’re so grateful to be in such a loving community. I miss the camaraderie; Night City was so incredibly lonely in comparison. 

I can imagine. Did they have an influence on your upbringing as a musician at all? Or did you learn how to play the instruments in Night City?

That was them! Music was such an important aspect in my clan—we held open mic nights with barbeques. People would give a showcase of their musical talents, sometimes we’d even invite other neighboring clans to participate.

But aside from my clan—music is such an important aspect to Nomad culture. I feel like every clan has so many talented musicians; nearly everyone knows how to string a guitar or play a keyboard. So many talented writers that are unknown.

My father taught me how to play the drums—our clan had only 1 acoustic set, for the convenience of traveling. My mother taught me how to sing and play the keyboard.

Nomad life sounds wonderful—also, we don’t hear you sing a lot in your work.

Oh don’t be blinded by temptation—nomad life is a hard one. It’s rewarding but so hard, it’s certainly not suitable for everyone. That and the general distrust of outsiders.. *chuckles* 

“That’s because she’s a pussy.” 

Our interview is interrupted by the arrival of Valory’s partner—he’s slipped on his sunglasses as he brazely enters the kitchen area to pour himself a coffee.

When us, the two interviewers, look at him in confusion, the man smirks.

“Put that down on why you don’t hear her vocals—it’s cus she’s a fuckin’ pussy.” 

Would you mind if we ask you a few questions?

Can certainly fucking try. Will I answer though? Probably not—her interview after all.

Do you mind, Valory?

Not at all. Would love to see how this one plays out.

So—Johnny. Know you guys don’t talk about it all, but.. your sudden reappearance.

Yeah. What about it?

Care to share any details?

Nah. Just tell your readers I’m christ in the flesh, should make for a few good laughs and headlines.

V: Johnny! You can’t say shit like that.

Tough shit. Just did.

Very well, we’ll scratch that.

You wanna tell us a little about your revisit to the music scene?

Shit, not much to say. Might have changed but still a musician in my heart and soul—will probably die with an axe in my hands. Still got shit to say to the world through this medium.

We’ve asked your partner what it was like—to produce an album with you.

Oh yeah? *grins* What’d she say?

V: Can read it for yourself when it comes out.

We’re curious as to what your answer is to the same question.

Huh. Well, had a fucking blast actually. Getting to work with your own partner in crime and the one who knows you fucking inside and out—most easiest flowing collaboration I’ve ever experienced. Should’ve done it way earlier.

Why didn’t you? Do it earlier?

Pff, ask miss Pride ‘n Indepence here.

Valory?

V: Had my own reasons. Had to be ready, I guess.

Fair enough. So, Johnny. Is there a Samurai reunion in the works? Maybe a rumored re-recording of your masters?

“And that’s my queue to fuck off. Nice meetin’ you, I guess. Put Val’s ass on the front page—it’ll sell like hot cakes.” 

“Please ignore him. Don’t print that.” 

What are your goals for the future, Valory?

Oh. Way to break my balls with such a heavy loaded question *laughs*.

Well, certainly try and scout more artists. We’re really proud of who we’ve signed so far—they’re all so incredibly talented.

I definitely wanna expand on that, maybe add some new genres into the mix. Might even offer independent sessions to already signed artists, just so they’re free from any major label influence—but haven’t worked out the details yet.

Would be a slippery slope though, dunno if we can even achieve something like that without any contracts in place and that’s already a no-go for us.

Understandable. Is it challenging to be in this business?

As a woman, you mean? Yes and no—it’s mostly the view of the public that doesn’t take me seriously. They will see the words ‘woman’ and ‘sound engineer’ used in a sentence and think of something.. amateuristic. The people closest to me believe in me and that’s all I care about.

What about remaining independent as a label?

Yeah, that’s tough. Not many of us out there but the ones who are are here to stay. I’d like to think we are, too. We’re trying to stay fresh, without leaning into the heavy overproduced sounds you hear on the radio. I mean, nothing wrong if that’s what you like but that’s not our aim with VS Studios—we wanna stay true to our independent sound.

Well Valory. Thank you for meeting us and doing this interview. Is there anything you wanna tell our readers?

Never stop fighting. Support local artists. Be true to yourself.

“Pack it up, Buddha.”

.. Find someone who makes you smile.

[passthroughtime]

my fucking god, rereading your own wips is such a chore. and no one ever warned me about that.

[reasonsforhope]

No paywall version here.

"Two and a half years ago, when I was asked to help write the most authoritative report on climate change in the United States, I hesitated...

In the end, I said yes, but reluctantly. Frankly, I was sick of admonishing people about how bad things could get. Scientists have raised the alarm over and over again, and still the temperature rises. Extreme events like heat waves, floods and droughts are becoming more severe and frequent, exactly as we predicted they would. We were proved right. It didn’t seem to matter.

Our report, which was released on Tuesday, contains more dire warnings. There are plenty of new reasons for despair. Thanks to recent scientific advances, we can now link climate change to specific extreme weather disasters, and we have a better understanding of how the feedback loops in the climate system can make warming even worse. We can also now more confidently forecast catastrophic outcomes if global emissions continue on their current trajectory.

But to me, the most surprising new finding in the Fifth National Climate Assessment is this: There has been genuine progress, too.

I’m used to mind-boggling numbers, and there are many of them in this report. Human beings have put about 1.6 trillion tons of carbon in the atmosphere since the Industrial Revolution — more than the weight of every living thing on Earth combined. But as we wrote the report, I learned other, even more mind-boggling numbers. In the last decade, the cost of wind energy has declined by 70 percent and solar has declined 90 percent. Renewables now make up 80 percent of new electricity generation capacity. Our country’s greenhouse gas emissions are falling, even as our G.D.P. and population grow.

In the report, we were tasked with projecting future climate change. We showed what the United States would look like if the world warms by 2 degrees Celsius. It wasn’t a pretty picture: more heat waves, more uncomfortably hot nights, more downpours, more droughts. If greenhouse emissions continue to rise, we could reach that point in the next couple of decades. If they fall a little, maybe we can stave it off until the middle of the century. But our findings also offered a glimmer of hope: If emissions fall dramatically, as the report suggested they could, we may never reach 2 degrees Celsius at all.

For the first time in my career, I felt something strange: optimism.

And that simple realization was enough to convince me that releasing yet another climate report was worthwhile.

Something has changed in the United States, and not just the climate. State, local and tribal governments all around the country have begun to take action. Some politicians now actually campaign on climate change, instead of ignoring or lying about it. Congress passed federal climate legislation — something I’d long regarded as impossible — in 2022 as we turned in the first draft.

[Note: She's talking about the Inflation Reduction Act and the Infrastructure Act, which despite the names were the two biggest climate packages passed in US history. And their passage in mid 2022 was a big turning point: that's when, for the first time in decades, a lot of scientists started looking at the numbers - esp the ones that would come from the IRA's funding - and said "Wait, holy shit, we have an actual chance."]

And while the report stresses the urgency of limiting warming to prevent terrible risks, it has a new message, too: We can do this. We now know how to make the dramatic emissions cuts we’d need to limit warming, and it’s very possible to do this in a way that’s sustainable, healthy and fair.

The conversation has moved on, and the role of scientists has changed. We’re not just warning of danger anymore. We’re showing the way to safety.

I was wrong about those previous reports: They did matter, after all. While climate scientists were warning the world of disaster, a small army of scientists, engineers, policymakers and others were getting to work. These first responders have helped move us toward our climate goals. Our warnings did their job.

To limit global warming, we need many more people to get on board... We need to reach those who haven’t yet been moved by our warnings. I’m not talking about the fossil fuel industry here; nor do I particularly care about winning over the small but noisy group of committed climate deniers. But I believe we can reach the many people whose eyes glaze over when they hear yet another dire warning or see another report like the one we just published.

The reason is that now, we have a better story to tell. The evidence is clear: Responding to climate change will not only create a better world for our children and grandchildren, but it will also make the world better for us right now.

Eliminating the sources of greenhouse gas emissions will make our air and water cleaner, our economy stronger and our quality of life better. It could save hundreds of thousands or even millions of lives across the country through air quality benefits alone. Using land more wisely can both limit climate change and protect biodiversity. Climate change most strongly affects communities that get a raw deal in our society: people with low incomes, people of color, children and the elderly. And climate action can be an opportunity to redress legacies of racism, neglect and injustice.

I could still tell you scary stories about a future ravaged by climate change, and they’d be true, at least on the trajectory we’re currently on. But it’s also true that we have a once-in-human-history chance not only to prevent the worst effects but also to make the world better right now. It would be a shame to squander this opportunity. So I don’t just want to talk about the problems anymore. I want to talk about the solutions. Consider this your last warning from me."

-via New York Times. Opinion essay by leading climate scientist Kate Marvel. November 18, 2023.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

the ADHD writer's guide to actually finishing a draft (no, seriously) 📝

okay, tumblr, writers... we need to TALK about how to actually finish a damn draft when your executive functioning decided to pack its bags and leave for a permanent vacation in the bahamas.

i'm not here to give you that basic "just set a timer!" advice that makes me want to throw my laptop into the sun. we all know those productivity hacks that work for neurotypicals make us want to scream into the void. (been there, screamed that.)

so here's the ACTUAL guide from someone who's written three novels while her brain was actively trying to sabotage her the entire time.

FIRST: accept that linear writing is a capitalist construct designed to torture us.

i'm serious. whoever decided writers should start at chapter 1 and proceed neatly to THE END clearly didn't have dopamine playing hide-and-seek in their prefrontal cortex.

write whatever scene has your brain chemicals SINGING today. that climactic fight scene that's six chapters away? the tender moment between your characters that happens in the middle? WRITE IT NOW while your brain is actually interested. i have finished entire novels by writing them in chunks and stitching them together like the beautiful frankenstein's monster they are.

SECOND: the 10-minute lie (that actually works???)

tell yourself you're only going to write for 10 minutes. that's it. no pressure. your adhd brain can handle anything for 10 minutes, right? the secret is that once you start, momentum becomes your best friend. sometimes you'll actually stop at 10 minutes (congrats, you still wrote something!) but often you'll look up and realize it's been two hours and you've written 2,000 words. and yes i've seen this a lot, like everywhere, where they tell you "set a timer for 5, and by the time you realize it's 2 hours" i've seen this many times before, and it actually works. at first i thought it didn't but boy, i was wrong.

THIRD: use your hyperfixation powers for good, not evil.

we all know that adhd comes with the superpower of becoming obsessed with random things for unpredictable amounts of time. WEAPONIZE THIS. create artificial urgency around your project. tell people about your deadline. make elaborate aesthetic pinterest boards. create a spotify playlist that you only listen to while writing this specific project. trick your brain into making your WIP the shiny new hyperfixation.

FOURTH: body-doubling saved my writing career and it can save yours too.

find another writer friend (or any friend who needs to do focused work) and sit together - virtually or physically - while you both work. something about having another human witnessing your work process bypasses the executive dysfunction. i swear it's actual magic. discord writing sprints, zoom sessions with cameras off but mics on - whatever works.

FIFTH: embrace the chaos of your natural writing cycle.

some days you'll write 5,000 words in a frenzy at 3am. other days you'll stare at the document for an hour and write "the." BOTH ARE VALID WRITING DAYS. the only consistency we need is returning to the document, not some arbitrary daily word count.

SIXTH: create external accountability that doesn't make you want to die.

deadlines from publishers? great. deadlines you set for yourself? your brain laughs and says "or what?" find the sweet spot - maybe it's a writing buddy you check in with, maybe it's a public progress tracker, maybe it's promising your sister you'll take her to dinner when you finish a chapter.

SEVENTH: the frankendraft approach.

your first draft DOES NOT need to be good, coherent, or even make sense. it just needs to exist. leave yourself notes like [FIGURE OUT HOW SHE GETS FROM THE CASTLE TO THE BEACH LATER] and keep moving. your adhd brain will thank you for not getting stuck in research rabbit holes for six hours.

EIGHTH: find your optimal writing environment through shameless trial and error.

maybe you need complete silence. maybe you need to be in a coffee shop with specific ambient noise. maybe you need to write standing up. maybe you need to dictate your novel while pacing around your apartment. there is no wrong way to get the words out.

i personally write best when i'm slightly uncomfortable (weird, i know) so i often end up writing while sitting on my kitchen floor with my laptop balanced on a chair. whatever works, bestie. a finished messy draft is infinitely more valuable than the perfect novel still trapped in your head. your adhd brain is simultaneously your greatest challenge and your greatest asset as a writer. the connections you make, the unique perspectives, the creativity - all of that comes from the same place as the struggles.

you've got this. now go write something, even if it's just for 10 minutes. i believe in you. ✨ -rin t.

[hwaflms]

HAPPY NOW? ★ [ j.jh ]

your family has been pressuring you for months to bring your boyfriend, jaehyun, over for dinner, and you think it’s really sweet that they like him so much. the only problem is that your “boyfriend” jaehyun, hates you.

———————————————————————

[☆] PAIRING. ex!jaehyun x f!reader

[☆] GENRE. angst, smut, fluff | fake dating?, exes to ??? au

[☆] WC. 19.9k (i don’t even know)

[☆] WARNINGS. angst, reader has anxiety, mentions of anxiety attacks, fighting, reader be lying a lot, reader has a little sister, crying, reader is kind of a dumbass, explicit content (piv smut), unprotected sex (don’t do this gang!), fingering, sex in public kinda, pls lmk if i forgot anything!!

[☆] NOTES. i’m so fucking annoyed with tumblr it’s not letting me insert images properly UGH this took me over 2 hours to upload man 🗣️ im pretty proud of this one ‼️ idek how it got this long but it’s my longest fic yet and it’s been sitting in my drafts for ages until i finally got the inspo to write it :p i want jaehyun so bad it’s not even funny tbh but anyway PLS GIVE ME FEEDBACK/A REBLOG LITERALLY ANYTHING IS APPRECIATED <33

———————————————————————

six months.

you haven't seen this door in six months.

it's funny because, this was a door you used to push open and walk through every other day, yet now you stand on the opposite side of it, unsure as to whether you should even be thinking of knocking.

your hand is raised to the door, shaped like a fist but you make no move to actually knock. you were aware that you still had time to bail out of this, that you could turn on your heel and make your merry way back to your sad little house and go back to pretending you're happy with the choice you made six months ago.

or you could just do what you came all the way here to do.

the weather seems to be in your favour, at least. the sun shines radiantly, making the temperature warm, but not too warm, and a cool breeze travels through the air in short intervals. the summer had begun early, birds chirping in their habitual singsong way and wild bougainvillea already flowering in various shades of pink and lilac. usually when the day starts off with good weather, the rest of it follows suit, and thus your day is made better. hopefully, this is the case for you today.

pausing for a short, morale-boosting intake of air, you tighten your fist and knock, knock, knock on the mahogany door, immediately regretting your decision as you feel your stomach churn and plummet. a good ten seconds pass, and you hear no reply nor movement from the inside of the house, and part of you is relieved because that means he may not be home.

more than happy to do a 180° and skip along joyously back to the metro that would take you home, your feet begin to make for that trip but your mind decides against it. you know that you are being overly dramatic, but even with being aware of this, your heart rate does not slow down one bit. you also know that what you've come here to do is more than just selfish, its pathetic and rather embarrassing. it's also a hugely unsavoury request, and if your roles were reversed, you'd most definitely laugh in his face and shut the door.

finally somewhat making up your mind with a quiet groan, you raise your clenched fist and rap against his front door again in a set of three. you nervously shift your weight from your right to your left foot, then back to your right and then once again to your left, the anxiety and anticipation not allowing you to stand still and relax, thinking that if he doesn't answer this time, you really will just return home.

"hold on, i'm coming!", a hurried, muffled voice calls from inside the house and you don't think your heart has ever beaten this fast in your life. not even during the one time you ran a marathon to prove a point to your friend chenle, and while you did show him that you didn't only run to get away from spiders, your body took its own sweet time to recover from that.

now you hear footsteps approaching the door from the opposite side of it, and you don't think you can handle anymore of this tortuous, build up of a wait because you are quite literally one step away from calling it a day and just sprinting your way out of there, just like you did on the last few metres of the aforementioned marathon, and you know he's nearing the door because the footsteps are getting clearer and clearer, and soon he's going to open the door, take one look at you and just slam the door right in your face, but not before spewing verbal explosives at you, which would be totally deserved since he has every right to just spit on you and tell you how you're a terrible, downright horrible human being completely unworthy of forgiveness and-

"sorry for making you wait so long, i was-"

if your heart rate was at its maximum speed before, now it just stopped.

standing in front of you, in the flesh, was the man who's heart you broke six months ago.

jaehyun had just about opened his door in a way that his body was sticking halfway out of it, but he was now frozen in that position, neither in nor out, just stuck there looking like he was contemplating his next move. he adorned a loose, white shirt that clung to his defined shoulders and chest, paired with a pair of red plaid pants with a patch of some different material stitched just above where his knee was. you'd recognise those pants just about anywhere, having worn them a number of times and being the cause of that strange patch with mismatched material (you'd tried to balance a pot of steaming hot ramen on your knee in order to move something, resulting in it causing a burn in the pant).

his attire tells you that he was either just about to eat breakfast, in the process of eating breakfast, or about to finish breakfast; jaehyun was not an early riser and he liked to take his time getting ready for the day.

apart from his slightly changed hair, jaehyun looks the same as he did before, if not better. his once shorter, straight, brown hair, was now a darker kind of black and longer in a silky, mullet-y, layered sort of way, the mullet part stopping just above where his shirt met his neck and the front bits falling on to his face in thin, soft wisps.

everything about the man was captivating and entrancing, but if you had to pick a specific feature that really takes the cake, it would have to be his eyes. his eyes, deep-set and fierce, always gave the impression that he was cold or unapproachable, whereas in reality, he was the opposite. as striking as they may be, they always carried a certain warmth to them.

while they still held the same intensity to them, the warmth was missing as he looked straight at you now. after the brief moment of confusion when he first opened the door dissipated, the familiarity had sunk in, and his expression now was more or less unreadable, but you still tried to make out what he was thinking and feeling- was it shock? anger? maybe even disgust?

"okay, are you going to just stand there or are you going to say something?"

you think it was largely a combination of the last two. in all your fidgeting and gawking, you'd forgotten to actually speak to the man who's door you'd just knocked on, leaving him standing there wordless and confused, an eyebrow raised as he waited for you to open your mouth.

you try to do so, so many words wanting to tumble out your mouth but an invisible gate seems to block it, so now you're just stood still with your mouth opening and closing soundlessly, looking like an idiot.

c'mon y/n, fucking say something, anything-

"how have you been?", is what you decide to go with to break the silence in the end, an awkward smile plastered on to your face. you realise before the sentence is even fully out of your mouth that that would be a really weird thing to start off with, seeing as you and jaehyun have had absolutely zero contact for six months, and are obviously not on the most wonderful terms.

jaehyun's eyebrows furrow, a look of clear disbelief on his face as he clutches his door handle a little tighter. he looks away with a sarcastic smile, shaking his head before turning back to look you dead in the eye. oh, he's going to slam the door on you, you just know it-

"really? 'how have you been'?", he questions incredulously, licking his bottom lip while an exasperated smile plays at them. funnily enough, his response is somewhat relieving to your pitiful self, because you weren't even expecting to hear a reply to what you said, you figured he'd just walk away. you would've. "we haven't seen each for six months since we broke up and 'how have you been' is the best you've got?"

you wince apologetically and bite your lip, playing with your fingers nervously as he quite literally stares you down, irritation written all over his face.

he waits a couple more beats for you to break the tense silence and speak but you are inwardly (and outwardly) struggling to word your thoughts, so he simply scoffs and backs away to return inside.

"okay wait, i didn't tell my family that we broke up and they keep pressuring me to bring you home for the holidays, so i would really like if you'd pretend you don't hate me and come with me."

you don't even want to open your eyes to witness his reaction to your blurted little confession, so you merely stand, frozen in place with your eyes squeezed shut tightly. a couple seconds pass yet you don't hear a door slam, a good sign, so you take that as an affirmative to open your eyes.

he doesn't say anything, or do anything either really, he just leans against his doorframe with another indecipherable expression. this irks you even though you know you have no right to feel irked, but the fact that you once had the ability to know what he was thinking and now don't bothers you to the core. plus, it leaves you feeling unsure as to whether to continue. he might just start laughing at you manically or angrily tell you to get off his property like some bitter, 60-year-old man, and either of these scenarios would be completely fair of him to do.

the heavy realisation that your request sounded absolutely delusional and conceited dawns upon you, and something about his irksome expression makes you feel like you should keep talking. "you have literally every right to just tell me to fuck off, and i don't even expect an answer, i don't really know why i even came here, oh my god- this is so fucking stupid, i'm so fucking stupid and honestly i don't know why you're still standing here listening to me ramble-"

"i need to get ready then. give me ten minutes."

✧ ──────── ✧ ──────── ✧

the front door you're stood at now holds a very different ambience to the previous one. while jaehyun's was quiet and peaceful, the front door to your parents house reveals that the inside is just bustling with activity. the chorus of kate bush's 'running up that hill' plays faintly from behind the door, so you figured that your dad must have brought out his old record player from the dusty attic.

jaehyun stands beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his light grey hoodie that you feel he must be boiling in, because you're wearing a black tank top with some loose cargoes that you think you might have drenched with sweat.

the sweat would be from the burning heat, but also from the agitation you're really starting to feel. there are so many different ways this dinner could go. what if jaehyun suddenly tells them the truth? then everyone in the room would hate you, and rightly so. you don't want to have to explain to your parents why you broke up with him; it's a stupid fucking reason, if you can even call it that, and it made you completely miserable. how were you supposed explain to your little sister that you and jaehyun aren't together anymore? you suppose relationships are a totally foreign concept to her young mind, but you were sure that she knew you and jaehyun loved each other very much. and you knew she loved jaehyun very much.

he does not look at you, instead choosing to really focus on the christmas themed welcome mat that your parents put out during the winter of '09 and never bothered to change. how he even agreed to come here with you, you don't know, but to say you're grateful would be an understatement.

"you still have time to back out, you know.", you mumble softly, trying to give him one more chance to escape, but he doesn't even spare you a glance, shaking his head and squinting at the door.

"let's just get this over with."

with a small sigh, your raise your hand to press your parents doorbell, the embarrassingly loud 'ding dong' ringing out from behind the door. "oh, that must be her!", you hear the muffled voice of your father speak from the inside, making a slight smile form on your lips.

within a couple seconds, you hear the sound of the muted metal bolt as your dad struggles to open the door to let you in. a grunt of "this damn door..." makes both you and jaehyun release short giggles, and you peek over at jaehyun to see his lips curl upwards into a smile, a small one but it's still breathtakingly pretty . he clears his throat and it's gone in a flash, but the image doesn't leave your mind, and you're still seeing it when your dad finally manages to open the door. "i really need to start using the new lock", he mutters, shifting his eyes to you with a big grin, leaving against the doorframe with his arms folded. "hello, sweetheart."

you chuckle and throw your arms around him, squeezing him a little as he laughs and pats your back in return. releasing you, he turns to jaehyun with a smile, who promptly sticks his hand out politely. "hello, mr. l/n, long time no see."

your dad ignores his hand, throwing his head back with a gruff laugh. "what's with all the formalities, come here, son.", and with that he gives jaehyun a hug as well, a slightly shorter one albeit, but a hug nonetheless. the word 'son' repeats in your mind like an echo, sounding more and more distorted the longer you focus on it. you can't even begin to think of what was going through jaehyun's mind. this was not your brightest idea.

you notice your mom waiting by the door with her hands behind her back, eyes bright and shiny. "hi, mom.", you beam, and she laughs cheerily, opening her arms for you to run into, which you do. she presses numerous kisses to the crown of your head, making you groan lightheartedly and try to escape her hold, but it only tightens. "oh, how i've missed you."

"i missed you too, mom.", you say but she's already let you go and is making a bee line for jaehyun with her arms open, who falls into the hug so readily and comfortably. "i may have missed you, y/n, but i missed jaehyun ten times more.", she jokes, pinching jaehyun's cheeks affectionately.

jaehyun is turning bright red, but he has a toothy grin on his face, a real one, you can tell. his eyes travel the front room where all of you are stood with a nostalgic smile, having not seen it or your parents in over six months. you watch as they look from the various photo frames hung up on the wall alongside the staircase, to the curtains that they recently changed, finally landing on the record player thay was sitting on the table. "wow, mr. l/n, where did you get this?", jaehyun asks, and you wonder whether he's trying to make conversation or if he's genuinely curious. you think it may be the second one.

while him and your dad engage in small talk about his record player, you turn to your mom to ask of the whereabouts of your little sister, and as if on cue, you hear an excited squeal from the top of the stairs. all four heads turn to see your sister bounding down the stairs hurriedly, paying no mind to your mom's strained shout of "careful!".

"y/n!", she piped, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs and running straight to you, wrapping her arms around your legs. she barely reaches your hip so her hug is really just her face pressed into your thigh with her arms squeezing your legs together, while you pat the top of her head.

somehow managing to pry her off of your legs, you kneel and give her a proper hug in return, now happy that you made the decision to come home for a bit of your holiday. she lets go and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and jutting her hand out to you, urging you to take it.

you smile and furrow your eyebrows with confusion but you take the paper anyway, opening it as carefully as you could so as to not tear it anywhere. smoothing it out flat on your knee, you're greeted with a drawing; two people stand holding hands under a deep blue sky, a large yellow sun shining in one corner along with some "birds" that are really just little 'v's scribbled in black. they're stood on a beach, at least you think they are because there are two shades of blue on the paper, one of them probably being the blue hue of the ocean.

you assume the two people are you and your sister, since one of them has shorter, shoulder length hair and is miniscule compared to the other person, who's hair length and height are similar to yours.

you hold the picture to your chest and pull your sister in for another heartfelt hug, kissing her temple. "is this us?", you ask her, pointing at the two people in the drawing. she gives you a proud nod in return, taking the picture from your hands and holding it in front of her face. "yup! the big girl is you and the small girl is me! we're gonna go swimming.", she informs you, flashing you the toothiest of smiles. "thank you, it's perfect.", you tell her, ruffling her hair a little as she hands you the drawing back.

she clearly doesn't appreciate that, because she whines and swats your hands away, but soon her eyes focus on something behind you and they enlarge, the second excited squeal of the day emerging from her lips. "jae!", she just about screams, completely abandoning you in favour of running off to jaehyun, who has a wide smile on his face and looks equally as happy as her. he scoops her up in his arms and lifts her in front of his face, doing a little spin as peals of laughter escape her.

he finally puts her down but she holds on to his hand, looking at the male with absolute adoration. "hi, cutie.", he boops her nose affectionately to which she giggles, turning to look at you. "you didn't tell me jaehyun was coming!"

"i wasn't sure if he could make it", you reply to her honestly, looking at jaehyun as you speak because only the two of you know what you really mean by that. he holds your eye contact for perhaps a millisecond longer than he did before, but again, it was gone in a flash. he clears his throat a little and straightens up, rocking back on his heels.

sensing a shift in the air but mistaking it for some form of awkwardness, your mother shoos the rest of your family away in the direction of the kitchen. "they probably want to freshen up together, let's let them do that."

once they're gone, it feels like you can finally release your breath, truly seeing this situation going wrong in so many ways. they don't suspect anything yet, but how much longer until they eventually connect the dots? or what if they don't even need to do that, because jaehyun only agreed so he could embarrass you by telling them the whole story? you don't acknowledge the tense silence until jaehyun speaks up. "can i use the guest bathroom? still the second door on the right, yeah?"

you don't respond immediately because you're processing the fact that he still remembers these minute details. you also realise he's only asking because he doesn't want to share your bathroom with you, and that clears your thoughts up a little. you nod in affirmation and he begins climbing up the stairs, and you wait until you hear he's reached the upstairs landing before you move.

it's so tense. the last time you were in this house with jaehyun, you had taken a short road trip to get there. you say road trip, but it was just a couple hours long, but the playlist you and jaehyun had curated said otherwise. you arrived at the house and everyone was all smiles, your parents just happy to have you home and happy to see him as well. you think that part's just as hard as thinking about the two of you together. the fact that your slightly judgemental parents adored him, your little sister looked at him with stars in her eyes– you had lucked out in every department, and you were always aware of it, the joint guilt you felt from breaking it off and lying to your parents really getting to you now.

you swore that after this was over, you would apologise to jaehyun and finally break the truth to your parents.

finishing off in the bathroom, you step out into the hall, only to bump straight into jaehyun. backing up awkwardly, you both try to get past each but keep going in the same direction, resulting in a bunch of 'sorry–'s and 'wait– just–'s being blurted out by the two of you. finally getting past you, he doesn't look back at you again, just walking down the stairs mumbling something about "they're waiting...".

wincing, you make your way down the stairs as well, arriving at the living room to see your mom standing beside your dad with an excited expression on her face. you approach with caution, noting that your dad has his hands behind his back. "so...", your mother starts, raising her shoulders a little out of anticipation. "since we haven't seen the two of you in a while...we got you some presents! nothing too grand but..."

"mom, it's not even christmas", you whine, ready to argue with them because you feel bad that whatever they got was still overpriced, but your mother shakes her head, urging your dad to reveal the presents. "just take a look first..."

in one hand he holds a small, white box, no bigger than his palm, and your mom picks it up, holding it out to you. the print on the box is small and typewriter-like, the material it's made out of just screaming fancy. you narrow your eyes at your parents but take the box in your hand anyway, pushing it open. inside, it reveals maybe the prettiest necklace you've seen; dainty and silver, the chain is simple but it's the pendant that's the real charm– it's an uncut stone of some kind, a pale, translucent white crystal that's pretty much shapeless but it's wrapped in this thin silver wire that forms little loops and hearts over the stone and it makes it so alluring.

"it's a seaglass necklace", your mom speaks, taking the necklace out of its box for you and inclining her head for you to turn around. you're now facing jaehyun, who looks curiously at the new piece of jewellery with the faintest of smiles on his face. pushing your hair to the side, your mother places the necklace around your neck and clasps it (though it takes her a while, squinting and looking at the necklace hook from every angle because she forgot to wear her reading glasses). she leads you to the mirror by the entrance of the hall so you could get a better look at the necklace hanging on top of your collarbones, reaching up to touch it. "you remember? from that lady who owned the fancy place by the beach last summer?"

you do remember. that was the first trip jaehyun had joined you and your family for, under the suggestion of your little sister. when you brought up the fact that jaehyun was going back home to see his parents a little later than he had anticipated, your sister immediately asked if he would want to come with all of you, who were heading to the beach in a day or two for a little family getaway. and much to your surprise, your parents were very warm to the idea of jaehyun accompanying the lot of you. he must have severely impressed them the first time he met them, bringing a bouquet of flowers for your mother and a hearty bottle of whiskey for your dad– it's like he had won their hearts before he had even stepped inside the house.

of course, he had met them a couple more times again after that, but your parents had never raised any issues about your then boyfriend. your dad had claimed that he wanted jaehyun to come along so he could "keep an eye on him" and "see how he treats you in front of us", but you knew all too well he just wanted someone to talk to about his interest in sound systems. the trip had gone so smoothly, so perfectly and you think that it had planted the seeds of doubt in your mind about your relationship.

the position of the window and sun allowed for the light to bleed on to half of your face, the necklace glinting under the rays as you stood in front of the mirror and surveyed it. the last couple drops of the golden hour sun slipped through the windowpane and painted your skin like it was a canvass and the necklace was the cherry on top. you were radiant, and the look in jaehyun's eyes told you that he knew it too. when your eyes meet in the mirror, it's like he tears his eyes away from you, forcing himself to look at his shoes.

snapping out of your soon-to-be miserable thoughts, you fix a smile on to your face so as to not seem ungrateful, turning to hug your mother. "i love it", and you really do, knowing that you wouldn't be wearing a single other piece of jewellery for the next couple months.

jaehyun stands in the doorway soundlessly, just taking in the scene. he had always told you that he wished his family was as close and tight-knit as yours, but due to his dad always being away on some business trip or another and his mother having her own job to attend to, it resulted in a lot of time spent by himself.

you think that might be way he slotted right in with the rest of you, from the very first meet, because his desire to belong worked very well with your family's lively, chaotic home, which welcomed him right away. this was the main reason why couldn’t bring yourself to tell your family that you had broken up him mercilessly. they wouldn’t blame you of course, but you know everyone would be immensely disappointed when they realised that he hadn’t even done anything wrong in the first place; he was so good to you, and they just wanted to see you happy.

while your mom cooed at how pretty the necklace looked on you, your dad faces jaehyun with a wide grin on his face. "you didn't think we'd forget about you, did you?"

he probably wasn't expecting anything for himself, because you weren't either, so you and jaehyun simultaneously furrow your eyebrows. "oh, mr. l/n, you didn't have to–", he starts but your father is quick to cut him off, waving his hands. "what nonsense. of course we had to get you something, it's no big deal", he tries to appear nonchalant but the smile that creeps on to his face is a telltale sign that it is, in fact, a big deal. "besides, if you're family to y/n, you're family to us."

it's as if someone just stuck a large knife into you, the pang you just felt in your stomach. you can't even begin to think about what must be going through jaehyun's head, because even he can't hide the way his eyes soften at your dad's words. watching your sister spring up from the couch, she runs behind your father and plucks whatever he was holding out of his hands, now revealed to be a medium-sized bag. "i wanna give it to jaehyun!", with that, she's running over to him with the toothiest smile plastered on her cheeks, holding the bag out to jaehyun with stretched arms.

he ruffles her hair just like you did, but she makes absolutely zero complaints as he does it– if anything she's revelling in it. this makes you want to scoff, but you smile instead without thinking about it, taking a couple steps away from the mirror and towards them. "are you gonna open it or should i take it back to the store?", your dad jokes and jaehyun chuckles quietly while you don't even bother forcing a laugh, and he takes the bag from your sister's hands, mumbling a soft 'thank you'.

from where you're standing, you can't see what's inside the bag, but you can see jaehyun's eyes widen when he looks inside and back up at everyone. "me and mrs. l/n, i can't take this."

"of course you can", your mother tuts in response, dismissing him with her hand. "if i recall correctly, you had said something about your airpods not working properly?"

realisation dawns on your face when jaehyun pulls the shiny headphones from the bag, turning them over in his hand. "i think i did mention it, yeah...", he nods, eyes scanning over the clear box he holds. you remember that only one of his airpods would function properly, the other deciding whenever it wanted to do its job. you didn't realise your parents remembered, as well. "but these are so expensive, i can't–"

"do you like them or not?", your dad asks, shrugging his shoulders. jaehyun's quick to nod, "yes, i love them but–"

"then end of story." your father's not hearing anyone out, even going so far as to cover his ears jokingly when jaehyun opens his mouth again. after your sister tugs on his pant leg and urges him to try them out, jaehyun slips them over his ears, whipping his phone to connect them to it. he thought it was too expensive to try fixing his airpods so he resorted to listening with just the one ear in, or using your headphones till you broke up.

by the look on his face, they work just fine, and he couldn't be happier. a wide smile is pressed on his face, a real one that doesn't even drop when he makes eye contact with you. you smile back at him slowly, but he doesn't look away immediately, slowly turning to look at your parents. "i don't know what to say. thank you."

you'd had a couple boyfriends before, not none as close to your family as jaehyun had been. none of your previous relationships had lasted very long and you could never pinpoint the exact reason why, you just knew at some point that you had to break it off. your mother always thought that this was a result of your first ever relationship, the first and last man that ever dumped you. it crushed you at the time, though you were able to power through, but since then, relationships were never your strong suit. change seemed promising when you met jaehyun through a mutual friend, however. he was kind, he was smart and he was genuine, three traits that you didn't typically see in guys you dated, but you didn't see any reason to dwell on your biggest fumble yet.

the rest of time until dinner continues in a steadfast manner with all of you sitting in the living room. the scene looked like something out of a corny movie montage, but the beautiful part of it was that it was reality, all the laughs, the eye-smiles, the stupid jokes and conversations, all of it. your parents had recently returned from a holiday together that they took to celebrate their wedding anniversary, which meant that you two deserved to look through all eight hundred and sixty two of the photos they took. super proud of the new projector he had ordered off amazon, your dad had connected his phone to it and was going through his gallery slideshow-style, with your mom making offhand comments about every other photo.

"that's from when we went on a date to this fancy restaurant, that's from the shoe store your dad wanted to go to...oh! that's when your dad just learnt how to take 0.5x pictures on his new phone!"

your mom speaks animatedly while each photo is being shown, pointing out various different things without any prompting. there were badly taken selfies of your parents that made both you and jaehyun laugh, pictures of the different kinds of food they ate, the said 0.5's of your mother taken from the top of her forehead– your dad was slapping his knee even though your mom wasn't too impressed.

after what seemed like years, they ran out of vacation pictures and moved on to pictures and videos taken during your little sister's talent show. this was especially endearing, because your normally high-energy sister was suddenly all shy and avoidant of eye contact in the presence of jaehyun, particularly displeased with a video of her singing on stage.

jaehyun wipes the pout right off her face however, poking her cheek with a smile. "you sound amazing, s/n", he pipes genuinely, and she's back to smiling again, even offering to sing the song for everyone towards the end. no one has the heart to turn down so innocent a request, so for the next couple minutes you are subjected to a very slightly off-key rendition of some song from the movie 'frozen'. everyone cheers when she is done, jaehyun even throwing in a little "whoo!" for good measure, and your sister performs a small curtsey before seating herself between you and jaehyun's legs.

you're situated on the same couch, but only so that things don't look weird. you invited him here to pose as your boyfriend, and he agreed, so you have to play the part too. that part wasn't as hard as you expected, the acting like a couple, no, it was the avoiding questions that was really getting to you. at some point in the conversation, your dad had congenially asked jaehyun when the next time he'd be coming home was. normally, he would congenially reply with something like "as soon as possible", but this time, he just froze. he appeared to attempt a reply, but was cut short at "uh–", the rest of the sentence never following through.

hoping to repair the awkward moment, you start to construct a fib. "jaehyun's been uh– you know, working at one of those um, nursing homes–", this is too out-of-the-box a reply even for jaehyun who turns to you, trying and failing to the hide incredulous look on his face.

"a nursing home? oh, i didn't know you were training to be a nurse!", your mother is surprised but definitely not disappointed, placing her hand on her chest with a sympathetic look on her face as she looks at jaehyun. he looks as if he's trying to speak to you using only his eyes, widening and squinting them at a rapid pace, tilting his head towards you so your parents don't see his expression. there are clear signs of confusion and you're aware he's questioning your decisions, but that's as far as you get with his eye signals and you let him know by shrugging and wincing, so he closes them while sighing inwardly and turns to face your parents, a fake smile stuck on his lips.

"yes! haha, funny story, this one...", he grits his teeth but furthers your stupid concoction of a story, snapping his fingers while trying to think. "i'm not really training to be a nurse, i just volunteer there sometimes. love being around old people, you know, makes me feel full of life–"

you cut him off before he can make this even worse for the both of you, taking in your mother's furrowed eyebrows and your dad's slightly opened mouth. "yes, well, it's hard for him to catch a break, you know, with all the...", you slap your hand over his knee and give it a little squeeze, turning to him with a grin while he smiles tightly back at you, eyes focusing on the hand on his thigh without changing his expression. "...hard work he does."

jaehyun's eyes don't leave your hand, seeing as this is the first act of skinship in six months, albeit casual. your hand feels so hot that you think you might be burning a hole through the material of jaehyun's jeans, finally ripping your hand off of him.

"of course...", your father trails off in confusion, and no one can seem to make head or tails of the situation. in a moment, your mother pauses before clapping her hands, seemingly already forgotten about the strange situation as she chimes "dinner in five!~". your sister scampers off with claims of helping your mother out in the kitchen (and probably to try and secure a spot close to you and jaehyun), and jaehyun stands up and heads to the cupboard containing all your placemats without out even being asked. you offer to help but he shakes his head, and you opt to go sit back down on one of the arm chairs facing the kitchen area, just observing.

this was one of jaehyun's qualities that made you fall in love with him, but also pissed you off to no end. first of all, didn't he ever get tired of just being so good all the time? second of all, why couldn't his own parents see what everyone else saw in him? and thirdly, why did you choose to ruin your life six months ago? as for the last one, you knew why, but the extent of your stupidity was real apparent to you now.

you look away when he meets your eyes and catches you, your heart beating fast when you see out of the corner of your eye that his gaze lingers for a moment or two. underneath all that hatred, was there still a small part of him that cared about you? after you broke up with him, over call that too, he attempted to call you back two or three times, but you couldn't bring yourself to pick up. out of fear or maybe even shame, you never answered his calls and since then, you'd had no contact.

it was impossible. with a break-up like that and six month's worth of time to sit and think about it, you imagine that one could hold a surprising amount of hatred for someone–especially after a relationship as real as yours. if you switched the roles, you think you wouldn't feel much different.

at your mom's signal, you heave yourself off the couch and to the dining table, seating yourself next to jaehyun (everyone expected you to sit with him, they left the chair empty on purpose). your sister has already claimed the spot opposite jaehyun and was patiently awaiting the vegetables that she knew your mother was going to pile on her plate, a little pout forming on her lips at the sight of broccoli. "you can't make that face every time, like i'm feeding you dog food", your mother scolds her with a smile, giving her a generous helping of veggies. the pout deepens and she folds her arms with a cross look on her face. "you guys don't have to eat the broccoli. why do i?"

she's got a point, you think, but before you can tell her to just eat them, jaehyun speaks. "that's exactly what my little cousin sungchan said...", jaehyun tells her, looking around the table with a dramatic sigh. "and we all know what happened to him..."

little cousin sungchan? as far as you know, there is no little cousin sungchan, and you know a lot about jaehyun's family, so you put your fork down in favour of listening to his story at the same time your sister curiously asks, "what happened?".

"well, like you, sungchan didn't like eating his veggies", starting off the story with a shrug under your mother's listening ears, he talks in a low voice. "he'd always argue with my aunt till one day, he refused to eat them.

your sister is knocking food around her plate while she listened to jaehyun, and she's not impressed with the story so far. "see! why can't i do that?", she asks indignantly, and your mother shoots jaehyun a look to which he winced and continues. "nothing happened for a while, so sungchan thought he had proved his point. but he hadn't heard of the veggie monster."

the story is heading in such a stupid direction that you almost laugh out loud, but you catch yourself when you notice your sister's expression, guarded and wary. "...the veggie monster? ...that's not real...", she speaks like she's not fully sure of her words herself, pausing her attack on her food.

"sungchan thought that too", jaehyun agrees, lowering his voice like one would when telling a scary story, looking around him like it could be listening before continuing, for the story's sake. "but he didn't know that without veggies, a child's body is weak. their bones don't grow strong, they stay small and their minds aren't sharp at all. that's how the veggie monster chooses his targets."

you hold back a snort at your sister's wide-eyed expression and how serious jaehyun looks, he's even got your dad attempting to look nonchalant as he followed the story. "the less veggies a kid eats, the weaker they get, and that's easy pickings for the veggie monster. he comes late at night, and there's no point in hiding because he knows. he can smell when a kid doesn't have enough vitamins and it makes him hungry."

with your sister, your parents and even you hanging on to every word, jaehyun lowers his voice to almost a whisper, and all of you lean in closer to listen. "legend has it that he looks so scary that you lose the ability to move or speak, so he just takes you. sungchan was never seen again. the police said he was missing but i knew what happened to him."

you have to admit, jaehyun can tell a story. the atmosphere felt more eerie as he concluded the story cryptically, but your sister looks positively gutted. "did he take him?", she questions, face white and voice small. he nods slowly, like he didn't want to be talking about this, and all you can think about is how this man deserved an award after the show he put on. "i had my suspicions. no one believed me, but i'm ninety-nine percent sure that at dinner, i saw a pair of dark, red eyes staring straight into the kitchen from the window."

as if nature was a paid fucking actor, a slight crash sounds from outside the window on cue, like if a cat knocked over a plastic bin, but you're pretty sure your sister shit her pants. you've never seen her shovel vegetables into her mouth at that kind of record speed before, even your parents are looking at her astounded. with her food in her mouth, she pleads with glazed eyes, "please– i'm sorry, i'll have my veggies, don't let him take me!"

it takes all of you a little while to convince your sister that she'd be completely fine if she ate all the veggies given to her and that the veggie monster wouldn't even think of her, but it's safe to say that she'd never leave a bit of stray carrot on her plate ever again. your mom comically mouths 'thank you' to jaehyun which makes you laugh, and you turn to smile at him, and he gives you a nod in return. small steps, you think, because a nod is a whole lot better than a glare.

the rest of the dinner continues as if nothing changed. sure, you and jaehyun knew things were different, but it didn't fully feel like it at the moment. your mom had prepared a lot of nice food for the occasion, and your dad even helped, particularly proud of the way his stir fry turned out. jaehyun made sure to compliment both your parents on their cooking, and they all but melted– he still knew exactly how to talk to them. conversation was easy; you talked about work, you talked about how university was going, you talked about the school play your sister was going to take part in, about jaehyun's parents, nothing was forced.

you'd fall into comfortable silences at times in favour of sitting back and observing, listening, just being a part of the moment. for someone who was so reluctant to be here, jaehyun seems comfortable, the familiarity of the situation helping ease the tension between the two of you. expecting some bumps along the way, you were rather pleased with how things were turning out, but you were also anticipating the end of the lovely evening– where you and jaehyun would eventually go your separate ways. you don't want to think about it just yet, not when everything was going so smoothly, and your opportunity to snap out of your thoughts is presented to you, just not in the way you would have liked.

your mother's question seems to have thrown jaehyun for a loop as well, because his eyebrows are furrowed and he looks blatantly confused. at some point during a lull in the conversation, your mother had politely asked jaehyun how his christmas in japan had gone; the only problem with this question was that he never had a christmas in japan, not to his knowledge anyway. this, was yet another lie you had told your parents, when they had asked why jaehyun hadn't accompanied you home to celebrate christmas, like he had originally planned to. unbeknownst to them, you had already broken up with him prior to the christmas holidays, so jaehyun wasn't exactly going to come along anyway. so, you told them that he had to spend christmas with an aunt in japan, for familial reasons.

you didn't exactly have time to prep jaehyun and give him a run down of every single lie he had to play along with, so he turns to you with a look of uncertainty and desperation in his eyes. "my, uh- christmas? in japan?", he puts emphasis on the two keywords, not blinking when he speaks directly to you in hopes that you would take the hint and help him out.

"yeah, your christmas. in japan. with your aunt", you reply to him with the same tone and expression as he does, trying your best to sound subtle so your parents don't catch on.

"yes, with your aunt! we were so sad to hear that you couldn't make it for christmas", your mother is unknowingly helping jaehyun catch up with the fake story, and he releases a short "ahh" during his moment of 'recollection'. "right, my real aunt who definitely lives in japan."

he grits his teeth when he talks, making you grimace and the fact that your parents look completely puzzled doesn't help. you need to save your dignity anyway, so you try to cut jaehyun off before he can make things worse. "haha, jaehyun of course she's your real aunt, silly", you awkwardly chuckle, feigning nonchalance when you bump his shoulder with your fist, wishing you could telepathically communicate with him right now, but you'd probably only be saying "please, please, please" on repeat.

he sighs but speaks up again, much to your relief. "it was slightly boring, my aunt doesn't do much", he laughs softly, fully back in character. "but you know, it's still nice to spend time with your family."

if your parents are suspicious, they don't say anything, seemingly satisfied with jaehyun's answer. dinner continues with few hitches until jaehyun insists that he washes the dishes. "it's the least i can do, after you both made such delicious food."

your mother at least tries to argue with him for a bit, but your dad is quite happy to not have to wash dishes, patting jaehyun on the back before standing up. what surprises you however, is jaehyun turning to you with the sweetest, most fake smile you've seen in a minute plastered on his face. "you mind helping, y/n?"

smiling tightly, you nod and begin clearing the table. this is done in silence, neither of you even looking at each other as you pick up dishes and carry them to the kitchen. your sister has run off to the living room to watch some t.v with your dad, and it feels like you're finally allowed to breathe when your mother exits the room as you’re picking up the last dirty dish. walking into the kitchen, jaehyun's back is facing you while he washes dishes, the environment and the little tune he's humming making everything seem so domestic in your eyes. this is how dinner used to always go when he came over, with you and him washing the dishes together in the end, taking breaks to splash each other with the soapy water or making out secretly by the counter.

but the air is foreign now, none of the former warmth or softness remaining. he turns to you with a frown when you place the final dish on the side of the sink, and he really doesn't look too happy. "visiting an aunt in japan? really?", he scoffs, looking incredulous while you look sheepish, avoiding his eye contact entirely.

you were expecting something like this but you hated being put on the spot. "i don't know, okay, what else was i supposed to say?", the exasperation in your voice is evident but it only fuels jaehyun, and rightfully so.

"i got an idea, how about 'oh, he can't come because i dumped his ass over call for no reason, sorry'?", he digs snidely, voice laden with scorn. there it is. "or is that too close to the truth for you?"

he doesn’t even let you open your mouth, chucking the cloth he was using to dry the dishes on the counter somewhere, folding his arms while he looks at you in a hostile way. “you wanna know how i really spent my christmas, y/n?”, he sneers sardonically, a sarcastic smile etched on to his lips. “alone in my house. miserable. i wish i had an aunt in fucking japan that i could’ve spent it with.”

you hate to admit it, but his words sting and you are well aware that you deserve it. just asking him to join you for this dinner was a huge reach, a request you really didn't expect him to accept. you don't fully understand why he did, though. he clearly despised you, so many be it was out of love for your family? you know jaehyun cared for them, but doing all this was uncharacteristic even for him. when you don't say anything but wear an agonised expression on your face, jaehyun further questions you.

"do you not have anything to say for yourself?", he tries again, his voice a little softer and more hopeful than before but you look like you're fighting some internal battle that doesn't involve him. he exhales deeply, clearly disappointed in your lack of an explanation and just walks past you and out of the kitchen.

you remain in the kitchen for a couple beats more, trying your level best to collect yourself. you can feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes and your breathing is quicker, but this is the absolute worst time to have a little panic attack in the kitchen. how you wished the two of you could just forget about everything for a minute so you could wrap your arms around his figure and fall into his embrace, feeling like that would solve all your problems. it's selfish and wrong, but you know that you're not getting over jaehyun anytime soon.

you'd come to that conclusion a couple months back. the first month after you broke things off with him was possibly the worst time of your life, struggling to eat, sleep or even get out of bed. your friends urged you to reach out to him like they knew you wanted to, but you remained stubborn, convinced at the time that you had made the right decision that would hurt the least for the both of you. you were wrong, you could see that now, but you knew it was much too late. you'd already gone through all the stages of grief, but seeing jaehyun again in this environment had really gone and thrown a spanner in the works for you, all because of your terrible decision-making skills.

any hopes you had of the two of you at least being on semi-friendly terms had just flown out the window as well, and you suddenly think that this might've been the reason why jaehyun even agreed to come. an explanation. a well-deserved one at that. you don't know why you find it so hard to give him one, but you suspect it's because you're not ready to face all that yourself.

upon hearing your mother faintly call out your name, you realise how long you've been standing in the kitchen, taking a couple more deep breaths before you join the rest of them. it's clear that everyone's winding down, your sister curled up on your dad's lap, trying to blink away her sleepiness, while everyone else mutedly watched the television. "didn't mean to keep you all up past your bedtime", you try to joke lightheartedly because your parents look like they're about to hit the hay themselves, but it's really so that no one suspects you were having a little breakdown in the kitchen; especially jaehyun.

"you're not wrong", your dad agrees gruffly, stretching a little before tapping on your sister's cheek to wake her, much to her displeasure. "it's technically your mama's turn to put you to bed, isn't it?", he attempts, but is quickly shot down by your mother, pinching his arm after claiming it was certainly not her turn. after their grand performance, both of them comically turn to look at you with a suspiciously bright look in their eyes. you don't even have time to argue, because the second the hint of a sigh leaves your mouth, they're saying "thank you" and "how nice of you to offer", urging your sister to wake up to let her know that you'll be tucking her in tonight.

she perks up a little at this, nodding with a little glint in her eyes. hopping off your dad's lap, she sleepily totters over to you. "can jae come too?", her voice is hopeful and small, and she yawns in the middle of her sentence but she just has this certain charm that makes everyone unable to say 'no' to her. this includes jaehyun, because one look from her with her arms raised and he's picking her up, pretending to complain about it. you can't help but smile at the whole interaction.

"oh quick! before i forget...", your mom gasps in remembrance, picking her phone up from the coffee table with a tired smile. "don't know when i'll get to see the two of you again so, pictures!"

this may be the only part you were slightly prepared for. your mother had a special affinity for taking photos; not that she was any good at it, she just enjoyed capturing these little moments and treating her gallery like a scrapbook. she had more or less documented the entirety of you and jaehyun's relationship, from the first few months where all the photos were cheesy smiles and awkward poses, to when you had grown more comfortable around each other. in fact, a photo she had taken of jaehyun was your wallpaper for quite some time (it took a lot of effort and explaining to help your mom airdrop you the picture)– it was a shot of jaehyun and your sister grinning from ear to ear, both adorning aprons that were covered in flour after a failed attempt at baking cookies.

the point being, you're pretty sure jaehyun was also expecting the pictures, so it didn't really surprise you when he plastered a smile on his face and came to stand beside you. his hand finds the small of your back soon enough and it makes your body stiffen while simultaneously sending a jolt through it, and jaehyun feels it. mistaking the action for uneasiness, he immediately lifts his warm hand off you so that it's now hovering awkwardly over your body, though no one can see that from the front. while you are disappointed, you lean into him anyway, clasping your hands together behind your back as you both give the camera wide smiles. you're so close you can smell his cologne and it's making you dizzy, not because the scent is overpowering but because it's just so familiar and you can't get enough of it.

the moment is gone in a flash because your mother takes three to four photos while cooing at the two of you before she decides to call it a night, and then jaehyun is ripping himself from you. you don't think anyone else recognises it, the way he seems to want to be as far from you as possible because he's so good at masking these things, but you can feel it. you can feel this heat radiating off of his body whenever he's near you and it's not the warm, fuzzy kind of heat. the spot on your back where his hand rested still burns a little.

your parents are exhausted and look more than happy to be able to jump straight into bed, but not before thanking you and jaehyun. you hug and kiss them goodnight, promising that your next visit will be sooner than this one before they exchange pleasantries with jaehyun, making him promise the same. you know this has to be hard on him, making a mental note to apologise profusely before you part ways. with a reminder that the door now locks from the inside, they bid you goodnight and goodbye, trudging off to their room while your sister scampers up the stairs to hers, suddenly full of life.

you understand why your parents were more than happy to hand over bedtime duties to you and your "boyfriend", because putting your little sister to bed turned out to be a piece of work. she started off by blatantly refusing to brush her teeth, but jaehyun had that one sorted when he reminded her that the veggie monster had a lot of friends, so that was done. she changed into her pyjamas all on her own which was a relief, but you were at a loss over how to actually get her into bed.

you both humoured her for a bit, understanding that she was just happy to have her big sister and her big sister's nice boyfriend home again, so a little excitement was expected. jaehyun played along with her, which was a sight to see, following along with the characters she assigned him in her imaginary games. but when bouncing on her bed turned into running around the room like a crazed bunny, it was a little harder to convince her that she needed to sleep now. "look at me, i'm wide awake", she insists, widening her eyes with her fingers to show you both just how awake she was. jaehyun tried a couple times to catch her, but you're both taken by surprise at her remarkable speed and agility. in the end, you had to resort to just sitting down and hoping that she'll tire herself out, which eventually does happen.

she climbs into bed of her own accord, rubbing at her eyes while you pull the duvet over her body, up to her shoulders. "when are you coming next?", she mumbles curiously while you sit on the edge of her bed, jaehyun standing close by. "soon", you reply honestly, knowing that you'll always have a safe place to come to whenever you need. "maybe i'll even stay for a whole weekend next time."

she likes the sound of this, smiling tiredly with her hands peeking over the edge of her cover, holding it closer to her. "will you come too?", this question is directed towards jaehyun, who looks defeated when he opens his mouth to answer. it's not fair, expecting him to lie to your family like this, but you know you've gotta come clean soon. you'd made up your mind at this point and come up with a plan; you'd explain yourself to jaehyun and apologise after which you'll go your separate ways, then you'll tell your family the truth after tonight, or at least make up a more recent break up, and that's that.

when jaehyun looks to you for help, you play with your hands a little, not fully knowing what to say. "if the old ladies at the nursing home let him go, maybe...", is what you decide is the safest option to go with, and your sister seems satisfied enough, giggling drowsily. you know she's close to falling asleep, and you're about to inwardly celebrate a job well done when she pops her next, unexpected question. "will you both be together forever?"

oh. there's a hint of teasing behind her voice, but everything else about the question is innocent and genuine, blinking her eyes open so she can look at the both of you when you answer. though you're not touching him, you can feel jaehyun stiffen next to you, his voice sounding more than a little awkward when he lets out an involuntary "uhh".

"what do you mean, cutie?"

you don't know why he asks that, because it's a pretty straightforward question; will the two of you be together forever? you want to laugh at the irony because you know that if she had asked the same question last time jaehyun came home, you both would have exchanged knowing smiles, giggling shyly while you tried to answer. the answer would've been 'yes', and you know deep down that it still should be.

she clicks her tongue like it's the most obvious and easy question in the world, shrugging her shoulders when she speaks. "you know, that's what people do when they're in love,", she answers with no hesitation, and you want to roll your eyes because who kidnapped your little sister and replaced her with dhar mann? "just like mommy and daddy!"

"daddy and mommy are married, sweetie, it's a little different–"

"i know that", she cuts off your little improvised answer in a deadpan voice that almost makes you feel stupid, but all her questions have your heart thudding against your rib cage, and you're praying to god that jaehyun can't hear it too. "but still, they love each other, and that's why they're together forever. don't you love each other?"

you're pretty sure the world stopped spinning and your heart stopped beating simultaneously, most definitely not expecting these kinds of questions from your sister. how do you even prepare an answer for this kind of situation? you know for a fact that your cheeks are coated in a dark sheen of red, and out of the corner of your eye (because you refuse to look at him), you’re pretty sure you can see the distinct pink colour paint the tips of jaehyun's ears, like they always do when he's shy or embarrassed. you can't not give her an answer, because that looks weird and she's clearly waiting for one, but answering meant that you either tell her the truth, that no, you will not be together forever because your dumbass went and ruined everything for the both of you six months ago, or you can lie and say that she's right, which would be admitting a lot of things that you didn't want to admit–

"nothing's for sure, but you're right, if two people really do love each other...", jaehyun's deep voice brings all your spiralling thoughts to a halt, and you look at him for the first time in a bit, only to find that he's already looking at you, gaze raw and piercing. you hold your breath when he speaks, because you don't trust yourself at the moment. "...they'll end up together forever."

you hear your sister make some kind of a reply, but the heartbeat in your ears is so loud that you don't quite catch it, the eye contact you're holding with jaehyun so intense that it feels wrong to look away. what could he have possibly meant by that? or was it just some half-assed answer to get your sister to go to sleep? you realise that staring at him while trying to use your sixth sense to nonverbally convey these questions to him isn't going to work, but you can feel the lump forming in your throat, needing to get out of this situation quickly.

it takes everything in you to break the eye contact in favour of pressing a quick peck to your sister's temple, and she looks about ten seconds away from just crashing. "night y/n, night jae...", and with that she's out like a light, and you two wait wordlessly until her breathing evens out before silently exiting the room.

once her bedroom door is shut, you make a beeline for the front door, way too scared and vulnerable right now to look at jaehyun. he doesn't say anything, so neither do you, making sure the door is actually locked before taking your phone out of your pocket. the time on your phone screen reads '11:43', and you know it's too late to try and catch the metro or a bus, but you're too stubborn and embarrassed to ask jaehyun to drop you.

the air is cold outside, much colder than it was inside your warm house. at the current moment, there is no breeze either, the trees are still and there are only a few lights on around the street, and it just makes everything seem so still and loud. you look out at the road, eyes zeroing in on this one lamp post where you shared one of your first few kisses with the man standing beside you. it's crazy how time can change things, you think, because never would you have believed in the moment that jaehyun called you "the most beautiful girl in the world" before leaning in to sweetly connect your lips that he could ever be something so close to a stranger within months.

ultimately opting to look at him, you're once again unable to read the expression on his face as you try your best to speak your mind to him. "um, i'm gonna book a cab, so you're officially free to go. thanks again for tonight, you really didn't have to come with me, so i owe you one. or i don't have to owe you one, because we're not going to see each other again- anything's good with me, just uh...thanks."

he waits patiently for you to finish, and aside from the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes, you're at a loss over what he's really thinking, but his face is so stupidly handsome that you're feeling angry and a little awkward, choosing to look around, and at the floor, playing with your fingers as you spoke.

"you're so dramatic y/n, i can drop you home, it's no big deal", he's already walking towards the road and biting his lip, and you can't tell whether it's out of habit or if he's trying to hide a smile, yet something tells you that it might be the latter.

"so you just let me say all that even though you were gonna offer to drop me? dude..."

the initial ten minutes of the drive are uncommunicative, both of you choosing to look at the dark road instead of acknowledging the awkward silence that was swallowing the car up whole. you don’t talk about your argument in the kitchen, you don’t make small talk about dinner, you don’t talk. you'd normally play some music in the background and you know that your phone is definitely still connected to his car's bluetooth, but somehow it just doesn't feel right– punishing yourself by sitting in this impenetrable silence should do you better.

the roads are more or less empty, save for the lone car or bike that speeds past you. jaehyun knows the way to your house from your parent's because of the amount of times you've driven back and forth, so you don't feel the need to tell him to turn right or to keep going down a certain road, making for even more silence.

part of you is still a little thankful that it isn't the most short drive, even though you aren't even speaking to each other. all it takes is picturing your empty house, devoid of the homely domestic feeling it used to carry when jaehyun was a frequent visitor. what would you even do when you got home? wallow in self-pity over your life choices? play 'sweet' by cigarettes after sex because it reminds you of him, then put on his hoodie that doesn't even smell like him anymore, just so you can curl up in bed and have a good cry while you reminisce? you're starting to think that maybe attempting to talk to him isn't the worst idea, at least it'll give you something to cry about later.

you're going crazy wracking your brain, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make the atmosphere even more uneasy, but all you got was "hey, thanks again for coming" and "hey, sorry for breaking up with you, what's good though?". you can't even help the wince creeping on your face, finally choosing to go with the former before you have a heart attack and die in jaehyun's front seat.

"thanks again for agreeing to come", you start, absolutely hating the break in your voice from not talking for some time. "you really didn't have to do that. and for dropping me."

he offers you a quick nod in your general direction and fixes his eyes on the road ahead like he was zipping through a crowded highway, though you're sure there isn't a car in sight. "like i said, it's cool", is all you get in return, and you have to remind yourself that he has every right to be short with you.

but still, you try again. "and you don't have to worry about my parents", chewing on your bottom lip, you actually look at him this time, hoping it'll prompt him to do the same, but it doesn't. "i'm gonna tell them the truth."

he releases a short breath from his nose like he finds your statement funny, but continues to not really say anything, just nodding to indicate that he heard you. you subconsciously clench and unclench your jaw at that, because god, he's so fucking annoying, but you swear you don't mean to release the slightly irritated sigh that you do. if you hadn't seen his knuckles turning white from how hard he's gripping the steering wheel, you might not have known that your little sigh pissed him off, because you can't tell it from his face, save from the barely-there eyebrow twitch.

you don't know what it is about car rides with only one other person that make you feel so vulnerable, but you think paired with this kind of silence, you could potentially confess to murder in this setting. it's infuriating, how unresponsive he is, and part of you thinks you're jealous of the control he's exerting, because you're dead sure that if you were in his position, you'd have a fair amount to say. it must be satisfying for him in a way, watching you squirm like this out of guilt and discomfort, but you know in your heart that jaehyun simply isn't like that.

"look, jaehyun", your mouth is working faster than your brain, the silence proving to be too much for you to handle. "i know i fucked things up a bit. with how i ended it and everything..."

perhaps you should've taken a little more time to properly articulate your thoughts, because even jaehyun can't control the astounded scoff that slips out of his mouth. you yourself can't believe that you chose to deliver your words like that and it makes you sound so self-righteous, but they're out, and now you're bracing yourself to finally hear what jaehyun really has to say.

"fucked things up a bit? are you serious?", you can hear it in his voice that he's holding back, but he chooses to laugh in disbelief instead, which you think is actually worse than him straight up screaming at you. "y/n, you didn't even bother telling me in person. you dumped me over the fucking phone, saying it wasn't working."

you now kind of wish that you had just kept quiet and sat in his awkward car, and exchanged awkward niceties when you reach home, never to see him again. but this is your final chance at some form of redemption, and now that jaehyun was actually speaking his mind instead of giving you tight nods, you tried to explain yourself.

"jaehyun, i know, i just–"

"i called you a bunch of times. i tried to come see you and everything, but you went and changed your lock and all your friends were saying you didn't want to see me?"

there goes trying to explain yourself. so you sat and listened instead, and it was the least you could do. jaehyun's voice became more and more strained as he talked, the emotions he was feeling now a lot more evident. he was angry, but more importantly, he was confused, and sad.

"i just- i didn't know what went wrong, you know? we were completely fine as far as i knew", he continues on in a laboured way and he's not looking for you speak right now, so you don't. "fuck i- i thought we were in love."

the little laugh he lets out in between his words more or less breaks your heart, the whole scenario sounding all too familiar. those exact words were the last thing you'd heard from jaehyun before you fully and cruelly broke things off, letting him know the decision was final before cutting the call. you remember that day so clearly. you had meant to go see him and explain all this in person, that’s the whole reason you were in the car, but for some reason, you just couldn’t do it. you remember how much your hands were shaking as you waited for him to pick up the call, sitting in the car by yourself in the middle of your driveway. how long you sat and cried after you ended the call, tears falling until there weren't any left. how it began raining the very second you stepped out of your car to go back inside.

the weather was a funny thing, choosing to mirror your mood only when it saw fit. it was warm and sunny on the day you broke up with him, gentle breeze and wispy clouds all around. it was warm and sunny this morning, the weather ever so pleasant as you plucked up the courage to walk to his door. it was still unusually warm and sunny for the couple months following your break up, feeling sour as ever that the weather was so lovely and all you could do was sit in your room and feel sorry.

you took note of all these occasions because it always used to piss you off. though you shiver now in the car, you think it's kind of satisfying in a way, because the only two times your mood and the weather lined up was right after the break up, and the second you stepped outside your house with jaehyun; it feels like a premonition, or a revelation of sorts. the grey of the stormy sky matched the absolute devastation you felt after breaking up with him, rain pouring from the heavy clouds like they were crying for you. now, the cold, still air feels like baited breath, awaiting your next move.

"and nothing, i hear nothing from you for six fucking months until you're suddenly on my doorstep, asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend for a night. that's fucking insane!", he sounds a little wild now, very exasperated, but you figure it's probably better to just let him get it all out of his system, and you'd do good to listen to him as well. everything he's saying makes complete sense, all the emotions he dealt with akin to what you would've gone through had it been you in his place. "and you know what's more insane? i agreed. after all that, i agreed."

that’s the part you don’t understand. your heart is racing listening to him and you have so many thoughts swimming around in your head, it's difficult to filter them. you feel similar to how you felt back in the kitchen, although this time you can't take a minute by yourself to get over it. you absolutely refuse to cry in this moment, not wanting to seem like you're trying to victimise yourself when you are aware you're the problem. but you can feel your heart breaking all over again.

"why did you agree?", you physically can't raise your voice to louder than a whisper, the tension too thick to try and overpower it.

"why did you dump me?", he counters like a child, and while you were expecting the question, it still makes you freeze up a little. he huffs in annoyance when you don't say anything, inclining his head while he waits expectantly for you to answer. "you wanted to talk? let's talk, y/n. you don't get to just waltz back into my life like it's nothing. it's not fair,"  it's so cold, the way he says your name, but you try your best not to let it further shake you, mustering up the courage to finally speak. "it's so stupid, jaehyun."

he looks like he's about two seconds away from just combusting, the only sound piercing the cold air being the gentle hum of the engine. "don't you think i deserve to know?", he urges, voice edged with hurt and frustration. "i spent the whole day with you and your family, pretending like everything was happy and normal when it's not."

"i know, jaehyun-"

"then, tell me."

you shift uncomfortably in your seat, teeth toying with your bottom lip as you avoid looking at him. "i don't know," you murmur, your voice barely audible to yourself over the pounding of your heart.

"you don't know?", he repeats incredulously, his tone tinged with disbelief. "after everything, you don't know? don't lie to me, y/n."

your throat tightens as guilt washes over you, but you try to stand your ground. "i just... i couldn't do it anymore," you confess, voice trembling with emotion.

"couldn't do what?", he presses, his frustration mounting with each passing moment. you know he doesn't believe you, dead set on getting the answers he deserves. he's driving slowly now, allowing him to turn his head in your direction more often.

"this!", you exclaim but immediately recoil when you see the look of hurt flash in his eyes. "no! not this, i mean- me! it's my fault, you did nothing wrong." you're saying all the wrong things, but you're too overcome with emotion to attempt to form a coherent sentence. still, you know it's time that the truth came out, so you continue to explain with a heavy heart.

"i didn't mean to hurt you," you choke out, and your voice is so thick you have to swallow before you carry on. he looks indignant and rightfully so, but you go on before he can interrupt you again. "but i was so scared, jaehyun."

his expression softens at your state, replaced with a mixture of sadness and resignation. "scared of what?", he asks quietly, his words hanging heavy in the air. you feel the need to pause for a moment, hands balled into tight fists as you try to regulate your breathing. you really didn't take into account how debilitating the night would be on yourself. sure, you knew it was going to be tough seeing jaehyun again, especially if he agreed to pretend to be together, but you weren't really expecting to hash it out like this, the weight of your decision pressing down on your like a leaden blanket.

the car moves so slow it may as well be still but  when you turn to him, you can feel the burn of jaehyun's gaze, his eyes searching for some semblance of understanding. "i loved you", he whispers, voice cracking with the intensity of his words. "i would've done anything for you."

you're still, you're so so still. tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you struggle to find the right words to say, but he's completely thrown you off. the car has slowed to a stop, engine idling before he eventually turns it off in favour of turning to you.

"that's exactly why," you reply weakly, your voice a fraction of the volume it normally is. he surveys you intently, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt, eyes reflecting the very same sadness you feel.

"what do you mean?"

"i was scared of hurting you," your confession does nothing to ease his confusion, but you can see he looks more shocked than anything now. "scared of hurting me?," he echoes, his uncertainty and disbelief palpable. "this is so ironic, it's almost funny..."

you think hearing any more of what he has to say is actually going to kill you internally, so you know you have to rush to explain before he starts giving you a piece of his mind again. "i know, it's so fucking stupid, jaehyun", your voice is trembling from the sheer guilt you feel, bottom lip quivering so much you have to bite it to get it to stop. "everything was going so perfectly, you were so perfect, and it scared me so much."

he falls silent, much to your relief, his expression even softening minutely as he processes your words and this gives you the encouragement to continue. "remember that night on the beach? on the trip last year?", you speak tentatively, wanting him to understand your thought process and the tangled mess of emotions swirling inside you at the time, though it's not much of a defense. the memory floods into your mind so vividly, and you can see it all; the salt in the air, the gentle breeze, the feeling of the sand, your intertwined hands swinging. it was so serene and you'd give anything to be there in that moment again, though it's nothing but a distant dream now.

he nods slowly without speaking, and you release a wet sort of laugh, feeling like you'd choke on the lump in your throat. "we talked about everything that night, our families, our childhoods, our futures...and then you brought up what would happen after we graduated college."

you know he remembers because his eyes light up with recognition and he looks like he's replaying that exact moment in his head, and you hope he remembers it with the same soft, gushy feeling you do. "you said you wanted to move in together, and don't get me wrong, i was thrilled, but it made me realise how...serious everything was, you know?", your voice catches in your throat and you're talking to yourself as much as you're talking to him and he seems to understand that, because he makes no attempt to stop you.

it's silent again for a bit as you two reminisce, but you break it again. "i just knew i was going to fuck up, jaehyun. maybe not right away, but eventually, and the thought terrified me," you sniffle a little, not being able to bring yourself to look up from your hands to meet his gaze. "that feeling never really went away, and it was eating me up from the inside. it got so bad that i had convinced myself that you were going to leave me, so i had to do it first, before i fucked up."

your sorrowful confession hangs in the air like an echo and you finally give in to the urge to look at him, and you're shocked– he looks at you so carefully, his expression soft, much, much softer than before. you couldn't stop the tears from finally falling if you tried , the soft glow of the dashboard illuminating the contours of your now wet face. your shared eye contact makes you feel nervous, but not in the way you were expecting– it's too gentle, too raw and it makes you feel a certain way.

"i know it's not an excuse," you're blubbering so much that your cheeks feel hot, you're practically falling apart in the passenger seat of jaehyun's car while he watches and lets you pour all your miseries out onto him. "you don't know how much i regretted it...but i thought i did the right thing. for the both of us. even though i just ended up doing what i was trying to avoid by hurting you."

it's too much now, jaehyun's too silent, and too not-angry for your liking; why is he looking at you in a way that makes you feel like he doesn't think you're the worst person in the world? you can't hold back the sob that's building in your chest, doubling over in favour of pressing your hands against your face and bawling into them. you're not too loud a cryer, but the tremors of emotion you feel are making your shoulders shake, so you're crying silently into your hands while trembling. however guarded he tries to be, the gentleness of his voice overpowers it as he speaks. "i know, shh...," he murmurs and you can't believe your ears, that the man you thought hated you is actually attempting to comfort you after everything. "breathe, y/n."

like it's second nature to him, his hand travels to your back as the sobs wrack through your body, immediately drawing soothing circles on to your covered skin with his thumb. you don't know how but this almost makes you feel worse, the fact that he's still so caring towards you. you pluck up the strength to lift your face from your moist hands, and you're sure it's not a pretty sight that greets him. your nose feels unbelievably stuffy, and your face is on fire when you meet his sympathetic eyes, the warmth from his gaze and hand spreading throughout you, even though he's now removed it. "i'm sorry," you manage through sniffles, but you think you almost flatline when he reaches his hand towards your face, ever so gently caressing it. his thumb juts out and sweeps across the skin under your eye, wiping away at the wetness. "i know."

"shh, it's okay. you're okay", he coos gently and slowly takes his hand back in favour of imitating slow breaths for you, helping you relax a little as you copy him. "why would you think i'd leave you?", he asks carefully once you've calmed down a bit and wiped your tear-streaked face, simply surveying you now. all you can offer him is a defeated shrug, attempting to collect your thoughts. "remember i told you about my ex? the very first one?"

he nods.

"i moved on obviously, like ages ago, but since then i think i've always had this idea that getting dumped is inevitable", you try to explain, voice small as he listens patiently. "it was either leave them or get left, and i was so scared that it would happen with you, that i'd fuck up so bad that you would leave. i couldn't do it."

he frowns and calls out your name in a way that sounds like he's about to lecture you, but you know he can't tell you anything that you haven't already told yourself. "i know, jae, it was so stupid, i know. i don't regret anything more", you sigh, giving him a tight, small smile when you lock eyes. "i'm sorry."

you notice his eyes soften at the nickname, releasing a quiet huff before he runs a hand through his hair. his body language doesn't carry the same anger it did before when he was ranting, now looking subdued and reflective. "i understand why you did what you did. it was stupid, but i understand", he murmurs, his voice impossibly soft when meeting your gaze, the eye contact so intense that you have to physically remind yourself not to cry again by digging your fingernails into your palms. "i would've never left you."

you nod slowly at his admission, his words hanging in the air. "i should've just talked to you...", you concluded in a sullen way and he doesn't reply in full, just mumbling a soft "yeah" under his breath. you don't mind the silence that fills the car this time, the underlying tension more or less dissipated, but you do notice the time, realising that jaehyun still needs to go back home after dropping you.

"should we, uh...", you gesture towards the road and he jumps up in his seat, as though he forgot that he was driving you somewhere in the first place, muttering "sorry" before twisting the key to start the car. this makes you let out an involuntary giggle and jaehyun shoots you a quick glare which immediately shuts you up, a certain warmth blooming in your chest when you see a small smile creep on to his face out of the corner of your eye.

it's quiet for a bit, jaehyun focusing on the road while you gaze out the window. much to your dismay, both the road and the various buildings and shops start to look a lot more familiar, indicating that you are nearing your home. you shouldn't be dismayed really, because this wasn't the most congenial of car rides, but it means that your time with jaehyun is coming to an end. you don't know what the conversation that took place means for you and him however, because unless you're alarmingly stupid, you feel that he may not hate you as much as he once did. does this mean you might even be able to see him again sometime? in a setting where you're not sweating and shaking at just the thought of seeing him?

you think it might be a bit audacious of you to ask that, so you don't. instead, you turn to him with a light grin, playing with the necklace clasped around your neck. "hey, at least you got some new headphones out of all of this", you joke lightheartedly, eyeing the package sitting on the backseat. he lets out a heartwarming chuckle at your comment, glancing at the bag through his rear view mirror. "i can't believe your parents bought that for me. you think they'll make me return it when they find out we aren't together?", he remarks, and you do your best to ignore the little pang you feel at the reminder of your situation. his comment does make you snort though, and you nod along with him. "nah, you need it more than anyone. your airpods have seen better days."

he laughs again, and you wouldn't believe that you two were arguing back and forth like madmen some twenty minutes back. this feels familiar and comfortable, and you cross your fingers in case you jinx it. "do you remember that time when we planned a picnic..." jaehyun begins, a sense of nostalgia shining through his cheeks. "and you forgot to bring the speakers? and we tried blasting music through my one airpod?"

you can't stop the peals of laughter that escape from your mouth as you nod, covering your mouth when your snort makes him laugh as well. "remind me why we didn't just play the music straight from your phone?", you question, replaying the memory in your mind like it was recent. he pauses to think for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck while he hums. "yeah, what the fuck? why didn't we just do that?"

you're laughing in unison as you take this trip down memory lane together, the next few minutes of the car ride consisting of exclamations of "oh! remember when..." and "that time when...", both of you adding on to the memories with your own perspectives and insights. the fact that the conclusion of your little dispute remains ambiguous doesn't bother you too much at the moment, happy to just enjoy the warm atmosphere while you can.

jaehyun's animatedly recounting a story about your sister downloading a game on his phone when you face him, and the last thing you remember paying attention to was that she had somehow managed to spend a large amount of his actual money on it. your eyes are focused on him now, just studying him, and he seems to realise that you aren't listening to his story when he glances at you.

"what?", he questions, the corner of his eyes crinkling when he narrows them at you in an playful manner, taking one hand off the steering wheel to drum absentmindedly on his thigh. "nothing, i just...", you trail off, scanning his features. "you changed your hair. it's...nice. i wanted to tell you that earlier."

he clearly wasn't expecting the compliment, mouth opening and then closing as he tries to think of an admissible reply. "you like it?", he then asks, a shy smile tugging at his lips when he consciously cards his fingers through the longer bit at the back. at your reaffirming nod and heavy gaze, the expected pink sheen dusts his cheeks and though you can't see them, you know the tips of his ears are pink too. he mumbles something of a timid "thank you", both of you smiling like idiots while he trains his eyes on the road.

not too soon after, his car is pulling into your dark driveway. you can't help the sinking feeling in your chest, lips curved slightly downwards. none of the lights are on, save for the streetlight, illuminating the street in a ghostly, dim way. your house looks just like it had for the past many months, gloomy and lonely, and you're absolutely dreading the idea of moping around once again. if this day spent with jaehyun has showed you anything, it's that you're a 100% sure you've not moved on, and that you won't for a long, long time. simply put, you're still in love with him, and you'll have to carry the cross of your mistake for some time to come.

he switches the ignition off but neither of you move. you're sat in your dull driveway on an otherwise empty street, all the other lights of your neighbouring houses off. neither of you say anything, mostly because you're not sure what one is supposed to say in this situation, so everything is still.

"so–"

"well–"

you let out a nervous chuckle while he smiles a bit, both of you mumbling apologies for interrupting each other. "you go first", jaehyun compels you, but now you don't know what to say because you were just going to make it up as you speak. your mouth has a way of working faster than your brain sometimes, but neither seem to be too functional at the present moment. "no, you go", is all you got, and jaehyun has the nerve to roll his eyes, twisting in his seat a little so he's facing you.

"i was just going to say that we uh, reached your place", he claims in a deadpanned manner, but your car door is still locked and your seatbelt is still locked in. you think you must have lost your mind, hoping that he'd tell you to stay with him forever and never leave (which you would have agreed to in a heartbeat). "i guess we have...", you nod, looking out the window and observing your home. maybe it was the dread of going back to your old routine that gave you the sudden boost of confidence, but you realise he never answered your question from before.

"jaehyun...", you begin but falter when you think you might be overstepping, ultimately deciding to just ask anyway when he looks at you expectantly. "why did you agree to come today? we both know you didn't have to."

he looks like he was dreading the very question you asked for some time, shutting his eyes when he leans his head back against the headrest and sighs. "i don't know", is the answer he gives you, voice muffled through the palms of his hands that are rubbing his face tiredly. biting your lip, you have to hold back a similar sigh because you should've known he's not going to just tell you like that. you have no right to press, but yet you do, one more time. "jaehyun, please?"

maybe it's because you sound so meek, but he drops his hands in favour of looking at you, really looking at you, like he's searching your eyes. "why do you think?", he turns it back on you, but you know this is just his way of avoiding the question. "if i knew, i wouldn't be asking. i know you don't have to tell me, you don't owe me a single thing, i just–", you speak desperately with all of the confidence you can muster, worried that your bottom lip would start trembling again. "please, i need to know."

you're looking each other dead in the eye, and while your voice isn't strong, it's honest and raw, and jaehyun can sense that. you can see that there's a million thoughts running in his mind just by the pained look in his eye and your own heartbeat has picked up, the sound deafening in your ears.

"if you haven't figured it out by now, i don't know what to tell you."

thud. thud. thud. you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat over the sound of his, but the blood pumping through your veins is making your ears ring, because what did he mean by that? you hope it means what you want it to mean, but you can't just assume you know everything because you're delusional at this point. "jaehyun, what are you sayi–"

"i agreed because i'm still in love with you."

there it is. the silence after his confession is positively deafening, your mouth agape as your try to register what you just heard. your eyes flicker between his, searching for any signs that he's just messing you and that it's some cruel joke, though it would be completely in his right to fuck with you if he wanted. he's never looked more vulnerable, eyes trained on you in an almost frantic way, like he himself can't believe what he just said. the way he just blurted it out makes you think that he didn't fully mean to admit that, but it's out, nothing he could do to take it back.

"what?", your own voice sounds like an echo and you wish you had something else to say because you heard him loud and clear, but there's a burning ache in your chest that claws all the way up to your throat. the shock is evident in your voice, not knowing what to do with yourself as you visibly process his words. "tell me you're joking", you plead in a pained way, words barely above a whisper. he doesn't say anything, looking lost in his own thoughts as his eyes scan your face. "you don't hate me?"

"hate you?", he scoffs disconsolately, shaking his head slowly. "i couldn't hate you if i tried. and believe me, i tried."

you can hardly believe your ears. you know your heart shouldn't be pounding the way it is, it feels wrong almost for you to be feeling as relieved as you are. "after everything?", you insist dumbfoundedly, but the longing in your voice is palpable, even if you're trying to give him a way out. "i was so horrible to you, jaehyun." you hate the way your voice cracks, but jaehyun just sighs and offers you a sad smile.

"there's nothing you could do to make me hate you."

it's heartbreaking, how defeated he sounds, but he's also looking at you like you could do no wrong in his eyes. "i never moved on", you whisper, hesitance clear as you tell him the truth. "i couldn't delete any of our pictures, i still have all your clothes, sometimes i accidentally set the table for two when it's just me..."

he's blinking quickly, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say he was trying to hold back tears. your break-up did nothing but cause immense amounts of pain for the both of you, and you'd give anything in the world to make up the time lost. his wide-eyed and nearly motionless expression urges you to continue, ready to pour out your heart to the man you loved.

"i still have your number memorised", your face mirrors his, voice growing stronger by the minute. "all the gifts and letters you've ever given me, they're all still there in that shoebox in my cupboard."

"i thought about you everyday", his whisper is raspy, speaking right after you do. "every party i went to, i looked for you even though i knew you wouldn't be there. you know johnny tried setting me up with people?"

you try to suppress the little sting, but you feel it deep inside you. "he did?", you have to clear your throat, and you almost don't want to ask but you do anyway. he releases a sad little chuckle and nods, toying with his fingers. "yeah. i knew i was doomed when the whole date, i wished she was you."

the smile finds its way on to your face against your will, feeling that familiar lump make its way to your throat. "she could've made you happy, jae", you argue anyway because at the end of the day, you want the best for him, and you know you're far from the best.

"no one could make me feel the way you do, y/n", he replied honestly, and there's a sense of finality to his words, like he'd had this same argument with himself time and time again, only to come to this conclusion. “the thought of anyone else touching you made me sick”, he croaked, not missing the way his eyes ghost over your frame.

his words bring about a noticeable shift in the air, followed by silence. he watches you, and you watch him, breathing slow as your eyes dart across his face.”i don’t want anyone but you”, you confess slowly, and a few beats pass before you find it in you to speak again. "i love you, jaehyun."

silence.

you expected disapproval, maybe even a malicious scoff, but you certainly weren't expecting to feel a soft pair of lips against yours as he suddenly lurches forward.

you're stunned, so stunned that you don't even reciprocate the kiss, lips unmoving against his. it's only when he takes this as a sign of discomfort and breaks the kiss that you find yourself reacting, hands immediately making their way to caress his cheeks, leaning forward to chase his lips and close the distance between you. he lets out a sound of surprise against your lips but kisses you back right away, a hand wrapping around your neck from the back, tangling itself in your hair. the kiss is heated and so long overdue, tangible through the way his lips meld furiously together with yours, teeth clashing every now and then.

your hands make their way to his broad shoulders, one wrapping around them while the other comes to rest on his chest, gripping the material of his hoodie. you have the urge to be impossibly close to him, trying to lean forward to kiss him more fully but you're restricted by your seatbelt. it's almost as if he can read your mind, because the hand placed against your face now moves to press on the buckle to release you without breaking the kiss. "fucking seatbelt...", he mumbles disgruntedly against your lips, fiddling with the button until you hear it click, finally separating yourself from him to slip it over you. "there we go."

you don't stay separated for long because jaehyun uses the hand behind your head to pull you towards him again, capturing your lips in a way that makes all the air leave your lungs. "come here", he grunts, using his long arms to pull you clumsily over the gearshift and straight on to his lap. you settle yourself in to the somewhat awkward position in the enclosed space, but that's the last thing on your mind when all your thoughts consist of jaehyun, jaehyun, jaehyun. his lips are back on yours in a instance, tongue sweeping across your bottom lip messily and you gladly allow it to explore your mouth.

the air is impossibly thick, heavily contrasting to the cold weather outside the car, even his lips and hands feel warm against your hot body. you feel his hands grip your waist easily in this position, lips leaving your own to drag across the expanse of your jaw. you whine quietly at the feeling of his mouth sucking a particular spot on your neck, tilting your head back as you wrap your arms around his neck. "missed this", he muses, tongue peeking out to kitten lick at your neck, breath hot against your sensitive skin. "missed you."

the feeling in your chest when his hands find their way under your shirt and on to your bare skin is inexplicable, unable to stop the soft moan from tumbling from your lips when his big hands glide over your stomach, back and finally your breasts. everything about the way he's touching you and kissing you is greedy and urgent, like he's afraid you'll disappear from his arms if he loosens his grip even by a little bit. you'd be a fool to not match this energy, pressing into him while you squeeze your hands over his. "need you so bad, jae."

you're subconsciously grinding down against him needily, hips stuttering against his lap like you've never been touched before. "fuck", your eyes widen at the groan that leaves his throat, sounding absolutely guttural as he grips the skin of your hip harshly.

he's barely done anything and you're coming undone right in front of his watchful eyes, your panties dampening at the look on his face. "jae..", you whine when his fingers dip past the waistband of your pants, gently cupping your clothed core as you rut against it. "shit, baby", he marvels at the stickiness of your panties, feeling your wetness on his fingers just through the material. "you really missed me, huh?"

you don't even have the time to respond to his cocky remark before his fingers are slipping beneath the band of your panties to circle your clit, spreading the wetness around your folds. a breathy sigh escapes your lips, throwing your head back as he experimentally prods at your entrance and eventually slips a finger inside. "still so tight for me", he all but groans, pumping his finger in and out of you languidly, drinking in the sounds of your pleasure. he feels so blissfully familiar, and though you haven't been touched by him, or anyone for that matter for months, the stretch of his second finger feels the same kind of intimate as it did before, if not more.

you lean forward and press your lips against his once again, kissing him like you might never get the chance to again, all while you're grinding back down on his hand that's fingering you steadily with a thumb circling your clit at the same time. his free hand moves to bunch your top up above your breasts, peppering kisses over the tops of them. he wastes no time in pulling your breasts free from from their cups, attaching his lips to one nipple and swirling his tongue around it in a way that makes you cry out. "my pretty girl", he mumbles almost to himself while cupping your other breast, making a show out of it as his tongue flicks over your hardened bud over and over until your arching your back and pressing it further into his face. “thought about this all the time.”

keeping in mind that you're still technically in a public place, you bite your lip to contain the sounds of your pleasure, though jaehyun doesn't make it easy when he notices this and increases the pace of his fingers. the hand fondling your breast leaves it unattended for a moment to release your bottom lip from your teeth, smoothing his thumb over the swollen skin. "i've waited months to hear these sounds. let me hear you, baby", he all but purrs and that's all it takes for a moan to tumble out of your mouth, pressing your forehead against the side of his face while you screw your eyes shut out of pleasure.

with his attack on your sensitive buds and his fingers pistoning inside of you, you know you aren't going to last long. "already?", jaehyun chides with a small smirk, and it's embarrassing how well he knows your body, grazing his teeth against your nipple in a way that feels painful and heavenly at the same time. you can feel his rock hard bulge against you, and with the untimely grinding of your hips against him, you're sure this is torturous for him. "don't wanna come like this", you whine against his cheek, your entire body feeling sticky from the heat inside the closed vehicle. your puckered lips leave wet kisses all over the expanse of his cheek, and the boyish giggle that leaves his mouth makes your heart flutter. "wanna feel you, jae."

his head is thrown back against the headrest and his eyes are shut tightly, jaw clenched as he slowly slips his fingers out of you. though you whine at the loss of contact and you're almost grinding against the air, you want nothing more than to make him feel good as well. "want you to fill me up", you coo at him, softly linking your hands behind his neck as you test the waters with your words. it's clear they have an effect on him, both hands placed on your hips as he helps you lazily grind against his erection. "don't– have a condom", he grits out, hips bucking up to meet yours. "don't need one", you murmured immediately, knowing he wants this as bad as you do.

his eyes flicker open at that, one hand leaving your hip to brush some stray hairs away from your face, gently tucking some behind your ear. you could melt at the way he's looking at you, so tender and loving, a warmth spreading all over you until you feel like you have to look away. he doesn't let you however, hand quickly coming you to cup your cheek before leaning in place a small peck against your lips. "are you sure?", he sounds breathless, but still firm as his eyes glance between yours like he's reading them.

if he can read them, he'll know that you can't nod fast enough, dragging your hips across his needily to show him. "i'm sure. i want you, jae.", you're so needy that you don't even bother to take your pants or panties off fully, fingers fumbling with the waistband as you shimmy them down a little, leaving your underwear on. you swear your mouth waters when he unbuttons his pants and lets his cock spring out against his stomach, lustful eyes taking in the way he keeps his shirt up with his teeth. if this weren't such an awkward position, you'd have taken him in your mouth in an instant, knowing exactly what to do to hear the man in front of you whimper.

nudging your panties to the side, he focuses on collecting your wetness all over the tip of his dick, hissing at the contact. "please", you whine, not wanting to waste another moment, finally sighing in relief when he begins to press his cock inside you. he swears under his breath at the feeling, and you're feeling so stretched out just from him slipping it in even though you're still so wet that you just go lax in his arms until he bottoms out. "that's it", he grunts like he's holding back. "taking me so well, angel."

you preen at his praise, finally beginning to move your hips a little at his coaxing. sighing against the shell of his ear, he picks up the pace for you, not warning you before thrusting upwards to meet your movements with a groan. you can feel your mind going blank at the sensation, your moans sounding more like cries whenever he snaps his hips into yours, the obscene sounds filling the car. you're just so full, his hands gliding up and down your sides as he fucks deep inside you, making up for all the lost time. "you feel so good, baby", he barely gets his words out, but it gives you the encouragement to bounce up and down on his thick cock a little faster than before, his eyes widening at the feeling. "just like that."

he's kissing and sucking all over your neck again, lips ghosting over whatever skin he can reach and it's all so much, feeling a single tear stream down your face. he almost slows down for a second when he feels the tear drop on to his own face, eyebrows raised in surprise because he thinks he's hurting you, but he's even more shocked when you let out the high-pitched whine. "what's wrong, angel?", he mumbles into your neck, peering up at you carefully. you shake your head profusely, continuing to grind down on his cock. "i just- just love you so much, jae", you blabber incoherently, so wet that you're practically gushing around his dick.

"aw, baby", he shushes you sweetly, pressing his forehead against yours as his thrusts become more and more erratic. "i'm here. not going anywhere." the coil in your stomach is tightening and you can feel every inch of him inside you, more tears threatening to spill from your eyes before he's kissing them away. "i'm here."

he's hitting all the right spots inside you in this position, and he's basically doing all the work because you're like putty in his strong arms, all you can do is moan and cry out against him weakly. "i'm close", you warn him, but you know he already knows that, and you know he is too, slipping your hand down to where his rests on your hip and interlacing your fingers. "me too, pretty", he sputters through his teeth, giving your hand a tight squeeze as you start to come undone. “want you to cum. can you do that for me?”

"oh my god", you're crying out as you cum around his cock, body and mind going numb and ears ringing as the coil finally snaps. "cum inside me, jae, please", his eyes go wide at the way you're begging him, and he doesn't look like he can hold back much longer. "fuck angel, you- you sure–"

"yes, please, need you to fill me up", you cut him off, too sensitive from the way he's helping you ride out your high to move anymore. with a few more sloppy thrusts, his cock is twitching inside you before you lets out a guttural groan, his warm cum filling you up. you go limp against him, face nuzzled into the crook of his neck as the both of you try to regulate your heartbeats.

the sounds of your heavy breathing fills up the car along with jaehyun's soft murmurs of "so perfect" and "did so well for me". any doubts you had in your mind of this being a mistake in jaehyun's eyes are wiped away when he begins petting your head, gently smoothing your messy hair as he presses firm kisses to your head. his cock softens inside of you but he makes no move to pull out, wrapping his arms around your waist while you do the same around his neck, simply sitting in each other's presence silently.

you struggle but finally pick yourself up, gazing at his moonlit face from your place on his lap. “you okay? was that okay?”, he murmurs softly, his voice thick and eyes hazy as he traces little shapes on your back. “more than okay”, you reply tiredly, pressing your lips against his once again because you feel you’re in a dream-like state right now. you're sure he's the most beautiful man you're ever had the privilege of looking at, feeling incredibly vulnerable when you speak again even though he's looking at you with nothing but love in his eyes. "now what?", you question, suddenly feeling like you've jumped the gun when he opens his mouth to say something but stays silent. "never mind, don't answer that, we'll talk about it later", you shake your head, laughing a little breathlessly when he grins at you, pecking his forehead sweetly.

you look away from him and at your lifeless house, mouth working faster than your brain once again. "would you...want to come in?", you wince, feeling kind of stupid for asking but meaning it anyway. you're both comforted and thrilled when a large grin is plastered on to his face, feeling like maybe your home won't be as lifeless anymore.

"i think i'd love to come in."

[bamsara]

(writing & TROD ramble)

I think the worst blocks in writing are certainly burnout and otherwise, but also *still* being very passionate about what you're into but you're at the part in the story where a LOT of plot is happening, every detail down to the smallest sentence is important somehow, and if you miss anything you had originally planned with then a lot of things plot wise or similar can fall apart

Writing the larger chapters in my au (and this also shows in my other works as well, especially the longer ones like SL or CEATPEOTW) where there are things happening in that chapter that are very important major story things + also things that I've been story boarding and re-drafting for about 1.5 going on 2 years now make me want to procrastinate but also make sure that the chapter is going to meet my standards, which may or may not scrap things ive been drawing for months or entire scenes entirely.

Like Kallamar's chapter is biting me in the ass in the same way the Drunken Gods chapter did and the Growth chapter did as in: there is so much happening, everything that happens is very important, and I need to make sure I cover everything I want to cover and reveal just enough to progress the plot along and it's relationships while still not giving the entire mystery away or else the next arc will fall flat

On the note of rewriting things I've had planned for months, ONE EXAMPLE I can use is actually the snowball fight scene, which I drafted a year ago. The first half of the comic actually makes it into the story, specifically the Lamb building a snow Narinder (snari) and Narinder's contribution being a lump on top of it that resemebles the Lamb, but Lambert mistakes it as the red crown

Even in the original post, the snowball scene's place was uncertain because the flow of the story kept adjusting to make the timeline make more sense, so while the comic itself has both the Making of the snow-snari + the snowball fight, only the snow-snari made it into chapter 19 and the other half for chapter 20....except we are on chapter 23 going on 24 now, and this scene has no place to appear, and even in the near future, Narinder is going to be far too injured to do a snowball fight before the snow in the story melts following the timeline. Unless I like, prolong winter a little bit.

So! Since there's a high chance this scene won't appear in the written work, I'll just go ahead and explain what I had planned for it to symbolize, specifically touching on where their relationship is and how this small scene of fun was supposed to be a sort of change.

In my adjusted draft, winter is nearing it's end but not cold enough to melt the snow, but it's safe to safe the Lamb shouldn't expect the 'snari' to last forever. There was a place for Narinder and Lamb to have this scene in chapter 23:

If I had planned a little bit better, this is where the snowball fight would have ensured, but I later realized that following the flow of the previous chapters and the current situation on hand (followers rapidly getting sick and the need to crusade to cure them immense) that my Lamb, as goofy as they are, would not commence a snowball fight when their flock dying is ever present in the back of their mind. So the cut-off is pretty, eh, abrupt.

To start elaborating: the seasons ongoing in Trod and their place in the story along with whats happening in the plot, are like that for a reason. Winter started officially when the drunken chapter ended. Winter will be ending soon when Kallamar is rescued, and Spring will start. Spring, a season for new growth and change, at the exact moment where severe change is happening not only to the plot and subplots (some main-mystery reveal, mushrooms, tyren and the fox, ect) but also when the main pairing of Narilamb start to communicate and develop.

In the draft, the snow-snari was supposed to be destroyed in the snowball fight. As in, wanting to get into a snowball fight before the snow melts with Narinder, the Lamb chucks a snowball at him, to which he grabs the nearest fist of intact snow (which just so happens to be a slightly melted snari) and chucks it back.

The both of them 'use up' a lot of the snow on the snari and it's little lamb, trample over it and fall into even until they realize they've destroyed was was (metaphorically) their snow-past selves. They are equally sad about it, respectfully not showing it

That is, until the Lamb drops a huge snowball on top of Narinder and laughs that they don't need a snari when the 'real snari' is right here. I don't remember what I had written Narinder to say back, but I do remember I had him try to drop snow chunks down the back of their cloak. Importantly noted: both are having fun, and Narinder is actively cackling and actually seemly to enjoy life, in that moment.

So: The symbolism I wanted to hit for here is that (where this scene was SUPPOSED to land in the very first draft) was a sort of love for the past they had(friendship and trust in the afterlife), the season ending (change, the final fight, good or bad) was melting it, but instead of kicking it over or letting it just melt, using it in a snowball fight where they're both laughing and enjoying themselves, and realizing that with the past they had, bad or good, build *new* memories

Something something In both a platonic and romantic sense, whichever you want to use it for: "i loved you back then, things are different now, and I love you now"

Anyway snowball fight scene aside I'm having this deal with a lot of my scenes, that always have a 50% of after being drawn, ever actually make it into the written work because the flow just Didn't Hit My Brain Right

This next chapter? This is the kind that makes me want to eat drywall. There's a lot of details that I have to perfect (Narinder is in the healing bay vs temple in recovery, dream lamb sequence, where are his siblings during this, the flock's awareness, the heart and the mystic seller, SO MUCH) that every single detail has to be very perfect or there's a chance it might leave a plot hole or fall flat

And then there's the next chapter in the draft AFTER chapter 24 where it's Narinder's recovery in the cult where he gains friendships with cultists and there's actual real communication between Nari and Lamb that's very close and there's Leshy and Joon development and what can be considered the 'come down and relax, rewards after the horrors' chapter, but I have to finish finalizing the horrors first.

anyway ramble over . I need to lock in

[heywriters]

Rescued Writing Links!

When cleaning out the HEY, Writers! Pinterest I moved some links here. The internet has changed a LOT since I started collecting these, so some links may include outdated info. All were still active when I made this, but it's been in my drafts for a hot minute.

Protip! In Firefox, check to toggle reader view when reading these (mobile: the page icon in the url bar; desktop: same icon or hit F9). This removes popups, ads, screen clutter, and often has an audio option.

Survivors of Internet Decay Award!

These active sites featured most often in my collections so they get the top of the list.

Helping Writers Become Authors

Mythcreants

Bryn Donovan

Getting Started (Ideas & Intros)

How to Start Writing a Book: Learn One Writer’s Process | Marian Schembari

How to Start a Story: 30 Opening Scene Examples | Bryn Donovan

Don’t Panic! What to Do When You Have Too Many Story Ideas | Faye Kirwin

How to Write a Killer First Chapter | Rae Elliot

How To Write A Captivating Opening Sentence

Outlining

How to Create a Flexible Outline for Your Novel | Faye Kirwin

Protagonists

How to Write Believable Characters | Bridget McNulty

4 Ways to Write a Likable Protag at the Start of the Character Arc | KM Weiland

5 Tips for Writing a Likable "Righteous" Character | KM Weiland

I Hate Your Protagonist! Want to Know Why? | KM Weiland

The Secret to Writing Dynamic Characters: It's Always Their Fault | KM Weiland

A Protagonist’s Moment of Realisation

Antagonists

Blurring the Lines: What Are Anti-Heroes and Anti-Villains?

Antagonists: Inner & Outer Demons | Kristen Lamb

How to Write Multiple Antagonists | KM Weiland

Character Building

The Epic Guide to Character Creation, Part 1 | Kylie Day

Pick Up A Bad Habit | Maggie Maxwell

How To Write Characters from the Opposite Gender | Rachel Poli

Top 4 Tips for Using Backstory in Your Novel | Diana Anderson-Tyler

Depicting Background Characters | Chris Winkle

Scene Building

The 5 Elements Of A Good Scene | Amanda Patterson

A New Way to Think About Scene Structure | KM Weiland

2 Ways to Make the Most of Your Story’s Climactic Setting | KM Weiland

8 Things Writers Forget When Writing Fight Scenes | Lisa Voisin

Descriptions

Master List of Facial Expressions | Bryn Donovan

Master List of Words to Describe Voices | Bryn Donovan

Master List of Physical Description for Writers | Bryn Donovan

Writer’s Guide to Serious Injuries and Calamities | Bryn Donovan

How to Ground Your Reader (in the setting) | Rachel Craft

The Forgotten Fifth Sense | Writer's Relief

Never Name an Emotion in Your Story | KM Weiland

Show, Don't Tell: How to Write the Stages of Grief | Ruthanne Reid

100 Words for Facial Expressions

Dialogue

How To Write Good Dialogue: Ten Tips | Irving Weinman

Seven Dialogue Don’ts | Jason Bougger

10 Keys to Writing Dialogue in Fiction | Katherine Cowley

Points-Of-View (POV)

What Every Writer Ought to Know About the Omniscient POV | KM Weiland

Motivation & Support

What New Writers Need To Know About Fear | Bryan Collins

How to Discover Your Writing Process with Gabriela Pereira | Kirsten Oliphant

Editing & Revising

18 Overused Words to Replace When Writing | Oxford Tutoring

An Easy Way to Immediately Improve Your Character’s Action Beats | KM Weiland

Want More Depth to Your Writing? | Sacha Black

How Much is Too Much Backstory? | Ellen Brock

Why Your Writing Sounds Weird (And What You Can Do About It) | Joe Brock

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers | Jenny Bravo

Favorite Revision and Editing Tricks

Short Stories & Flashfic

How to Write a Story a Week: A Day-by-Day Guide | Emily Wenstrom

How Flash Fiction / Microfiction Can Help With Your Writing | Rhianne Williams

Worksheets & Downloads

Writing Worksheet Archive

If anyone out there loves making lists and wants to transport this to another site, you have every right to do so! Just let me know in a reblog so I can share it here again :)

---

HEY! Writers' Links

Tip Jar! If you enjoy my blog and advice, support me on Ko-fi!🤗

Follow me on AO3 for fanfiction

Visit my Pinterest & Unsplash for visual inspiration

[vanillarosekiss]

ddlg!simon x reader

Hi sweet baby angel cakes!!! I’m unmotivated so the links help for inspo, PLUS fkin stupid tumblr decided to wipe my draft halfway through writing it, so i got absolutely rage baited and almost quit this. Then realised how hot it was so i decided to suck it up and continue whilst trying to remember as much as i could…

p!links: him breeding you , 2 , 3

warnings: breeding kink, mention of potential pregnancy (reader is NOT pregnant), simon taunting you slighty, ddlg!implied but not fully explicit (tbh the other kink is so much more prominent but.i just first imagined it like ddlg when i started to write this), lots of language, yadda yadda yaddaaaaa...

word count: 1k

You barely get a mere 'hello' before your knees hit the floor.

He's just come home, his boots still on and his mask pushed up just far enough to show the mouth that owns you. There's no softness about this moment, just pure desire.

The heavy sound of his belt hitting the floor pulls you out of your thoughts.

"Open up, baby."

You mindlessly obey him, your conditioned response being that you were already dripping for him. The way he looks at you like you're a filthy little thing made just for him lights your nerves on fire. His fingers thread into your hair, tightening just enough to make you whimper.

"You remember how to behave after I've been gone all week?" Simon asks in that cocky, borderline sarcastic voice of his.

You nod, feeling his cock press against your tongue, hot and swelled. You moan around him, drool already sliding down your chin as he lets out a satisfied grunt.

"That's it, baby. Take it nicely if you wanna get fucked later."

So you do just that.

His rhythm picks up, slow, deep thrusts feeding every inch of himself down your throat. Your nails dig into his thighs, tears spilling over your waterline. And when you look up at him, he just loses it.

"Fuck, look at ya. So good f'me."

He pulls out with a low groan, and you gasp, saliva trailing from your lips like silk ribbon. Your throat aches and your knees burn. Yet still, you whimper when he steps away; you're so desperate for him.

"Don't pout," he simply says, before he tugs you up roughly by the hips and hauls you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. Tosses you down onto the soft sheets, face-first, ass up. Your favourite little plushie stares from the pillow, watching the ludicrous acts like a witness.

"Knew you'd have this fuckin' thing in bed with you," he mutters, grabbing it and tossing it aside.

Simon doesn’t waste his time. He grabs your panties and tears them off, landing a smack on your ass that makes your toes curl.

“Been touching this little pussy without me?” he almost growls.

“No. Didn’t touch, I promise,” you whisper breathlessly.

He kneels behind you like he’s worshipping the altar of your body.

“Been thinking about this little cunt every fuckin’ night,” he mutters. “My needy baby. So fuckin’ pretty when she begs.”

His hand trails down between your thighs.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already makin’ a mess,” he almost laughs a little.

You can’t seem to hold in the soft whimpers that leave your mouth as his hand ghosts over the area you need him most. It’s so degrading to see how much power he has over you, but you secretly enjoy the feeling of being taken by him like this, and he’s definitely aware of that.

“What’s got you all worked up like this sweeth’art? Thinking of what i’m about to do to this pretty little body hm?”

He presses his lips to your ear, voice low and dirty. “Bet that’s what you’re thinking about, huh? Me filling you up. Stuffing you full.”

His free hand cups your lower belly as if he was imagining it already swollen. “You want it that bad? Want me to fuck it into you so deep you’ll feel it for days?”

You whimper in a pathetically way. That only makes him more smug.

“Look at you,” he growls. “So desperate to be bred like a good little thing. All soft and needy for me, like your body was made for it.” His thumb brushed against your clit in an agonisingly slow motion, making you moan louder.

“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.” He says tauntingly whilst slipping a couple fingers in you, just barely until your back was arched further.

You whimper desperately, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right inside you, “Please! Want you to fuck me so bad… need you.”

He chuckles darkly, pulling his fingers out slowly before pressing them to his lips. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

"Need me to fuck a baby into this tight little cunt? Make you mine properly?”. Simon loved to find subtle ways to degrade you like that. He lines his cock up to your slit with no problem, before he slides into you all in one go, completely bottoming out.

He starts to move slowly at first, each thrust deliberate, grinding against the spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"Yeah, that's it baby. Pussy’s made f’me." he groans, watching your body react to every stroke.

You pulled him in deeper with your legs as he fucked you from behind, face buried into the pillow under you, muffling your consistent sounds of pleasure.

"Keep squeezin' me like that," he pants, "and I'm gonna come faster than I planned."

"Want it so bad Si!" you gasp. "Want you to come inside me-"

That sends him feral. He thrusts harder now, like an animal instinct has taken over his body.

"Tell me exactly what you want.” He demands.

"Fuck- want you to breed me. Fill me 'til l'm dripping." you moan.

His rhythm turns punishing.

"You're gonna take every single drop," he groans. "Gonna fill you so full you'll still feel it leaking out tomorrow. My baby in my girl."

You can feel him getting closer, his body beginning to stutter along with his thrusts. When he finally comes, it’s pure bliss.

"Fuck, take all of it," he grunts, holding you tight and still as he pulses inside you. "You're fuckin' mine."

You come a few seconds after as he starts moving again, pumping his seed into you further, like he’s trying to get it to go as deep as possible in you.

His hands gripped your waist hard, fingers pressing deep into your skin, matching the intensity of his cock inside you.

Watching you lay under him so fucked out had him nearly losing all self control.

“You’re gonna be full of me, aren’t you?” he muttered, his every word dripping with possession.

His hips began to drill into a relentless rhythm again, as he started to lose himself within the filthy mess of you.

isnt that so super sexy?

Tag list 𖠋: @punkkture @slut-lmao @sebastianstans-slut @ilikeoldmen @g1rlfa1lure0 @queenoflaflames @tmartin0918 @kkloubee @patricksoulmate @writingandsins @mxnii777 @bruisedfig @mlthree @cupidswan @siphon07 @decaffeinateddelusionbread @kiss4tell @kylies-love-letter @catssmirkingrevenge

[under-the-mud]

Description: Over the course of Paige and Azzi’s relationship, the idea of marriage, or forever, has been brought up over and over, typically as a joke. One day, it’s not a joke. fluff, slowburn(?), probably around 7-8 parts

This is inspired by @/victoria bennie on tiktok

(a/n) so remember when i posted yesterday about a cute little short pazzi one shot idea that could not get out of my head? yeah well that snowballed into a multi-part series b/c i am averaging ~500 words per section and that feels too overwhelming to write as one big oneshot. anyway, this is my first big piece so all constructive criticism is welcome but also please be kind. I will never write smut, so if you're looking for that, go check out @33lol , i love their work so much. love ya!

masterlist ch.2

～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～

2017

It was late. Paige knew this. Even with only an hour difference between them, Paige could see the wear of the day on Azzi’s face. Still, she could not bring herself to be separated from Azzi. 

It had been three months since Team USA and the girls somehow managed to grow even closer. The minute they went their opposite directions at the airport, they were already texting about when they’d get home and could facetime again. Both families found it cute, if not a little obnoxious how one could never be completely pulled away from the other. Even when they weren’t directly on call with one another, they still brought up the other in conversation, often leaving their families exasperated at the constant obsession. 

However, to Paige and Azzi, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. To them, they were best friends, the best of best friends, why shouldn’t they always be texting or calling, why shouldn’t they be obsessed and wrapped around one another. Which leads them to now. 

Their current phone call was on its 6th hour, lasting even through each of their after school showers, much to their parents' dismay. Finally, it was time for bed and both girls were sitting all wrapped up and cosy in their respective beds, secretly wishing the other was laying next to them instead of on a phone halfway across the US. Azzi was starting to drift off, only half listening to whatever Paige was yapping about. But then Paige said something that suddenly made her wide awake. 

“...we’re going to UCONN to be coached by Geno, the best coach of all time and we’re going to be the best college basketball backcourt duo in the nation! I bet with the two of us playing together, we’re going to the natty’s every year. AND then obviously I will get drafted first-”

“Woah, slow down,” Azzi said, startling back to reality. “Who said anything about UCONN and us going together and being drafted to the W?”

Paige, taken aback, “well UCONN is one of the top women’s basketball colleges in the nation. And, well, we’re best friends and we do everything together…”

Warmth bloomed in Azzi’s chest. “You’re right P. I’m sorry, I was just joking. Of course we’ll always be best friends and we’ll go to UCONN together and eventually play together in the W. Nothing could split us up”

“You promise?” Paige said, still shy but holding up her pinky finger.

“Promise.” 

“Till the end of time?”

“You’re such a dork. Yes, Paige Madison Bueckers, I promise to be your best friend until the end of time,” Azzi laughed, virtually completing the pinky promise.

A quiet “yay” came from Paige.

Azzi snorted, “go to bed you big goofball”

～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～

(a/n) thanks for reading! like i said, i'm new to this so i am totally open to anyone who wants to maybe revise my outline or edit my final drafts before I publish them. I want to give a special thanks to @33lol @elleaitch22 @hcneymooners @pbaz7 @azzibuckets and @izzih22 who all write so beautifully that they have inspired confidence and courage in me to try writing and yeah they're each just really awesome blogs and i love them so much

[zomquette]

Dunno ‘er - (part 2)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!reader

Summary:  You didn’t sign up for a brainwashed death cult. But here you are—collared, bruised, and pretending not to know your own husband.

The escape plan? Still cooking.

But life has other ideas.  Like watching everything you love go up in smoke. And then, when all hope’s gone, a miracle with a familiar face walks into your gun sight.

Problem is… you’re both one second from falling apart. Oh and you have a daughter waiting for you back home.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, emotional/eventual smut, established relationship, captivity survival, hurt/comfort, reunion.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Graphic violence and murder / Captivity and psychological torture / Dissociation, trauma responses, emotional numbness / False death / burned body imagery / Religious cult themes / Grief, survivor’s guilt, PTSD themes / Explicit sexual content (PIV, double creampie, desperate/reunion sex/ Dacryphilia? Praise kink?) / Sexual content while grieving / Strong language / profanity.

Author's note: Seriously, if you can't handle angst, don't read this — it's pretty intense. I'm still a bit unsure about fitting so much into one part. I fear that that may have stripped it of all the tension, cliffhangers, and blah blah, but let me know what you all think. This is roughly 10% fluff, 50% angst, and 40% smut. And honestly, I'm quite proud of the smut I wrote, hehehe. I promised smut in the last part, and I am a woman of my word (I'm ovulating, so that's why it's filthy). BUT THIS IS SO LONG, WTF — every post I make gets longer than the last. Also, the rage I’m harbouring right now is unhealthy. I stayed up all night writing this, and it didn't save, so I had to use an old draft. Real ones would have seen the og post being posted at an unduly hour and deleted right after cause it was the wrong version. Anyway, this will never be as good as the original one I had, but whatever. I think I’ve just been trying to perfect this so much that I’ve grown tired of the story. I tried my best to make itly thorough, but I cba doing 5 or 6 part series, so deal with it. Anyway, erm, enjoy. 🔫 Good luck reading this, honestly, but if you do manage to get through it, please let me know what you think! If you want a part 3 or maybe I should just stick to one-shots, lol. rushed, be real

The sky was beginning to soften at the edges, that pale pink glow creeping over the tops of the houses like an afterthought. Alexandria was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace. It felt like absence.

Carol had barely slept. She’d tried—curled up on the couch with a half-read book in one hand and Dani’s head pressed against her chest—but every creak in the house made her sit upright. Every gust of wind that whispered against the windows made her turn her head. They were supposed to be back by nightfall.

They weren’t.

She told herself a hundred reasons why. A blocked path. A long shot. An overnight holdout. Nothing she hadn’t done herself. But as the night stretched longer, those excuses stopped fitting right.

The sun was just beginning to rise when the barking started.

Frantic, erratic barking. 

Carol was already on her feet by the time she registered the sound. She crossed to the front window first, peeking through the curtains, her hand resting instinctively near the blade at her hip. Behind her, Dani still slept on the couch, curled on her side with one arm flung over her stuffed giraffe.

Carol hesitated, casting a glance back at the girl. Quietly, she moved to her side, brushing a few strands of hair from Dani’s face. The child didn’t stir.

Then the barking came again—sharper now, urgent.

Carol straightened, her pulse catching. She moved to the door.

Then she saw him—Dog—barreling through the gate, his paws kicking up dust, his fur slick with sweat and burrs. He didn’t stop for anything. Not the gate, not the guard. He bee-lined for the house like he had something to say and no way to say it.

Carol’s blood went cold.

“Shit.”

The door creaked open behind her.

“Is it them?” Dani’s voice, soft and raspy, still half-asleep. She stood in the hallway, holding her little giraffe toy by the neck, her hair mussed and face creased from the pillow.

Carol turned, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s Dog, sweetheart. He came home.”

Dani blinked up at her, confusion flickering in her features.

“But—where’s Mama?”

Dog let out a sharp bark then, circling back toward the gate as if expecting someone else to follow. When no one did, he whined—just once—and laid down at Dani’s feet, panting hard.

The moment stretched too long.

Dani’s little voice cracked.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Carol crouched slowly, gathering the girl into her arms. Dani didn’t cry. Not yet. But her lip wobbled, and her little fists clenched in Carol’s shirt like she already knew. Carol closed her eyes against the rising sun and whispered into Dani’s hair.

“We’re gonna find them, sweetie. I promise.”

------

The clang of the iron doors echoed louder than it should have. Morning haze burned off above, revealing a sunken courtyard lined in metal and concrete—an arena. It was crude but intentional, like a forgotten parking lot retrofitted into a coliseum. Creed soldiers stood posted on ledges above, rifles in hand, their blank stares as chilling as the frost in the air.

You and Daryl were led in side by side, wrists still raw from rope burns, flanked by two guards whose silence felt more threatening than any shout. Marshal waited at the far end, leaning against a pillar like he owned the damn sky. “Welcome to the next phase of your integration,” he said with a smirk. “Time to see what you’re really made of.”

Daryl’s eyes scanned over the crpowd and landed back on Marshal; “the hell does that mean?”

Marshal didn’t flinch. He only smiled—a small, patient expression that suggested he’d been waiting for Daryl to ask.

“What it means,” he said, tone steady and deliberate as his eyes flicked from Daryl to you, “is that we’re gonna see whether the two of you are built for survival, or just lucked your way this far.”

Daryl’s posture shifted—shoulders drawn tight, chin lifted ever so slightly. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

“You both say you’re not part of any community,” Marshal continued, stepping in closer, voice still calm but now laced with something colder, meaner. “You say you’ve got no ties, no attachments, no liabilities. Well, we’re about to test that. See how deep that independence really goes.”

He made a vague gesture to the empty space in the center of the pit, and only then did you notice the chalk ring, faint but deliberate, drawn onto the dusty floor. A makeshift arena.

“Rules are simple,” Marshal said, glancing back at the onlookers gathering behind the barricades. “You step into the ring. You fight. No weapons. No kills. Just enough to show us you can survive without sentiment.”

His eyes landed squarely on you. “Win, and you prove you’re valuable to The Creed.”

Then to Daryl, his smirk returning. “Lose… and you prove you’re not.”

Daryl took a step forward, his voice dropping low with that same dry, dangerous rasp that never needed to be raised to hit like a bullet. “You want us to fight each other?”

Marshal didn’t answer at first. He let the silence stretch, enjoying the crackling tension like a man toasting marshmallows over an open fire. Then, with an infuriating shrug: “You said you’re strangers. Shouldn’t matter.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes sweeping the chalk ring, then up to Daryl.

He looked like he was staring down a bull, not his goddamn wife.

Daryl’s boots scraped against the dirt as he stepped into the ring with the stiffness of a man preparing for an execution—his own, not yours. His body moved like it didn’t want to, like every muscle was strung tight and on the verge of snapping. You tilted your head, watching him with a slow grin, even as your stomach coiled into knots.

You lowered your voice to a whisper only he could hear. “C’mon, Dixon. You’ve been waitin’ to knock me on my ass for years. Now, sack up and hit your wife already!”

His glare cut sideways. “Ain’t funny woman.”

“No,” you muttered back, cracking your knuckles, “but if you don’t swing at me in the next thirty seconds, this whole charade is gonna fall through.”

Around you, the crowd pressed in like vultures, a mess of hushed chants and boots grinding on dirt. Marshal stood still at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, unimpressed. His eyes were sharp, hungry for weakness, waiting for blood.

“Hit me,” you hissed. “Make it look good.”

Daryl looked like he wanted to argue—of course, he did—but then his jaw twitched and his shoulders rolled back, and suddenly he was moving. You ducked the first lunge, then let him catch you on the second, his grip firm but careful as he shoved you backward just hard enough to send you sprawling with a theatrical grunt.

You landed on your back, winded only by the sheer performance of it, then popped up fast and grinned like the world’s cockiest fox. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

He shook his head once, biting back a smirk.

You circled him again, letting your feet slide through the dust as you closed the distance. Then—without warning—you leapt forward and tackled him.

The crowd gasped. So did Daryl.

He landed hard, and you were on top before he could blink, straddling him with your knees locked against his sides. One hand went for his throat—not to crush, just enough to push his head back into the dirt, your body draped low enough that your lips brushed his ear as you murmured, hot and slow, “Ooh, gettin’ déjà vu, baby.”

His breath hitched. You felt it more than you heard it.

You leaned in closer, still whispering, still completely out of pocket. “Y’know, if this is what it takes to spice things up, we should fight in front of a cult more often.”

All joking aside, the last thing you two needed was for things to ‘spice up’ in the bedroom. Daryl’s eyes flashed, and in one fluid motion, he flipped the two of you over. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even dominant. It was like his body did it on instinct, like the muscle memory of being with you overrode every ounce of caution.

He straddled you now, both of you panting, faces close, his giant hand going to your throat to give the illusion he was choking you now. Now you were the one getting Deja vu - for one suspended second, the world dropped away.

His palm hovered at your throat, barely brushing it, thumb ghosting the pulse there—not enough to leave a mark, not even close, but enough to look convincing to the frothing crowd around you.

Then he murmured low, voice rough and electric: “Keep talkin’, woman, and we’re gonna give the whole Creed a show.”

You snorted under your breath, “thought that was the plan.” You reached up and grabbed his wrist, eyes wild with mock fury, and hissed, “Well, this is familiar.”

His whole body tensed.

“You tryna get me killed?” he rasped low through clenched teeth, voice almost drowned out by the chant rising from the circle around you—“Fight, fight, fight!”—as boots stomped rhythmically against the dirt.

You batted your lashes, whispered, “You love it.”

Then you kneed him in the side—not hard, not enough to do damage, just enough to get him to roll. You broke apart in a scramble of limbs, dirt smearing across your cheek as you rolled to your feet, breathing hard, brushing your hair from your face in a single, showy sweep.

Daryl was up just as fast, crouched low, boots spread, that predator stance of his back in full force. His eyes flicked to you, then around the ring, then back again. 

He wasn’t enjoying this. But to his credit, he was playing along.

You gave him a cocky wink and charged again, this time twisting mid-run so he couldn’t catch you outright. You ducked beneath his arms, spun behind him, and hoisted yourself up using his shoulders. Your legs swung around to lock around his neck. The momentum of your movements and your added weight brought him crumbling down to the ground, your iron grip not faltering. 

The crowd hollered like it was a strip show. Your thighs were still locked around his neck, not crushing at all. Daryl would happily fall asleep like this if it weren’t for the angry mob surrounding the two of you. You grinned down at him, all sugar and sin. “That reminds me, actually,” you purred, angling your hips for dramatic flair. “—you still owe me for that bet yesterday, Dixon. And I’m thinkin’ this counts as double interest. I’m thinking maybe me on top and then-”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Daryl’s hands shot up and dug mercilessly into your ribs—that precise spot he knew that gets you every time..

“Daryl!” you screeched, your legs faltering as your grip broke under the betrayal. That asshole was tickling you. You twisted, half laughing, half furious, trying to wriggle free, but he rolled with you, fluid as a predator, and the next thing you knew, Daryl was straddling you again, his face flushed, his breath warm and smug on your cheek.

“You fight dirty,” you gasped, still squirming.

He leaned down, pinning your wrists to the earth. “Learned from the best.”

The crowd roared its approval behind him—none the wiser to the fact that your brutal, breathless brawl had just taken a sharp detour into foreplay.

You were still breathless beneath him when his eyes flicked toward the growing crowd—some of them cheering, some confused, and one or two looking suspiciously too entertained. Marshal’s expression was unreadable, but his arms were crossed, and that never meant anything good.

Daryl must’ve felt the change in the air too, because the next thing you knew, he was gripping your waist and lifting you clean off the ground.

Your yelp turned into a squeal of half-genuine panic as he hauled you upright, holding you like a goddamn ragdoll in some bastardised wrestling move you were almost sure he learned from watching you and Judith play WWE.

Your legs kicked slightly in protest, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, and your voice came out a little more shrill than intended;“Don’t drop me, Dixon. Not in front of my fans!”

Then you flipped backwards off him, hitting the ground in a clean roll that had half the crowd gasping and the other half cheering like they’d just watched a WWE pay-per-view. You let the momentum carry you into a crouch, then sprang up with a fake jab that Daryl dodged with practised ease, his eyes tracking you the way a storm watches a matchstick flame.

“Sell it,” you hissed when your face passed his. “Hit me like you mean it, or I will break your nose. For real.”

He growled low. “Ain’t hittin’ you.”

“Then throw me again, you stubborn bastard.”

He did. He swooped you up and dropped you dramatically—but with enough control that you hit the ground in a well-rehearsed tumble, landing on your side with a grunt that made it look real. He crouched beside you instantly, all faux menace and steady hands.

You stayed down for a beat—long enough to convince the watchers you were down for good—then moved.

Not fast. Explosive.

Your legs hooked behind his knees, yanked hard, and Daryl hit the dirt with a grunt of surprise, his fall cushioned only slightly by instinct.

The crowd reacted immediately—cheers, hollers, a few startled laughs—and you were already scrambling over him, straddling his chest before he could fully register what just happened. You raised your elbow in the air, giving Daryl the signal—a silent cue only the two of you would catch—and started ‘punching’ him with exaggerated flair. He played along, grunting like you were knocking the sense out of him, head snapping to the side each time your fist made theatrical contact.

Each blow was sold like a soap opera brawl, complete with breathy snarls and eye rolls, until the crowd started eating it up. Somewhere near the front, someone shouted, “Finish him!” and you gave a little wink like you might.

“C’mon, baby,” you muttered under your breath between ‘hits,’ keeping your expression fierce for the audience but your voice low just for him. “Gimme some sound effects or they're gonna think you're a bottom.”

He groaned dramatically in reply—part pain, part exasperation. “Remind me never to piss you off for real.”

You raised a brow. “You say that every time.”

Then you threw another punch, complete with an over-the-top snarl, and this time he flopped sideways, one arm sprawled out like you’d just KO’d him in a Vegas ring.

You leaned back, arms raised in mock victory like a bloodthirsty crowd champion. The Creed audience roared.

Then, just to seal the deal, you grabbed his shirt, hauled him up halfway—then headbutted him.

Not hard. Just enough to send him reeling backward in shock, the motion letting you roll smoothly off him like you’d planned it all along.

The Creed crowd loved it. They erupted, hooting and clapping, some banging fists against whatever passed for a makeshift wall. A few even started chanting something unintelligible, just thrilled by the show of violence.

Marshal didn’t look thrilled.

You circled Daryl as he sat up slowly, rubbing his temple and blinking like someone had just unplugged him from a simulation.

“That one was for the hickey you gave me right before council meeting last week, asshole.” you said sweetly, brushing fake dust off your pants.

“Cmon Dixon get up,” you barked, pacing like a feral thing now. “I swear to God, if I have to carry this whole scene myself, I want a cut of the ticket sales.”

He struck first—predictable. A sharp, looping jab aimed to rattle, not bruise. You ducked with a twist of your neck, caught his wrist mid-swing, and used his own weight to spin him in place, your boot skidding in the dust as you leveraged his momentum and shoved him shoulder-first into the ground.

But he rolled with it, literally, came up on one knee already moving, and this time it was you dodging a backhand that would’ve blacked your eye. He didn’t hesitate—not because he meant it, but because the crowd didn’t know he didn’t.

You kicked high. He caught it mid-air. Smirked. What an asshole.

You bent with the held leg and launched your other foot at his chest. He stumbled—more from surprise than force—and you dropped into a crouch, one hand finding the dirt. He didn't waste any time and lunged again.

You met him halfway—no wasted motion, no theatrics. Just two bodies colliding with the precision of old instincts. You traded blows: elbow to ribs, forearm to throat, the twist of his fingers catching your braid before you slammed your palm into his stomach and flipped him clean over your shoulder.

He hit the ground hard. You followed, straddling him yet again, making sure to keep him pinned to the ground.

And then—your faces aligned. Close. Breath mingling. His mouth twitched.

“Think Marshal’s buyin’ it?”

“Think I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as his hands gripped your thighs too tight to be innocent.

You sat up on him, pinning his shoulders with your knees, then pretended to throw a punch—only to pause mid-air and flash a sickly sweet smile down at him.

“Smile for the crowd, baby.”

The crowd was howling now. Half of them were ready to crown you queen of this dirt-pit, the other half probably needed a cold shower. It didn’t matter. You were selling it.

And then came the whisper: “Ready to end it?”

Daryl gave you the faintest nod.

You feinted a punch to his side—he read it, blocked—and that’s exactly what you wanted. You twisted your arm in his grip, used the torque to propel your body up, and flipped yourself over his shoulder in a tight, ruthless arc. His grip slipped. His balance shattered. He staggered back, just for a breath—and that’s all you needed.

You ran straight for him.

A short sprint. Three steps. You jumped.

Your boot planted on his thigh, then his shoulder, and in a blur of motion you vaulted off him—body spinning in the air, twisting behind him like a goddamn storm—and brought him down with a brutal scissor-kick to the back of the neck.

He hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Face-down in the dust.

And before the crowd could blink, you were on him—foot planted between his shoulder blades, hand gripping his wrist, pulling his arm behind his back in a vicious, joint-lock hold. You leaned low, whispering just for him.

"You good? Ready for the big finale yet?" 

His breathe studdered from beneath you; "thought that was the finale-"                                                           

The crowd was eating it up now, hollering, whooping, even laughing in scattered bursts. But Marshal didn’t look amused. His jaw was tight, his arms still folded.

That moment of connection flickered between you and Daryl—something hot and dangerous beneath the surface—and just as quickly, you broke it. You rolled, forcing him off, staggering to your feet with a limp you barely sold.

“Round two?” you rasped, catching your breath.

Daryl grunted, getting to his feet with a glare that was more fond than furious. “You’re an asshole.”

“You married me,” you said sweetly. “Suck it up.”

From the edge of the crowd, Marshal’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Enough.”

Marshal’s voice split the air like a bullet, slicing clean through the chaos with the kind of finality that didn’t invite argument. The shift was instant. The onlookers, once rowdy and riled with bloodlust, fell into a jarring silence—uneasy, expectant. Like they’d just sensed a storm rolling in.

You froze mid-step, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths, hands still half-raised in your theatrical stance. Across from you, Daryl was already watching Marshal like a hound scenting something foul, his posture rigid, fists clenched tight at his sides.

Marshal stepped into the ring slowly, arms folded, his boots dragging dust over the edge of the chalk line like he was crossing into holy ground. He didn’t look amused. Didn’t look impressed. He looked tired of the performance.

“That was cute,” he said, his voice low and stripped of inflection. “Entertaining, even. But this ain’t a circus.”

He nodded toward the edge of the crowd, toward one of the waiting soldiers.

“We need soldiers.”

Then, eyes fixed on Daryl, he added: “You’ve been benched.”

Daryl blinked once, slow. “The fuck does that mean?”

Marshal’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite.  “Means you're out. She needs a real fight - with someone who can actually keep up.”

You didn’t see the snap. You felt it.

Daryl stepped forward fast, body tight as wire, his voice a rasp of fury that cut clean through the space between you. “Fuck that.”

The crowd shifted like a tide turning—weapons twitched, fingers hovered near triggers, boots repositioned subtly for tension.

Marshal didn’t even blink. “Stand down,” he said, calm as poison. “Unless you wanna be executed for insubordination.”

Daryl didn’t move at first. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow, furious breath. His eyes never left Marshal’s.

That’s when you stepped in—just your eyes, one sharp look. Enough.

It didn’t say please. It said: Don’t you fucking dare. You’ll get us both killed.

His jaw clenched. You could practically hear the bones grind. But he stepped back—barely. One foot, then the other, like he had to pry himself away from the fight inch by inch.

You didn’t thank him. There wasn’t time.

You turned back toward the center as the new opponent stepped into the ring. One of Marshal’s men—a tall, wiry bastard with a sunken mouth and cracked knuckles. No theatrics. No grin. Just the cold, blank expression of someone who liked to hurt and had been given permission to do so.

He circled you like a vulture, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly, studying the angle of your stance the way a butcher sizes up a carcass before the cut. You didn’t smile. You didn’t wink. No playful mask this time. You just rolled your neck until it cracked like splitting wood, dropped your weight low into your hips, and squared your shoulders as if made of stone.

Marshal gave the nod.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t feint. He lunged like he meant to kill.

His fist tore through the air with the speed of a blade. You dodged—barely—the wind of it rushing past your temple, but the elbow followed fast, and that one landed with surgical precision, driving up beneath your ribs so hard your vision flashed white at the edges. You didn’t fall. You couldn’t. You swallowed the pain like gravel in your throat, gritted your teeth, and met him halfway with a sweep of your leg that caught his ankle and knocked him off-balance. But he was fast—too fast—and his recovery was brutal. A sharp kick drove into your thigh, the kind that bypassed muscle and hit deep in the bone.

Daryl flinched on the sidelines, his fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged white along his arms. You didn’t dare look at him. Couldn’t afford to. One glance would undo the dam inside you, and right now, rage was the only thing keeping you standing.

You drove your fist into the man’s side, followed with a right hook. He stumbled but didn’t drop. He came at you again, heavier this time, his full weight behind each strike. You blocked with your forearms, tried to deflect what you couldn’t match, but the next hit came low and fast—his shoulder ramming into your chest like a battering ram—and it sent you sprawling.

You hit the dirt hard—hard enough that the breath tore out of you and something inside your shoulder screamed. His full weight had slammed you down, and your left arm was twisted awkwardly beneath your body, caught between bone and earth.

The pain hit instantly, flooding your entire side like molten lava.

A sharp, wet pop echoed beneath your skin—ugly, unnatural. Your shoulder socket tore free on impact, the joint wrenching loose with the kind of blinding agony that didn’t wait for movement. It was dislocated - there was no doubt about it. You felt it. You heard it. 

Your scream didn’t make it past your teeth. You bit down so hard you felt the skin split in your mouth, tasted copper, refused to let anything escape.

Across the pit, Daryl moved—just half a step, just a flicker—but it was a full-body jolt, like watching a dam crack under pressure. His mouth opened, words shoved through clenched teeth. “Call it,” he barked. “That’s enough.”

Marshal didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on you like he was watching a fire that hadn’t quite burned out yet.

You forced yourself to your feet with one arm, the other limp and heavy at your side, and you saw it—Daryl saw it—the shift in your body, the unnatural sag of your shoulder, the way your dominant side refused to lift. His lips parted again like he was about to shout something worse, something final, but your eyes caught his.

Don’t.

Your opponent didn’t wait for the pain to settle. He grabbed your wrist—your good one thank god—and yanked. You pivoted with the force, used his own momentum to slam your foot into his stomach, hard enough to make him buckle. Then you spun low, your good elbow jamming into his back with a crunch that reverberated through your bones. He snarled, twisted—grabbed a handful of your hair and yanked your head back with a vicious jerk.

That was his mistake.

You drove your skull backward, slammed it into his face, and the sound it made—the crunch of cartilage, the sudden rush of wet breath—wasn’t just satisfying, it was necessary. His nose exploded under the impact, blood streaking down over his lip.

You didn’t pause. Couldn’t. You dropped into a half-crouch and launched yourself up off your planted hand, flipped mid-air like muscle memory had kicked in before your brain could stop it, ankles locking around his neck in a move stolen straight from a dirtier, hungrier kind. He had no time to react. Your weight pulled him off his feet, and both of you hit the ground hard, limbs tangled, his body slamming into the dirt beneath yours.

But this time you didn’t straddle him for show.

This was for survival.

Your knees pinned his shoulders. You reared back, drove your foot into his outer thigh once, twice—three times. You felt the tissue twitch under the impact, felt his leg jerk in response. He twisted, tried to buck you off, but you rode it out, kept your weight low, your good hand curled into a fist ready to drive into his temple if you were given the chance.

You couldn’t kill him.

But God, you wanted to.

You rocked your weight forward and pivoted, stepping back just long enough to wind up and bring your heel down hard on his knee with a crack that sounded like dry wood snapping in a bonfire. The scream that followed wasn’t human. He writhed beneath you, hand clawing at the dirt, but it was too late. That leg was gone.  Karma's a bitch I guess.

The crowd recoiled. Gasps. Silence. One or two even clapped.

You stood tall, chest heaving, blood pounding in your ears, your arm hanging limp and useless at your side while your good hand curled into a trembling fist. You stared down at the man—sobbing, wheezing, gripping what used to be his knee—and felt no pity. No triumph. Only the endless, gnawing ache of restraint.

Because you could have ended him. Easily. You’d wanted to. But you didn't - that was your mercy.

Silence. No cheers. No chants. No roaring applause. Just stillness—unnatural and smothering, like the crowd itself had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. Dust settled in the space between heartbeats. Your chest heaved, your arm hung dead at your side, and across the pit, Daryl stood frozen, shoulders coiled tight as wire, one hand half-lifted like he might’ve moved to catch you if he could.

Marshal didn’t speak right away. He let the silence ferment, let it sting. His boots crunched slowly across the chalk ring, measured, unhurried, each step deliberate enough to curdle the air. Then, with a faint, deliberate click of tongue against teeth, he offered a slow round of applause. Not dramatic. Not mocking. Just three sharp, echoing claps, spaced apart like rifle shots.

“Well,” he said at last, voice easy and quiet, like he was remarking on the weather. “Wasn’t how I saw that going.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The fire in your shoulder had gone from burning to throbbing, every thud in your chest sending a pulse of white-hot pain down your side. You felt like you were going to pass out if you moved wrong. If you breathed wrong.

Daryl’s hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed again—barely. His stance had shifted. He wasn’t just watching you now; he was watching Marshal, watching every soldier on the ledge, watching the curve of a rifle barrel as though one might twitch the wrong way at any moment.

Marshal tilted his head, just slightly, toward the man groaning in the dirt behind you. “Shame about the leg,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then he drew his pistol.

The gunshot cracked through the air so suddenly, so violently close, that you didn’t hear it as much as feel it—like the sound tore through your ribs and rattled loose something in your spine. For a half-second, you were certain it was meant for you. Or maybe Daryl. Maybe both of you. Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, chest seizing as every nerve braced for impact.

You flinched hard, your body twisting on instinct, and your left arm—the one already half-dead from the dislocation—jerked with the motion. Agony exploded through your side like shrapnel, so sharp and bright it turned your vision white. You bit back a scream, but Daryl’s sharp inhale carried across the ring like a warning bell, ragged and raw enough to cut glass.

Your knees buckled slightly, though you caught yourself before you hit the ground. For a moment, everything was too still. Too quiet. Your ears rang. Your heart thundered. And then your gaze fell to the dirt just feet in front of you—where the man you’d just fought now lay sprawled, motionless, a dark hole torn clean through the side of his head. Blood spread fast beneath him, seeping into the dry dust in rivulets that caught the firelight and made them shine like rubies.

Marshal holstered the pistol without fanfare. “Wounded is weakness,” he said simply. “Weakness corrupts.”

Your legs nearly buckled again, not from the throb in your shoulder or the lingering ache in your spine, but from something colder—something that wrapped around your ribs like a vice and refused to let go, because the truth of what had just happened was settling in, and it wasn’t shock or horror that filled your chest, but something far more damning.

You had killed him.

Inadvertently so, but it didn't change the brutal fact that it had been him or you, and you weren’t ready to be the one left bleeding in the dirt.

He was a Creed loyalist. You were a mother. A wife.

And in that split-second where the gun cracked through the air like thunder, your mind hadn’t registered fear for him, or sorrow for what you’d done—it had simply braced itself for the recoil that never came, for the pain that never followed, for the death that had passed you by.

You stared at the body crumpled in the sand, at the unnatural stillness of it, the blood that painted the earth like it had always belonged there, and what haunted you most wasn’t the sound of the shot or the look in his eyes—it was the sick, echoing awareness that you didn’t feel hollow.

You didn’t feel anything—no horror, no relief—just the slow, creeping realization that if it came down to it again, if it wer him or you, you wouldn’t hesitate. You wouldn’t flinch. You’d let it happen. Maybe even make it happen. ; because you had a daughter who still needed her mother alive, and a husband who fought tooth and nail for his wife. And that truth settled over your skin like ash—quiet, heavy, and irreversible. 

The pit was still silent. You weren’t sure if anyone dared breathe.

Marshal's gaze returned to you.

It wasn’t a leer. Wasn’t kind. Just slow. Calculating. His eyes swept your frame like he was scanning for rot—one shoulder slumped too low, one hand curled and unmoving, blood at the corner of your mouth from where you’d bitten it to keep from screaming.

“Any injuries?” he asked, tone casual.

Your heart seized. The pain made it hard to think, hard to breathe, but you knew the answer had to be immediate.

“No,” you said too fast, eyes dropping to the ground, shame and fear twisting your voice into something thinner than it should’ve been. “No. I’m fine.”

Marshal watched you too long. Not suspicious—just curious. Like he was cataloguing you. Taking stock of what you’d held back. Then his head tipped slightly, just enough to signal his next move.

“You two. Report to the Commander,” he said, his voice slicing clean across the pit, cold and administrative now. “He’ll want to see you.”

Daryl’s body tensed beside you, still wired like a sprung trap, but he nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. You could feel the fire building in his bones. Not because of the command, but because of the fact that your arm was hanging loose at your side and your poker face was uncanny.

As the guards stepped forward to begin herding the crowd back, you let your eyes drift toward the smoke trail of Marshal’s pistol and then to the far end of the ring—where a group of lower-ranked soldiers stood clustered in loose formation, eyes flicking between the corpse, Marshal, and the two of you. One of them looked away when your eyes met. Another stepped aside, just slightly, like making room for you to pass. No one was watching too closely anymore.

You sipped to the edge of the gathering just as Daryl turned to follow one of the guards up toward the next gate, never once glancing your way, even though you knew—you knew—his eyes were screaming beneath the stillness.

You ducked around the side of a crumbling support wall, slipping through a narrow break in the concrete where the scaffolding hadn’t been finished. Your boots skidded briefly on loose gravel. You bit your lip hard, tears stabbing behind your eyes as the motion jarred your shoulder, but you didn’t stop.

No one called after you. No one shouted. If someone noticed, they said nothing.

You had 5 minutes, maybe less.

Enough time to get somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, somewhere you could scream into your arm without bringing the whole goddamn Creed down on your head.

You moved deeper into the scaffolding, away from the noise, slipping between beams and bent steel until the arena sounds faded into something thinner—just the wind brushing through the open concrete and your own shaky breaths trailing behind.

It wasn’t far, but it felt like another planet. Quiet. Empty. A half-built service hall, roofless, shadows crawling long across the dust. You found a corner where the walls curved in on themselves, and you sank there, back pressed against the cold steel, boots scuffing the dirt as you slid down to the floor.

You hadn’t realized how hard you were shaking until you stopped moving.

Your arm was screaming now, not just pain but heat—throbbing, swollen, wrong. You could feel the joint hanging half-loose, the weight of your own arm pulling against the socket like a torture device. The adrenaline had worn off, and now your body was just a cage of nerves and fire.

You took a deep breath. Braced your heel. Gripped your wrist with your good hand.

And pulled.

The scream punched out of you before you could swallow it down. Short. Raw. Half-choked. It echoed against the hollow scaffolding like a flare, and your vision went white for a second, head spinning with nausea and heat.

Panic bloomed sharp in your chest.

You’d just made a sound. Too loud. Too much. Too exposed.

You scrambled back, heartbeat pounding, breath caught in your throat as footsteps crunched fast across gravel. Heavy boots. No time to hide. No time to fake it.

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, back teeth clenched, heart climbing higher up your throat—until the figure rounded the bend.

And it was Daryl.

You sagged.

Just a little. Just enough for the fear to break and relief to roll in like a tide. Your whole body slumped toward him, breath catching on something ragged.

“Shh. Just me,” he said finally, voice low and soft, rough with unshed fury and held-back comfort. 

You gave a small, broken laugh that tasted like tears.

He reached for you—so gently, like his hands didn’t quite believe they were allowed to touch you. When you didn’t flinch, he pressed his fingers to the edge of your shoulder, light as a feather. His jaw clenched.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured. 

You nodded, swallowing hard.

“Were you tryin' ta fix' that on your own?” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges as his eyes swept over your face, then your posture, taking in the tension, the sweat, the way your lip was nearly bitten through. “Jesus, you coulda made it worse—why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

You couldn’t look at him. Not right away. Not when your body was still fighting not to scream.

“I didn’t want them to see,” you managed, the words small, ragged, sharp-edged with pain and something like shame. “You saw what happened to that guy back there. All cause of his leg-" The pain was so overbearing it was heard to get out a full sentence, not without pausing to take a shallow breath. "Fuck, I definitely made it worse."

Daryl let out a slow, quiet exhale, and then his eyes met yours again—steady, grounding, blue like dusk. His hand brushed against your waist, tentative.

“Gotta take a closer look, alright?” he motioned at your shirt, silently asking if he could take the thing off of you.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded.

You trusted him more than you trusted the ground under your feet.- why he still was nervous about asing to take your shirt off was beyond you.

He moved closer, his hands going to the flannel shirt they’d thrown at you that morning. It was two sizes too big, probably belonged to someone long dead, and stiff with dirt and dried sweat. He undid the buttons with slow, careful fingers, peeling it away from your skin to get a better look at the damage beneath.

His breath hitched. The joint was swollen to hell. The skin already bruised, tinged ugly with purple and red.

“Fucker got ya good, baby,” he whispered, so low you barely caught it.

You just leaned your forehead against his chest, letting the smell of him wrap around you—blood, dirt, smoke, and Daryl.

His arms were already enveloping your frame in preperation. One hand braced against your ribs, the other settling over your bruised skin..

“Alright,” he muttered, voice like gravel but softer than you’d ever heard it. “I need ya relaxed, okay? Just breathe. Ain’t gonna lie, this’s gonna suck. But after, it’ll be a lot better.”

"That's what she said," You chuckled. 

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then his brow ticked, his jaw twitched, and he gave you a look so flat, so utterly unimpressed, it might’ve knocked the pain right out of your body if looks could cauterize.

“Really?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every life decision that led him to this moment. “You got one shoulder hangin’ by a thread, and that’s what you open your damn mouth for?”

But there was a flicker behind the irritation, something small and warm. The barest quirk at the edge of his mouth that betrayed him completely.

He shook his head, more fond than annoyed now, and positioned himself at your side again.

“Fine. You wanna joke through this, go on. Whatever floats yur boat.”

Your smirk faltered just a little.

He leaned closer.

“Deep breath, baby.”

You nodded again, squeezing your eyes shut, trusting him in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way his hands held you like you were breakable, even when you’d just broken someone else’s leg.

“Alright, on three. One. Two—”

A white-hot bolt of pain tore through your shoulder before he could even say three. You cried out, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob, but the pain stopped almost as soon as it came, replaced by a deep, nauseating throb—and a sudden, shocking relief.

It was back in.

You collapsed against him, arm limp but whole again, sweat beading on your brow. Daryl pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling your head like he needed the contact just as much as you did. He didn’t say much, just cooed you, small mumbles like ‘you’re alright,’ repeating it over and over until it would hopefully become true. He held you. Rocked you. Pressed his face into your hair and let the silence stretch between you like a blanket.

His fingers moved in slow, steady circles across your spine. He didn’t pull away, didn’t break character, didn’t speak any of the thousand things you could feel hammering behind his ribs.

He just stayed. Because sometimes that was the only thing left to give.

And you took it, without question, curling into him like a heartbeat—quiet, wrecked, and tethered to the only safe thing you had left in this godforsaken place.

You just let him hold you, your body curled into his like muscle memory, every tremor in your limbs answered by the steady rock of his hand over your thigh, his thumb brushing soft patterns through the dirt-smudged fabric. His other hand moved in slow circles through your hair, catching every knot and strand with the same reverence he might give a prayer.

But eventually, you felt your voice claw its way up.

It came out broken. Nasal. Thick with exhaustion. Your face was buried in his chest, cheek sticky with sweat and tears, and still you said it, soft and raw like confession.

“…It’s gonna get a whole lot worse than this, isn’t it?”

Daryl didn’t answer at first.

He just kept stroking your thigh, hand tightening slightly like he could hold the pain in place, contain it in the spaces between your skin and his palm. His fingers threaded through your hair again, a little slower now, dragging the weight of the moment down with them.

Then, voice low, gravelled at the edges, more breath than sound: “Yep.”

Your hand drifted, almost without thought, to your ring finger—a reflex you’d picked up when things got dark, when you needed the comfort of copper pressed against your skin like a vow you could still touch. But your fingers met only bare flesh, and the absence struck with the sharp, sick shock of dislocation—like your shoulder popping loose all over again, but this time deeper. 

Daryl noticed it too.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching your hand in his calloused grip. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady. “It’s just a ring, alright? Don’t matter.”

You looked up at him, your throat tight, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes. “No, it’s not,” you said, your voice raw and a little cracked. “It wasn't just a ring and you know it.”

He took your hand gently, rough fingers curling around yours like a promise he didn’t know how else to keep. Then, without a word, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the place where your ring used to be.

“No, it don’t matter,” he murmured, voice thick, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m yours. Always been. Always will. Don’t need no jewellery tellin’ ya that.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lashes trembling with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him—you did. You just missed the ring. Missed what it stood for. The copper band he’d forged by hand. The night he gave it to you, asking you to be his even when the world had gone to hell. And now… it was like it never happened.

“Fine. I’ll getcha another one. I'll make ya... a hundred more rings,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Each one better than the last.”

That managed to crack a smile—small, but real. The kind that pulls from someplace deeper than your pain.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, like he was memorizing the shape of your face, the curve of your lips, the sound of your voice when it said those words and meant them.

Then he leaned in, slow and steady, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about grounding—about staying human.

“Love ya too,” he whispered against your lips. 

And even as the ache in your shoulder pulsed like a living thing, even as dread curled low in your stomach for whatever came next, you knew it was true. Maybe you didn't need your ring after all.

_____________

They led you through the winding gut of the compound in silence—stone and metal corridors that stank of wet iron and dust, like a slaughterhouse that’d been hosed down too many times and never properly dried. The guards flanking you didn’t say a word. 

Daryl kept close. You could feel him even when you couldn’t look at him—every footstep in rhythm, every muscle in him strung like wire, ready to snap. His hands were balled into fists, jaw twitching, eyes everywhere. Watching every shadow like he expected it to reach out and swallow you whole.

You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to. The ring finger of your left hand brushed his once, just briefly, the faintest nudge between curled knuckles. He didn’t look at you, but you saw his thumb twitch.

Ahead, a pair of steel doors groaned open. Marshal stood by the threshold, that cracked smirk stitched into his face like bad taxidermy. “Commander’s waiting,” he said. “Let’s not keep him.”

That didn’t sit right. Nothing here ever did, but this felt off. There was no reason for the Commander in all his infinite glory to see you. Not unless you’d either proven yourself… or failed.

You stepped through together.

The room beyond was a brutalist chapel—high ceilings, exposed steel beams, one stained-glass window that’d clearly been stolen from a church long collapsed. Makeshift pews lined the walls, but no one sat. No one spoke.

The Commander stood at the far end, hands clasped behind his back like a preacher. His hair was white—not grey, white—and buzzed down to the skin. His face looked carved from stone, weathered and scarred, but his posture was graceful. Eerily so. Marshal took his place beside him, his mouth bent in the kind of sneer usually reserved for livestock that refused to die quickly.

The Commander smiled. “Welcome.”

Daryl shifted forward a fraction, his body angling just enough to place himself slightly in front of you, protective instinct flaring sharp and silent beneath the surface.

You let your eyes sweep the space again before flicking your gaze back to the Commander, your expression unreadable.

“What is this?” you asked, voice light but laced with bite. “We here for Sunday school or something?”

The Commander’s laugh came easy—too easy. Warm, affable, almost disarming in its sincerity. But it died before it reached his eyes, the sound fading fast into something hollow. Something practiced.

The Commander’s smile barely moved his mouth, a thin line carved with deliberate intent as his gaze swept the room, pausing on each of you with the unnerving stillness of a man who already knew how the next chapter would end.

“This is where the cleansing begins,” he said, the words soft enough to mimic welcome but spoken with the precision of a knife unsheathing. “Don’t worry—we won’t make you sing.”

The quiet that followed was absolute, the kind that coated the inside of your ears like wax, the kind that arrived before pain.

And then it began.

You didn’t see them coming—not at first, not fully—just a flicker in your peripheral vision, the suggestion of motion too fast, too fluid. Two guards emerged from the shadows like teeth from a closed jaw, hands already reaching, already locking in. You barely had time to turn before they were on you, palms pressing hard to the pressure points beneath your arms, nerves struck with deliberate accuracy. Your body spasmed with instinct, not decision, your breath caught mid-inhale as you opened your mouth to shout—

—but another hand was already there, clamping tight over your face, muffling the cry into a useless vibration against their palm.

Daryl’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the air change, shift, twist. He was across the room in a blink, already moving with that lethal sort of purpose that made everyone else seem slow by comparison, his body weight tipping forward like he was ready to go through bone if that’s what it took.

Your name left his throat like it was being torn out.

He reached for you at the same moment Marshal stepped in.

The club caught Daryl mid-lunge, smashing across his ribs with a thud that sucked the sound out of the space, his body twisting under the impact but not falling. Not yet. He staggered, caught himself, went for them again.

You weren’t passive—not for a second. You twisted, thrashed, drove the back of your head into someone’s nose with a crunch that made your eyes water. One of them cursed, but the grip didn’t break. You tried to wrench free, tried to swing your boot, but they were ready—this wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and your resistance had already been factored in.

Your eyes locked with Daryl’s just as he flung one of the guards off him with a roar that was barely human.

You reached for each other.

Your fingertips brushed.

And then it happened.

A sound split the moment open—sharp, cracking, awful. Pain exploded through your skull, white and absolute.

Your legs went out beneath you.

The world spun. Your stomach flipped once, hard, as the floor rushed up with sickening speed, and for the briefest second, you couldn’t tell which way was up or whether you were even still breathing. The scent of blood and oil and scorched candle wax filled your nose, thick and iron-heavy, as your face hit the concrete.

Daryl saw it all.

And in that instant, something in him snapped.

No words now, only raw fury— Daryl charged forward again, not caring if he bled, not caring if he lived, just needing to reach you. Another blow came, this one to his thigh, staggering him, followed by another to his neck. He kept moving. They swarmed him—two, three, four bodies at once—and still he fought, clawing forward with the kind of desperation that made men legends or corpses.

Then came the strike to the head.

It landed with a sickening thud.

He collapsed without sound.

His last thought was your name, slurred and broken in his mouth.

The final thing either of you saw before the world fell away was the Commander—arms behind his back, posture serene, eyes locked on the two of you as though he’d just clipped the wings off a pair of butterflies and was waiting to see how long they twitched.

____

Pain came first.

It bloomed behind his eyes like a bruise turned inside out, then crawled down his spine, slow and electric, until every nerve felt like a wire left out in a storm.

His skull throbbed. His mouth tasted like rust.

And something heavy was pressing against his chest—like the air itself had thickened, curling around his ribs and refusing to let go.

When Daryl opened his eyes, the world tilted sideways.

The light was low, flickering. Torchlight, maybe. Shadows danced high on cement walls, smearing like oil against cracked plaster. He was on the floor, slumped on his side, hands bound behind him with something rough—coarse rope, already biting into his wrists.

He tried to move. The pain in his ribs answered first. Then his head.

He winced. Gritted his teeth. Memory staggered back into place like a drunk man through a broken door.

You. Your scream. The guards. The Commander. Your body crumpling.

He jerked upright—or tried to. The bindings held. His muscles screamed.

His gaze snapped up, darting around the dim chamber. There was movement ahead. Figures. An open space beyond the iron bars of the room he’d been dumped in—more like a cage, really, though it looked like a repurposed basement. Through the bars, he could see a crowd gathered in front of something… a pit?

No. A fire.

His gut twisted.

Then he saw you.

Time didn’t stop. That would’ve been a mercy.

Instead, it kept moving, slow and brutal, stretching seconds into something foreign as you were dragged forward, knees scraping the dirt, hair tangled around your face, lips parted but silent. You were barely recognisable, head hung low, your body completely limp. You didn’t cry out. Not once. And that should’ve comforted him—should’ve given him something to hold onto. But it didn’t.

Because your silence was the worst part.

Even now, at the end of the world, you were trying to stay strong for him.

He called your name. Didn’t realize he’d done it until someone elbowed him in the gut to shut him up. He tried to fight—jerked against the restraints digging into his wrists—but they kept him pinned like a dog at a slaughterhouse, forced to watch as the Commander stepped forward and spoke the sentence like it was routine.

“No,” he rasped.

No one heard him. He tried to stand again. The rope bit deeper. He staggered, fell hard on one knee, then pushed up anyway, shoulder against the bars, eyes wide and locked.

The Commander stood near the fire, calm and unmoved, hands folded behind his back. One of the figures spoke to him—too quiet to make out—but the reply was crystal clear.

“She was wounded. Weak. It would’ve spread.”

Then the Commander raised his knife.

You didn’t make a sound when they pulled your head back.

Didn’t flinch when the blade touched your throat.

Daryl’s blood ran cold.

“Don’t—” he growled, but his voice cracked, weak with panic and breathless fury. “NO—!”

But it was already done.

In one brutal motion, he sliced your throat, the life spilling from you instantly.

Your body spasmed once, a sharp, instinctive jolt like the soul trying to claw its way back in—but it was too late. Your eyes never left his. Not even as the blood poured from your throat in thick, wet streams, staining your chest, your collar, your life, until it was all he could see. Your knees gave beneath you, trembling, caving, but somehow you didn’t fall right away. You stood there swaying like something still trying to understand what had happened. And then your lips moved—barely—shaping a word without breath. His name. Just his name. The last thing left in you.

And then it was over.

They didn’t let you fall gently.

They seized your body like it was already trash, like it had never been anything sacred, and dragged it across the dirt with no reverence, no pause, no care. And when they cast you into the fire, it wasn’t a ceremony—it was disposal. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you weren’t a mother with a child waiting for you. Like you hadn’t been the one to teach him what love meant.

Daryl didn’t scream.

He roared.

He slammed his shoulder against the bars, again and again, animal and feral, vision blurred from more than pain. It didn’t matter that they beat him again. Didn’t matter that they kicked him down, or that they laughed, or that someone muttered “shoulda killed ‘im too.”

He didn’t stop until he had nothing left.

The flames licked higher, and the stink of burning flesh filled the air.

He watched your body—the one he knew better than his own, the one he’d memorized in pieces: the freckle below your ribs, the old scar on your thigh from before the world ended, the stretch marks across your stomach from carrying the life you made together. The body that curled against him on cold nights and leaned into him when words failed, the body that had carried his daughter into this broken world, arms that held her, lips that kissed the top of her head with the kind of quiet reverence he’d only ever seen in prayer—that body. Yours.

He watched it burn.

The fire didn’t hesitate. It crawled across your clothes like hunger, devouring everything in its path—your legs, your stomach, your chest—until it reached your outstretched hand. The same hand that had stroked his hair. The hand that had wiped his blood from his brow. The hand that wore his ring like it was welded to your skin until it was ripped from you by them.

The pit. The fire. Your body.

The last time he’d seen you, you were reaching for him.

And now…

You were gone. 

It didn’t register at first.

His brain couldn’t catch up.

He didn’t feel the burn of the ropes. Didn’t hear the crackle of flames. Didn’t even realise he was screaming until his throat gave out and he collapsed, chest heaving, stomach twisting, retching dry onto the dirt because there was nothing left in him but the scream.

They killed you.

They fucking killed you.

And he wasn’t there to stop it.

He wasn’t holding you.

He wasn’t telling you it’d be okay.

He was just watching.

The world narrowed to smoke and ash, and the echo of your name carved out of him like bone. He felt like someone had plunged into his chest and ripped out his heart. And worst of all, they made sure he was still breathing to bear the pain of it.

You were everything. His anchor. His voice of reason. His reason, period. You were the only future he let himself want.

Now you were gone.

And the world had the audacity to keep turning.

They took your ring. Then your life. Then your body. All in one day. And he let it happen. Let them strip you of everything that made you his. And now there was nothing left. No trace. No proof except for that steady, monstrous ache behind his ribs from your death. The kind that didn’t explode. The kind that stayed. The kind that settled into his bones and promised to never let go.

It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

It was heartbreak. Pure and unrelenting. Not sharp, but total. Like the color had been stripped from the world, and all that was left was this—this awful, frozen moment where love died in front of him, and he just had to watch.

The only thing left of you now is Dani.

She still had your eyes.

She’d ask where you went. What happened.

And he’d have to look at her and lie.

And he couldn’t bear the thought—Dani looking at him with those wide, searching eyes, and realising he wasn’t the one she needed. Because he wasn’t you. There was no way for him to go on.

Unless he made them pay.

Unless he made every last one of them remember what they did when they dared to put a knife to your throat.

He would bide his time. Wear the mask. Keep his head down like they wanted. Pretend he was broken.

But he wasn’t.

Not really.

He’d just been reborn into something worse.

Because they killed the woman he loved right in front of him.

And now he had nothing left to lose.

“You are free,” the Commander said, like it meant something. The crowd cheered. Daryl barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. He could’ve thrown up. Could’ve killed them all. All he saw was red.

_______

You came to like something had been torn out of you in the dark. It wasn’t the pain that woke you, though there was no shortage of it—the sharp flare in your shoulder socket, the hot ache in your neck where your muscles had seized, the hammering pulse behind your eyes that throbbed in rhythm with the low, electric hum of artificial light. You were kneeling on something cold, unforgiving and slick, and the first thing you felt beyond pain was the way your knees had begun to go numb from pressure. Your wrists were tied behind your back, raw with dried blood, the bindings too tight to be anything but deliberate. So basically the norm for you.

But none of that mattered.

Not when you raised your head and saw him.

Daryl was in front of you—on his knees, hands bound, mouth bloodied, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of whatever hell had come before this. He looked broken in a way you’d never seen before, like his bones didn’t quite know how to hold him up anymore. He wasn’t looking at you. His chin hung low, and though his chest still rose with breath, you could see how shallow it was, like every inhale had to fight its way through something invisible.

And Marshal stood beside him.

The sight of that man lit a fire in your ribs so suddenly that you nearly vomited from the bile it brought with it. You lurched forward, or tried to, but your body wouldn’t move fast enough, wouldn’t obey the simple instruction to reach him, touch him, do something.

“Welcome back,” Marshal murmured without turning, his voice unhurried, like he’d been waiting for you. There was a smile on his face, but it wasn’t warm, wasn’t even smug—it was too calm for that, too pleased with himself, like he was watching a snake shed its skin. “Perfect timing.”

Your breath hitched hard in your chest, every draw of air too sharp, too fast, like it was cutting something on the way in. You tried to speak, to call his name, but your mouth was too dry, your tongue swollen with dread, and the only thing that came out was a rasp of sound that tasted like copper and dust and fear.

Then the Commander stepped forward, the rustle of his coat the only thing you heard over the ringing in your ears. His face bore that same expression he always wore—the one that made your stomach curdle—composed and measured, like a man about to deliver a eulogy for someone he never cared about. He didn’t look at Daryl. He looked at you.

“You told us you didn’t know him,” he said, his voice unshaken, smooth like worn marble. “But when we faked your death, he screamed for you. Weeped like a baby.”

The air left your lungs in a single cold rush, and the world stopped spinning for one breathless second. Your gaze snapped to Daryl. Really looked. And that’s when something inside you buckled. His lip was torn, his temple bruised, and his collar was wet with blood you weren’t sure was even his anymore. But his shoulders trembled. He hadn’t broken.

Not yet.

You shook your head. Not in denial—just to get words out, anything, anything at all. “Don’t—please—”

But it didn’t matter. Marshal crouched beside him, slow and steady, like it was routine, and grabbed a fistful of Daryl’s hair, forcing his head upright so you could see his swollen face. You saw his eyes. Glazed, but still there. Still fighting. Still breathing.

“He didn’t take the lesson,” Marshal said, as though you weren’t already collapsing beneath the weight of what you knew was coming, “so now you will.”

The Commander tilted his head slightly from where he was standing in the background, his expression unchanged, like he was waiting for a dog to finally heel. “That lie cost you,” he murmured. “But today… we’ll free you from it.”

The gun appeared like a magic trick—no grand reveal, no announcement. Just there in the Commander’s hand, passed from Marshal like a holy relic. There was no ceremony in the way he raised it. No speech. No cruelty, even. Only the quiet efficiency of a man carrying out a decision he considered final.

The barrel touched Daryl’s temple.

And the shot rang out.

You didn’t scream right away. The noise you made was trapped behind your ribs, crushed into your lungs by the weight of the moment. But when it came, it erupted from you like something ripped open from the inside—a cry so guttural, so raw, it felt like it might pull the last of your voice straight from your throat and leave you nothing but ash.

You threw yourself forward with everything you had, ignoring the pain that screamed through your shoulder, the pop of your joints, the stab of something tearing—but it was too late. Daryl’s body had already gone limp, folding sideways into the dirt with an awful, boneless grace. There was no twitch, no sound. Just silence.

You couldn’t stop the sob that broke next. It tore out of you like something dying. Your voice was raw now, splintered with panic and disbelief, the way it had sounded only once before—when you gave birth and thought you might not survive it.

“Please,” you sobbed, struggling like a wild thing. “Baby, look at me—you can’t leave me —”

You couldnt breathe. You kept telling yourself to wake the fuck up. Wake up from this nightmare, next to daryl in your bed. You'd curl tightly into him, take in his musk, he'd stroke your hair while you traced his imperfections on his skin like they were the very opposite of that.

Marshal had walked towards you and held your chin, tilting your head to look up at him through our red glassy eyes. But when he looked at you now, something had shifted. There was no amusement left. No satisfaction. Only a quiet, unsettling stillness.

“You’re free now,” he said with absolution. “That connection made you weak. It made you lie. But now there’s nothing left to tie you down.”

Tears blurred your vision, burned hot and blinding, streaking over your cheeks in stinging silence. You weren’t sobbing anymore. Your mouth was open, but no sound came out. It was as though your voice had died with him. Your body trembled, but you didn’t collapse. Not yet. Not until Marshal leaned forward and, with something close to care, cut the restraints at your wrists himself.

You didn’t catch yourself when you fell. Your arms flopped forward, numb and useless, your knees hitting the stone with a hollow sound that echoed off the walls. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at anything. Not even the fire, still burning just feet away, casting long orange light across the floor where Daryl had fallen.

You stared at the space he had left behind.

And whatever was left of you cracked.

Not with rage. Not with grief. Not even with despair.

With silence.

The silence that followed was worse. It wasn’t the calm kind. It was thick and suffocating, like someone had poured concrete over your chest and expected you to keep breathing through it. Your ears rang from the gunshot, your vision swam at the edges, but none of that mattered—not really. Nothing did, except the image burned into the backs of your eyes: Daryl collapsing in front of you, body limp, blood warm and spilling across the concrete, and then nothing. No movement. No sound. No breath.

You didn’t cry again, not after the first ragged sob slipped out of you and died somewhere between the ropes binding your wrists and the dirt floor beneath your knees. The sound had come unbidden, raw and strangled, but even as it broke free, it felt distant, like it didn’t belong to you anymore—like it belonged to someone else entirely, someone softer, someone who hadn’t just watched her entire world bleed out on the floor.

You breathed, but only because you had to. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Mechanical. The kind of breath that didn’t mean life so much as continuation. You weren’t a woman anymore, not exactly. You weren’t a widow, not yet. You weren’t even a soldier. You were just breath and bones and grit. Just the pieces that remained. 

It was disorienting in a way that felt almost obscene—how had you ever existed without him before? Whatever version of yourself had managed to live in a world where Daryl wasn’t within arm’s reach, breathing the same air, was a stranger now. A ghost. And the thought of finding your way back to that kind of existence, of surviving in that silence again, felt not only impossible but wrong.

The numbness was total. Not soft, not merciful—but loud. Deafening in its hollowness. It rang through your skull like a pressure wave, muffling every other sense beneath it. Pain should’ve been there, should’ve been screaming—your shoulder was still ruined, your knees pressed hard into unyielding concrete, your head throbbing from whatever blow had half-felled you—but none of it seemed to land. None of it registered.

There was only the absence. Only the jagged outline of where he used to be. And in that emptiness, something settled.

Not rage. Not grief. Not yet. Those things required more of you than you had left. What settled was purpose.

Because no matter what they thought they’d taken from you, no matter how certain they were that you’d break just like the others had, your daughter was still alive. You couldn't let her become an orphan. Dani was waiting for you, and she didn’t know her father was dead. She didn’t know that you were too.

And you were the only one left who could keep that from becoming permanent.

You didn’t notice Marshal until he crouched beside you again, his shadow crawling across the stone in tandem with your hollow stare. His voice was low, almost reverent, as though he feared disrupting the stillness that had wrapped itself around you.

“I knew it the second I saw you,” Marshal said, his voice low, almost reverent, as though addressing something sacred rather than broken. “Back in those woods. You had it—that thing most don’t. Pain doesn’t ruin you. It reshapes you.”

His words drifted through the silence like smoke, curling around the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t respond. You weren’t even sure you were still breathing. You were there, yes, in body—but your mind was standing at the edge of some quiet abyss, watching itself from far away.

“I told the Commander we needed someone like that,” he went on, unhurried, as though this was all unfolding according to some script only he had read. “A firestarter. Not just someone who survives the burn, but someone who walks through it and comes out clean on the other side.”

Slowly, you raised your gaze, just enough to meet his. The movement wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t emotional. It was mechanical, like some buried instinct had twitched to life out of necessity. Whatever he saw in your expression—vacancy, obedience, surrender—was enough to satisfy him. 

Your silence sealed the illusion.

Marshal stood, brushing invisible dust from his knee as though this moment wasn’t stitched with the last of your humanity. He turned to someone just out of sight, his voice as steady as ever. “Clean her up. Feed her. She’s earned it.”

You didn’t watch him walk away.

When the hands came, you didn’t flinch. You barely noticed them. You didn’t speak. You didn’t even blink. You let them take your weight, lift you from the blood-slick floor, guide your body like it wasn’t your own. Whatever they’d done—whatever they’d taken—had hollowed you out so thoroughly, you barely noticed the warmth of their grip or the sound of the fire crackling behind you. It all felt far away, like a story you were being told about someone else.

But somewhere, buried deep beneath the numbness, something shifted. Not rage. Not revenge. That was all smoke now. What remained was quieter. Heavier. It settled into the space your grief had hollowed out and anchored itself like a root cracking through stone.

It wasn’t for them.

It wasn’t even for him.

It was for her.

For Dani.

Because she was all that was left of him. Because she didn’t know what had been taken from her yet. Because you had promised her you’d come back, and promises made to children had weight. Had teeth.

And if that meant tearing yourself in two—if it meant burying every scream and smile and soft thing inside you—then so be it.

Because one day, somehow, you’d find your way back to her.

And on that day, no one—not Marshal, not the Commander, not even the fire—would be able to stop you.

——

Turns out that taking your husband’s death in stride made for a hell of a promotion.

Grief would’ve gotten you kitchen duty, maybe a cot in the barracks if you’d played your cards right. Hysterics? A bullet. But silence? Composure? The ability to let a man bleed out at your feet and not flinch when the fire took him?

Apparently, that made you leadership material.

Marshal didn’t even wait a full day. You were summoned at dawn, the knock on your door light and precise, like someone trying not to wake what was already dead. The soldier who stood there said nothing. Just turned. Walked. And like a good little recruit, you followed.

They took you to the central chamber—the same one where you’d watched the Commander strip lives down to bone with a few carefully chosen words. Now you stood beneath the same skylight, washed in grey morning light, not entirely sure where your limbs ended and the concrete began.

Marshal entered first. He looked cleaner than usual. Face freshly shaven, black shirt tucked in, like this was something sacred.

The Commander didn’t bother with ceremony. He didn’t ask if you wanted the role. He didn’t explain what it meant. He just turned to face you, eyes sweeping over your stillness like it proved something.

“You’ve adapted well,” the Commander said at last. His voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It simply was. Final. “Marshal spoke highly of you. Your performance in the ring. Your composure since. Your clarity of purpose.”

“Others… fall apart. Wail. Break. You buried the weakness. And what remained—” he turned, finally, and looked you dead in the eye, “—was worth keeping.”

He crossed the floor, each step unhurried, until he stood before you. Taller. Older. But not frail. He looked at you the way a man might examine a blade he’d forged himself.

“I name you General.”

The words dropped like a blade against an altar. There was no ceremony. No oath. Just that sentence.

Marshal stepped forward, then, and placed something in your palm. A thin band of blackened metal with a single etched mark—a crescent, sharp as a scythe. The symbol of rank. Cold and heavy in your hand.

“Wear it on your hip,” Marshal said softly, voice close now, near your ear. “Let them know what you are.”

You didn’t flinch. You just nodded once and fastened it to your belt.

The Commander inclined his head—dismissal, not praise—and turned away again. The matter, it seemed, was closed.

Marshal lingered, though. He waited until the Commander had vanished into shadow, then walked with you out into the hall, slow and unhurried, like two old friends on a morning stroll.

“I told him,” Marshal drawled, voice echoing lazily off the corridor walls as the door closed behind you both, sealing the chamber like a tomb. “Told him you wouldn’t crack. The others thought you’d go down screaming—or not get back up at all.”

He walked beside you like nothing about this moment was strange. As if promotion through grief was the most natural thing in the world. As if the silence trailing behind your footsteps wasn’t made of bone and ash and something close to mourning.

“But not me,” he went on, with that infuriating little shrug in his voice, like everything had already been proven. “I figured you had the spine. Something in the way you moved, y’know? Like someone who’s already had the worst day of their life and just kept walking.”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Every ounce of your energy was spent on forward motion, on placing one foot in front of the other with a precision that felt practiced and numb.

“Still not talking?” he asked, almost amused. “Yeah, I get it. Takes a minute. First time I lost someone close, I didn’t talk for three days." Just sat on a roof staring at the rain, prayin' I'd get the balls to jump."

Damn. If only he had some balls.

He tilted his head toward you, as if waiting for you to react. You didn’t.

Marshal sighed through his nose and kept pace. “So…  he was your husband right?  babydaddy? Both?”

The question hit harder than it had any right to. Not for the words themselves, but for how casually he said them—like he was asking what brand of boots you wore.

“Well,” he continued, unfazed, “you’re better off. That kind of thing—attachment, whatever—it just slows you down. I mean, shit, I used to have a wife. Think I even loved her once. But when she got bit, you know what I did?”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled anyway. “Sat with her ‘til it got dark, then I put a knife through her temple. Buried her in the garden, poured some moonshine, and went to sleep like I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Woke up clean.”

Marshal gave a light laugh, like he’d just told a half-decent bar story. “Point is, we’re not made for soft shit. You cut it off before it festers. And you—” he looked at you now, a little more directly, a little more keenly “—you’ve already done the hard part. You let go. Now you get to be something better.”

He stopped walking. You stopped, too, more out of rhythm than obedience.

“I’ve got plans, General,” he said, tone dropping low, like he was inviting you into some secret. “Big ones. Creed’s gonna outgrow this place. We’ve got outposts forming, whispers from the coast. The kind of movement people write about. But movements need faces. Voices. People who don’t flinch when things get messy.”

You turned to him, at last, your expression unreadable. A mask so perfect it didn’t even feel like skin anymore.

“Just tell me where to start,” you said, your voice coarse, a faint echo of your one from before.

He grinned, like that was all he’d wanted to hear.

“Right answer.”

Marshal reached out—not possessively, not forcefully, but like someone testing the edge of a blade—and tapped your shoulder once. The bad one. You felt nothing. His smile deepened when you didn’t so much as blink.

Then he stepped back and nodded toward the corridor ahead. “C’mon. Let’s make the rest of ‘em jealous.”

____

The days blurred like smoke on water—not fast, not slow, just distorted. You hadn’t even noticed the sun rising anymore, only the weight of your boots and the sound of doors opening ahead of you before you stepped through. General. That was your name now. Not your real one. Not your given name, the one you've gone by your entire life. Not the one Daryl whispered into your shoulder in the middle of the night... Just General. A title that hung on your spine like a weapon, heavy and sharp.

In the two days since your so-called liberation, you hadn’t stopped moving. Marshal kept you close, walking the perimeter of the inner compound, inspecting patrols and supply lines, overseeing training sessions where recruits sparred with dull blades and sharp eyes. He showed you off. Paraded you like some living emblem of what it meant to survive Creed fire and come out whole.

“Eyes front,” he’d murmur as you passed the bowing acolytes. “They need to see strength, not softness.”

So you gave them strength. Barked orders. Held your chin high. Smiled only when it served you. You ate beside Marshal at every meal, and when he leaned in too close or spoke too casually—jokes about husbands, about daughters, about how pain was just love shedding its skin—you laughed like it didn’t slice straight through your gut. He didn’t mean to mock you, you didn’t think. But his words still clanged, loud and graceless.

“You never said - was he the dad? That Dixon guy?” Marshal had asked once, as you walked the south corridor. He didn’t look at you when he said it. 

You had nodded. Just once. A sharp little thing, like a salute. The kind of response that meant everything and nothing.

You kept your hands steady. Your back straight. You thought of Dani... Daryl.

The same cell. Same stone. Same metal bars.

Only now, the cell across from him was empty.

It had been two nights, and Daryl still stared at that space, haunting him. The cold where you used to sit, curled and whispering hopes through the bars. The dried blood smudge near the drain. The memory of your scream.

He couldn’t sleep.

He hadn’t spoken in days.

Not because he couldn’t, but because there was no point. Most of his words had burned up in that fire anyway. What was left were grunts. Breaths. Muscle. The feel of rope biting into his palms as he dragged beams across gravel yards, sweating through his shirt until the sun dipped, and they locked him back in the cell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

At the guards. At the keys. At the gaps in their routines. At the flicker in their torchlight. At the way one of them always dropped his rifle to piss behind the south gate after final lockdown.

They thought he was broken. Good.

He was going to make them bleed for it.

____

The sun was too bright. Not warm, not kind. Just bright—the kind of blinding that turned sweat to sting and dirt to paste. Daryl’s hands, torn raw at the knuckles, worked the shovel with dull rhythm, carving through the gravel as if by compulsion. They’d set him to trenching along the perimeter fence, claiming it was for drainage, but it was busywork. Pointless. Just a leash long enough to keep him moving.

He had kept his mouth shut. There was nothing to say, to ask for. No one to answer.

The guards posted near him were two of the worst kind—bored, bitter, cruel in the casual way men were when they thought no one could touch them. They weren’t just watching him. They were waiting. It was obvious in the way they leaned against the posts, spitting seeds and elbowing each other, like the job was just a break between drinks.

“You hear what Marshal did during her intake?” one of them said, loud enough to carry, not bothering to keep the grin from his voice. “Ripped that shirt right open. Said he wanted to see if the scar was real. Said it looked like it was straight outta a horror movie.”

The other laughed—a wet, hacking thing that sounded like it came from the belly. “Man, the way she flinched? Shit, I would’ve kept goin’. Coulda had a whole show if Marshal wasn’t so damn stingy.”

Daryl didn’t move. His fingers curled tighter around the shovel handle, knuckles going bone-white under the grime.

“Real tragic, ain’t it?” the first continued. “ Mama had so much feist. Waste of a good piece of ass, if you ask me.”

The second guard whistled low. “Think she begged first? Screamed? I’d put money on it. Looked like a screamer.”

The shovel slipped from Daryl’s hands and hit the dirt with a dull thud, a quiet sound that somehow felt louder than it should have. He didn’t move at first. Just stood there—spine straight, chest rising slow and deep like something trying not to snap in half. His fingers curled once at his sides, twitching like the tension needed somewhere to go.

The two guards were still laughing. Still running their mouths.

Daryl turned.

No words. No sound. No warning.

He moved fast—faster than either of them had time to register. The first guard barely blinked before the edge of the shovel split across his jaw, the impact cracking like a gunshot. Bone shattered. Teeth flew. He dropped to one knee with a garbled scream before Daryl wrenched the shovel back and swung again—this time blunt-end first—right into his temple.

The second guard stumbled backward, drawing his weapon with a curse, but Daryl was already on him, driving forward with the force of a battering ram. He tackled him to the ground, knees slamming hard into the man’s ribs, one hand wrenching the gun from his grip while the other grabbed a fistful of his collar and slammed the back of his skull against the gravel once, twice—three times—until the resistance gave way and blood began pooling fast.

The first guard tried to crawl, face a ruined mess of pulp and bone, but Daryl turned on him with nothing left to hold back. He grabbed him by the belt and yanked him back like he weighed nothing.

He brought the shovel down like it was an axe—once to the spine, then again. And again. There was no grace in it. No clean kill. Just a raw, animal kind of violence—ugly and necessary.

His breath tore ragged through his chest as he stood over the wreckage. Both bodies stilled. One gurgled once and went quiet. The other twitched, then didn’t.

The other workers had gone silent. For a moment, the whole yard held its breath, as if the world itself recognised that something old and sacred had been unleashed.

Daryl stood over the bodies, panting, fists dripping, chest heaving with something that had no name.

And then he ran.

Through the gate. Into the trees.

No hesitation. No plan. Only instinct.

He didn’t know where he was going. But he knew he'd be back. 

To make them all pay.

____

You were tightening the strap across your thigh when Marshal barged in without ceremony, his breath fogging in the colder air of the chamber. His eyes were alight with adrenaline, that twisted edge of anticipation he wore whenever something went wrong in just the right way.

“Two of ours are down,” he said, voice clipped but eager. “One’s missing. Blood on the gravel, bodies were found at the north wall. Tracks heading into the trees.”

You didn’t freeze. You didn’t blink. You simply straightened, fastened the last strap, and reached for the sheath at your hip.

“How long?” you asked.

“Not long. Less than an hour. It was fast. Efficient. Looked more like an animal than a man, but—” he tilted his head, eyes dragging down your arm like he expected praise, “—I know work when I see it. This was deliberate.”

You nodded once and stepped past him, boots already moving toward the outer corridor before he finished speaking. He kept pace beside you, hands folded behind his back like the whole thing was an experiment you were walking into. A test. A stage.

“You want to lead the hunt?” he asked, casual. Almost amused.

“I’m already doing it.”

You crossed into the yard where the air smelled like blood and burnt oil, your eyes sweeping over the cluster of armed men standing in loose formation near the gate. They were waiting. Watching. Some with curiosity, some with tension.

All of them obeyed when you raised your voice—low, calm, authoritative.

“North perimeter’s compromised. We have two confirmed dead, one unaccounted for, and tracks headed into the pines. I want six units. Three per group. Sector assignments will be rotated every hour. You see something, you don’t shout—you signal. You don’t engage unless I say. You follow orders. Or you join the ones who bled out.”

No one questioned you. Not even Marshal. He smiled slightly as you issued your orders like you’d been doing it your whole life, as if command had grown from your skin like armour. There was no tremor in your voice. No crack in your tone.

There was a slight hum in your skull. The one that came when the world tilted a little too sharply, like it always did when someone said the word escape. There was even a tinge of jealousy in your chest. Then it was replaced by pity. Because you knew they would be dragged back.

You didn’t let yourself wonder who it had been. Didn’t dwell on the bloody bodies or the missing name. Workers tried and failed all the time. You’d seen it before. You’d clean it up again. Still, something about Marshal’s expression gave you pause.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, but it was a smug gesture. Light. Easy. “Nothing. You wear the title well, General.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked back to the gate.

The hunt was already underway.

-----

The forest felt endless.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running. The canopy above him blurred into streaks of dark green and dying light, the air thick with humidity and his own ragged breath. His legs burned. His ribs ached. His boots pounded the earth like a drumbeat begging to slow, but he wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t.

Branches scraped his arms, thorns dragged like claws against his jeans, but none of it registered. Not compared to what he’d left behind. He didn’t know if he was more ashamed of the rage or the fact it had taken him that long to let it boil over. He was finally out - but it was without you.

Two of them hadn’t walked away from it. That was all he knew.

The forest began to thin. He slowed just enough to keep his breathing even. He hadn’t run this far to collapse. He swiped at his face and didn’t stop moving.

It was the shape of something manmade that pulled him forward—a faint glint of rust through the trees, the broken silhouette of a long-abandoned gas station nestled in overgrowth. Half-collapsed, half-swallowed by ivy, the old building slumped against the edge of the road like a dying animal. Its sign had long since shattered. Only rusted poles remained where the name might have been. Weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete, and a single pump leaned at an angle like it had been punched sideways and never stood again. But it was something. Shelter. Cover. Supplies.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, one hand pressed against a tree, catching his breath, eyes scanning for movement. Nothing. Only the soft rustle of branches and the occasional distant groan of the dead.

That's when he saw two walkers lurching near the back of the station, slow and disoriented. He crouched, crept forward, and took them out quick. Clean. Blade to the base of the skull. He dragged their corpses into the woods, leaving them in a way that looked like a scuffle had happened. A trail. One they’d follow. Let them run in the wrong direction.

Then he doubled back and slipped through the busted rear entrance, heart thudding hard beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

Inside, it was still.

Dust hung thick in the shafts of light breaking through broken panes. Shelves had long since collapsed, candy wrappers and rat nests littering the floor. The air stank of mildew and old oil, but it was empty as far as people and walkers went.. He moved slow, clearing corners one at a time, bootfalls nearly silent on the stained linoleum.

He didn’t breathe easy, not really. Not until the last corner was clear. Then he sagged against the side of an empty cooler, pressing a hand to his ribs, sweat trickling down his spine. He counted each breath like it might be his last. That's when he heard something from outside.

_______

The trail didn’t fool you.

It was good—subtle in ways the average Creed lackey would never catch—but not good enough to hide what it really was. They were covering their tracks. Every broken branch had purpose. Every overturned rock, every blood-speckled leaf followed a pattern too clean, too deliberately staggered, too familiar.

Because it was yours.

A move you’d crafted seasons ago, back when survival meant something more than symbolism and pageantry. You’d taught it once—to people who mattered. People who didn’t wear uniforms or follow slogans or look at you like you were anything but someone trying to stay alive. And now it stared back at you from the earth like a signature carved into soil.

Marshal was barking orders ahead of you, his voice crisp with expectation, but not urgency. Two men down was an inconvenience, not a threat. He stood near the treeline, gesturing with one hand for his squad to follow the trail of walker corpses heading eastward, already convinced the work was nearly done.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t move either.

Just stood near the edge of the brush, eyes tracking the drag marks and the half-shuffled footprints, letting the recognition sink deep into your ribs like a bruise you’d forgotten how to name.

When Marshal noticed your hesitation, he stepped closer. His tone was more relaxed now—comfortable, even—as if he’d grown used to speaking to you not as his subordinate, but as his closest confidant. Or maybe just his newest trophy.

“You see something I don’t, General?” he asked, voice low, laced with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been staring at dirt for the last two minutes like it's talkin' to you.”

You didn’t answer at first. You kept your gaze fixed on the ground, the muscle in your jaw ticking once as you shifted your weight forward, crouching to trace the heel-drag pattern with your fingers.

“It’s not walker blood,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Too bright. Too spaced.”

Marshal tilted his head, humored but mildly intrigued. “That what’s got you squinting like an old crow? We’ve already got a lead. They’re following it now.”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your thighs before glancing toward the direction the others had taken.

“It’s misdirection,” you said, flatly, without drama. “Manufactured.”

Marshal frowned, but it was faint, like a crease appearing in otherwise smooth stone. “And you know this because…?”

Your eyes slid to him. “Because it’s mine.”

That gave him pause. His smirk faltered, then rebuilt itself slowly, shaped now into something more curious than mocking.

“Well, shit,” he chuckled, hands sliding into his pockets. “Didn’t know you taught tricks. Looks like someone’s been studying the old playbook.”

He glanced down the trail again, then back at you. “You think our escapee doubled back?”

“I think he’s already gone,” you said, voice smooth. “And I think if you want a chance at catching him, you let me follow the real trail while your dogs chase ghosts.”

There was a moment of silence between you then—thin, but weighted. Marshal studied your face like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected, or maybe something he’d been hoping would surface all along.

He smiled again, more relaxed this time, and gestured half-heartedly to the forest. “Alright, General. If you think there’s a better trail, take it. Just don’t get yourself lost. Hate to have to replace you after all the effort I put in.”

You nodded once. Sharp. Precise. The way he liked it.

And then you turned and vanished into the woods, one boot after the other, eyes tracking the subtle path only you would’ve noticed. It wasn’t marked with panic or haste, but strategy. Intentional obfuscation. A diversion made to buy time—and that was what made your heart start to pound. 

People who used this move were dangerous. After all it was your move.

_______

The forest opened up without warning.

One second, you were tucked beneath the heavy arms of pines, the air thick with sap and old rain, and the next, the trees gave way to a patch of cleared ground—uneven, mottled with patches of gravel and moss, as if the world itself had tried to reclaim this place and only half-succeeded. In the centre stood a gas station. 

You stood still for a moment, just outside the reach of the clearing, listening.

Nothing.

No birds. No footsteps. Not even wind. Just the low, hot breath of the forest pressing against your back and the distant rot of something that had died weeks ago and hadn’t yet stopped stinking.

Your hand tightened around the hilt of your knife.

The trail led here. The subtle one—the real one. The one you’d followed from a snapped vine near the creek bed, the one someone had tried too hard to make look accidental. Every turn had confirmed it. This was no rogue worker. Whoever came here knew how to cover ground. How to double back. How to make blood smear like accident and not direction.

There was something about the air that changed before you even stepped inside—a stillness too deliberate, like a breath held too long, like the world itself was waiting for something to break. You crept along the outer edge of the station, careful to keep your footfalls light, your weapon drawn but low, ready but not aggressive. The siding flaked beneath your fingertips, warm and brittle, the building groaning faintly as the wind caught under the eaves. It should have felt abandoned. It didn’t.

Your gut twisted—not with fear exactly, but with a pressure you didn’t know how to name, like your body was trying to warn you before your mind could catch up. Something was here. Someone. It wasn’t a logical feeling. There were no clear signs. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken. But still, the closer you got, the stronger the feeling became, like gravity itself was trying to pull you inward.

By the time you stepped through the rear entrance—door creaking on its hinges but offering no resistance—you already knew you weren’t alone.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t call out commands. You just stood there for a moment, breathing through your nose, trying to place the shape of the unease that had started to bloom beneath your ribs.

The air was soured by time—thick with rust and mildew and motor oil, sharp with the scent of old blood and dust, the kind that clung to your clothes and your tongue long after you’d left. Sunlight cut through cracks in the roof, casting long, ghostly columns across the wreckage of the station’s interior. Aisles leaned at odd angles. Packaging had melted into the shelves. The silence wasn’t clean. It was full of ghosts.

You stepped forward, slow and careful, scanning between the shelves. One aisle at a time.

“This isn’t gonna end well for you,” you said, your voice cutting the silence like a blade—not shouted, not loud, but firm and cold and clear. A statement, not a threat. Not a warning - just a fact.

There was no response. Not right away. Just the sound of breath caught mid-motion. Like someone had frozen behind one of the shelves.

“Come out where I can see you,” you said, stepping deeper into the rows. Your voice didn’t shake. But it wasn’t steady, either. There was something brittle at the edges now. A warning crack before the collapse.

The sound of your voice slammed into him like a hammer to the sternum—low, steady, not shouted, but heavy with something he couldn’t name, like truth dragged raw across gravel. It was unmistakable, even wrapped in grit, even worn at the edges by survival. It was you. It was your voice, but it wasn’t soft the way he remembered, wasn’t teasing or warm or sarcastic. It was clipped and direct, sharpened down to the bone like everything else in this world, and that was what undid him.

His back pressed harder to the metal shelf behind him, and his fingers tightened around the knife in his grip, not from intent to use it but because it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. His pulse was everywhere—in his throat, behind his eyes, pounding in the tips of his fingers—and the breath he tried to take caught halfway and dissolved into nothing. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he remembered how.

Something inside him began to crack, slow and silent like ice shifting under weight.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It wasn’t one of the dreams that taunted him in the half-sleep of a cold floor and a concrete cell. It wasn’t the whisper that followed him through every labor shift, the one that sounded like her laugh, like her sigh, like the first time she said his name in the dark. This wasn’t the echo of memory warped by grief. This was now. This was real.

And yet, he didn’t answer. Not right away. Because something primal in him still feared the truth. Still believed that turning that corner would cost him everything if he was wrong.

But then he heard her boots crunch forward—one, then another. Steady. Careful. Getting closer. The sound of her moving cut through him sharper than any blade.

His eyes flicked toward the end of the aisle, just a sliver of light between broken shelves, and for a heartbeat, he caught it—just a glimpse.

A shoulder. A lock of hair. The edge of your jaw. The line of your arm steady on your weapon.

And it hit him all over again, harder this time, like the wind knocked out of his lungs and the floor pulled out from under him all at once. His knees went weak, his grip faltered, and the breath he finally took sounded more like a sob than a sigh, though he kept it behind his teeth.

You were standing. You were walking. You were alive.

Your were real.

But you didn’t look like the woman he used to fall asleep beside, or the one who used to hum under her breath while cleaning blood off her knife. You didn’t move like someone who’d ever been held gently. Your body was all tension, your eyes cold and alert, like softness had been trained out of you one wound at a time. The version of you standing there now looked like someone who’d been surviving instead of living—like the world had stripped you down to the parts that could fight and buried the rest somewhere too deep to reach.

And yet it was still you.

“I’m not in the mood to chase,” you said, each word carved from the grit of your throat. “And I’m sure as hell not in the mood to kill someone who’s just hiding. So don’t make me.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, half-concealed by the shadows of the aisle end, barely breathing, barely thinking—just staring, heart thundering with the impossible weight of recognition because it was you. And yet not you. And that paradox alone left his mouth dry, his pulse skittering, and his knees dangerously untrustworthy beneath him.

There was something in the way you held yourself that made the air feel thinner. You didn’t look fragile. You didn’t even look afraid. You looked sharpened—reforged in fire—and he didn’t know whether to be proud or devastated that the world had made you into this. For one breathless moment, he let himself believe that he could keep watching you like this forever, that you wouldn’t vanish again if he blinked too long. That the grief choking him since the pit had been a lie.

But then the toe of his boot knocked against a broken glass bottle, and the sharp scrape of it skittered across the linoleum like a gunshot in the dark. You reacted before the sound even finished, instincts firing faster than thought, and before he could lift a hand or even fully turn, your weapon had snapped to attention, pointed straight at him from across the aisle with lethal, unflinching precision.

He lifted both hands immediately. His knife dropped to the floor with a dull thud, his fingers opening like surrender was the only language he had left, and still, he didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. The only thing that moved was his chest, rising and falling in jagged rhythm as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, drinking you in like a man starved.

And you… you couldn’t move either.

The moment your eyes landed on him—on his face, his shoulders, the familiar set of his mouth—you stopped breathing entirely. You didn’t lower the weapon, not at first, not even when the shape of him settled into clarity. Your body held position like a dam holding back floodwater, and for a single, suspended second, all you could do was stare, too stunned to speak, too stunned to blink, too stunned to accept the thing your heart already knew.

It was him.

Alive.

Real.

And standing at the opposite end of the aisle like a ghost resurrected just for you.

You weren’t sure if the sound that came out of you was a gasp or a sob or some mangled hybrid of both, but it broke whatever spell had been holding you in place, because your fingers loosened ever so slightly on the grip, your arms trembling in their sockets, the gun still aimed but your certainty dissolving. His name rose in your chest, but it got caught behind your teeth, too thick with disbelief, too sacred to release without proof. Because if you said it, and it wasn’t really him, you wouldn’t survive it.

But he didn’t vanish.

He didn’t speak either.

He just stood there, hands still raised, eyes still locked on you like if he looked away you might disappear all over again. And that was when you finally let the weapon drop—not all the way, not at first, but just enough to acknowledge what your heart was already screaming.

You didn’t know whether to run to him or collapse where you stood.

But you knew one thing, deep and feral in your gut—this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

Your lips parted before the sound came, breath catching halfway up your throat as if your body had to fight to let the name escape. You hadn’t said it in days. Or maybe weeks. You’d whispered it to yourself in the dark, in the cold, in the quiet between orders and silence, just to remember the shape of it—but this time, it felt like a prayer you weren’t ready to finish.

“Daryl?”

It came out cracked. A question. A confession. A hope.

And then he exhaled.

That’s all he did—just let out a breath so full of disbelief and wonder it shook loose the silence between you like the final piece of a collapsing dam. His hands, still raised in surrender, trembled once as a smile twitched—small and ruined—at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His body said everything. The slack in his shoulders, the sting in his eyes, the way his lips moved around the unspoken words like he wasn’t sure his voice would hold.

“Yeah. It’s me.” 

Not empty—but full in a way that felt overwhelming. A silence packed with heat and scent and movement and memory, like the whole room had bowed to make space for the impossible thing happening between you.

Your gun hit the floor with a thud that didn’t echo.

Your feet moved before your brain did.

One second you were standing there, arms trembling, heart breaking open like a wound that had never truly closed. The next, you were running—sprinting across the ruined tile, your boots slipping slightly on the broken glass and torn paper, not caring if you fell, not caring if you bled, just needing to reach him, to feel him, to prove he wasn’t made of smoke and memory.

Daryl closed the space between you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it, his steps heavy and uneven, like his knees couldn’t decide if they should give out or carry him faster. His eyes never left yours, not even when you collided—so hard and fast that it knocked the breath from both of you, your chests crashing together with the force of everything you hadn’t dared feel until now.

You sobbed into his shoulder the second his arms locked around you.

There was no delay. No awkward pause. No question of whether he would catch you. Daryl wrapped you up like he’d been born to do it, his hands clawing at your back, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his arms caging you in like the world might try and steal you from him again and he wasn’t about to let that happen. You could feel the noise that came out of him, low and ragged, less a sound than a breath that caught in his throat and turned to something half-feral, half-frightened, all love.

You didn’t hold back.

Your body shook so hard you nearly dropped to your knees. Your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The sobs came fast, ugly, unrelenting, like everything you’d buried just to keep breathing had finally broken the surface and refused to stop. You could smell him—blood, sweat, dirt, smoke—and it hit you like a memory so strong it felt like drowning. You pressed your face into his collarbone, breathing in deep, desperate gasps, like scent alone could prove it was him.

He lifted his head to look at you—really look at you—and the moment your eyes met, the air between you seemed to collapse. His gaze was glassy, flickering with a hundred emotions all fighting for room, the disbelief carved so deep into his expression it was as if he were afraid to blink in case you vanished. He needed to be sure, to confirm with his own eyes that this wasn’t a trick of the light or some final mercy dream sent to soften the blow of grief.

And when the truth settled—when his mind caught up with what his heart already knew—his head dropped against your shoulder, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of feeling that overtook him.

You welcomed him without hesitation, your arms wrapping around him like they’d been searching for his shape this whole time. Your fingers clawed at the back of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, to remind your body that he was real, that this wasn’t a hallucination born from fatigue or hope or desperation. You sobbed, sharp and sudden, your face tilted toward him as the dam inside you finally burst.

You hadn’t let yourself feel it—not really—not until now. You’d kept the grief locked up tight, buried beneath obligation and instinct and survival, but now it was clawing its way out with a ferocity that terrified you. The pain of losing him surged through your chest like a second heartbeat, loud and uncontrollable, and now that it was out in the open, you had no idea what to do with it.

You collapsed into him, trembling, your hands fisting into the fabric at his back like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. Your breath hitched as you buried your face against his collar, the scent of him—earth and smoke and blood—ripping another cry from your chest. He was here. He was real. He was warm.

“I can’t believe it,” you choked out, your voice wet and raw. “You’re alive… you’re…”

His fingers curled tighter in the fabric of your jacket, knuckles white with the strain, like if he didn’t anchor himself to you, he might fall straight through the floor. His chest convulsed with a breath that never fully landed, just trembled apart in his throat, and then—like something cracked open deep inside him—he began to nod. Small at first, barely perceptible, then over and over again, his face buried in your neck, breath ragged, tears searing hot as they soaked into your skin. His whole body shook with it, not a sob exactly, but something quieter, more devastating—like surrender.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, again and again, each repetition softer than the last, unsure if you were trying to calm him or convince yourself. “You’re okay… I’m here… you’re here…”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But the way he gripped you—arms tightening like he could press you into his bones, hand cradling the back of your head with a desperation that bordered on reverence—told you everything you needed to know. He had thought he’d lost you. And now that you were back, he wasn’t going to let you slip away again. Not even for a second.

His voice cracked where it met your throat, low and hoarse like it had been dragged over gravel. “But I saw you,” he rasped, the words catching on a sob that hadn’t quite landed yet. “They—I saw you, they—”

“I know,” you breathed, the sound of it already fraying as it left your lips. “They pulled the same thing with me.”

And that was when it hit him—the sob he’d been holding back since the moment your voice first cut through the dark. It didn’t explode from him; it collapsed inward, a sharp, uneven inhale that never made it all the way out, like he was still trying to wrestle it into silence even now. But you felt it—the way it rippled through his body, not just in his shoulders but down to his bones, like something had broken open beneath the surface and he didn’t have the strength to stop it anymore. He sagged into you, not dramatically, just a fraction—but it was enough. Enough to know that whatever kept him upright until now had finally given out.

You cupped his face before he could retreat again—both hands, firm and unshaking, holding him there like you could keep him from splintering. The scratch of his stubble burned against your palms, and still, you didn’t let go. His eyes met yours—those pale, wolf-bright eyes—and they were barely holding together. No trace of the man who had walked beside you days ago. These eyes were starved. Hollowed. Torn raw at the edges from seeing too much, from believing too little. They didn’t look like eyes meant to hold joy anymore. They looked like they were built for grief.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word thought, like even saying it might kill him. “I saw it. I saw them—”

“I know,” you said again, but this time the words collapsed in your throat, your voice blown wide open with feeling. “I know, baby. I know.”

And something inside you broke, right then—something you didn’t have a name for. It cracked down your spine and shattered in your chest, left you trembling with a grief that didn’t have a place to go. There were no good words left. No logic. No plans. No promises.

So you did the only thing your body knew how to do.

You kissed him.

It didn’t feel like a kiss—it felt like impact. Like gravity reversed and slammed the two of you together with such force it shattered every lie you’d told yourselves just to stay alive. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was breathless and clumsy and soaked in panic, the kind of kiss that felt like drowning with your mouths wide open, like maybe if you didn’t inhale the other person fast enough, they might disappear again. His teeth knocked against yours in the chaos of it, his lips trembling with the sobs he couldn’t release, and your tears spilled freely, tracking down into the corners of your mouth, warm and salt-stung and unrelenting.

You felt the sound before you heard it—the low, helpless noise that scraped out of him from somewhere deep in his chest, something that sat halfway between a groan and a wounded animal’s cry. His hands were in your hair before you could register the movement, dragging you closer like proximity alone might make up for lost time, like if he could just fuse his skin to yours, nothing would ever tear you apart again. One hand fisted in the back of your jacket, the other trembling against the curve of your spine, sliding lower, frantic and reverent all at once, as if he didn’t know where to touch you first because he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you at all.

He moved without thinking—pure instinct, pure need. Your body was suddenly pressed back against a rusted metal shelf, the cold biting through your jacket even as his mouth devoured yours, even as his breath poured into you like something sacred. His hands skimmed down your sides with a fever that felt more like prayer than lust, like he was checking to make sure you were really there, all of you, unburned and breathing. And then they found your hips, strong and decisive, and he lifted you—just like that. No hesitation, no warning, just that same animal desperation in the way his arms wrapped under your thighs and the way your legs clung to his waist like muscle memory.

You never stopped kissing. Not even for air. Not even when your back hit the floor and the stench of the gas station rushed into your lungs. You could’ve been lying in dirt or on broken glass or in the middle of a damn inferno and it still wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing that mattered was this—this unbearable closeness, this impossible proof that he was here and you were here and somehow, impossibly, you’d found each other again.

Every point of contact felt vital. His chest crushed against yours, his heartbeat thundering like a war drum under your palms. His thigh slotted between yours, grinding hard enough to draw a whimper from your lips, and still, it wasn’t close enough. Your hands roamed like you were blind, like your fingers were trying to memorize what your eyes still couldn’t believe—his shoulders, the scar at his collarbone, the line of his jaw and the curve of his skull beneath your palms.

Daryl didn’t talk, not really. Not when it counted. But right now, he was saying everything you needed to hear. Not with words—but with the way his tongue tangled with yours, the way his breath hitched when you rocked your hips up against his, the way he buried his face against your throat like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. You didn’t say anything either—not because you didn’t have words, but because language would’ve ruined it. Nothing could hold this. Not grief. Not rage. Not love. Only movement. Only heat. Only the frantic, aching choreography of two people who had forgotten how to survive without each other.

And that—that was your fluency.

This was how you spoke.

Your legs were locked around his waist like a vise, trembling with strain but refusing to let go, and your hands couldn’t stop pulling him closer, dragging at his back, his shoulders, clawing like you could anchor yourself in the curve of his spine and stay there forever. There was no space between your bodies, nothing but heat and panic and the sick, beautiful ache of reunion as he held you upright, one arm clamped tight around your lower back, the other braced against the broken floor to keep you both steady in a world that no longer was.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Every nerve in your body was alive with it—this collision, this reunion, this need that felt bigger than you, bigger than both of you, like grief made manifest in the shape of desire.

And he was unraveling right there with you.

Daryl wasn’t thinking in words anymore. He was running on instinct, acting on a hunger so deep it didn’t feel like lust—it felt like survival. His hands found your shirt and tore it open in one violent jerk, the sound of fabric splitting loud enough to make your breath stutter, and the second your skin was exposed, he was on you. Mouth hot, insistent, desperate as he kissed a line down your chest like it was a map he thought he’d never see again. His lips landed over your heart, over your ribs, over the spots he always touched, and now pressed into like they were proof that you were real, that he hadn’t imagined you back into existence.

You arched into him, hips tilting up, breath ragged as his mouth found your sternum, then lower. Of course—of course—he didn’t pass your breasts without worship, not even now, not even in the middle of a damn apocalypse resurrection. His hand palmed you roughly through your bra while his mouth trailed lower, fast and hungry and nothing like the teasing he used to do, because this wasn’t about foreplay or build-up. It was about claim. About remembering. About burying himself in you so deep he’d never have to crawl out again.

He was afraid.

You could feel it. In the way his breath hitched every time your fingers moved through his hair. In the way he touched you like you were on borrowed time. In the way his eyes flashed upward every few seconds, glassy and wide and unbelieving. He was terrified this was a hallucination. That if he didn’t fuck you hard enough, if he didn’t make you scream and cry and come undone in his arms, then you might vanish again.

But you couldn’t hold back the cry that tore out of your chest, your voice cracked and pleading as the emptiness clawed at your insides. “Daryl—”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on yours, face flushed and tearstreaked and so goddamn soft you thought you might break open from the sight of it. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see uncertainty or hesitation or fear—he saw you shaking beneath him, desperate and wrecked and alive, and it lit something inside him that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with belonging.

You were already lifting your torso, fumbling for his belt with clumsy, shaking fingers. It took too long. It always took too long. And when your hands slipped, when a frustrated whimper escaped your lips, he didn’t mock you like he usually would. He didn’t smirk or tease or make some offhand comment about how you couldn’t wait two fucking seconds.

He knelt there in front of you like something half-feral, trembling and breathless, and moved with that same single-minded urgency, his fingers flying to your jeans, dragging the zipper down like the delay itself was killing him.

You didn’t take your pants off. You shoved them down just far enough. You didn’t want preparation or patience. You wanted him. Now. You wanted him inside you so deep the ache wouldn’t go away for days. You wanted to feel sore. You wanted to feel branded.

His voice was hoarse and warm against your lips as you writhed beneath him, just a breath of comfort threaded through the chaos. “It’s alright, baby. I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It didn’t match what he was doing. His tone was tender, low, steady—but his hands were shaking as he hooked your underwear with your jeans and shoved them down in one rough motion. There was nothing slow about it. There was no grace in the way his fingers curled into your hips as he slid between your thighs, no hesitation in the way he groaned when your legs tightened again around his waist and pulled him flush against your body.

You shifted beneath him, the cracked linoleum biting into your bare ass, the brittle sting of broken glass tangled in your hair like a crown of thorns you didn’t dare acknowledge. Above you, a ragged hole in the station’s collapsed ceiling cast a shaft of silver light through the dust-choked air, illuminating your body like something divine—skin glowing pale beneath the grime, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm, eyes wild and wet and locked onto his like he was the last living thing on earth. And to Daryl, you were.

His breath caught in his throat. It was almost too much—seeing you like this, raw and spread out under him, haloed in dust and blood and light. You were wrecked. And holy. And his. Every part of him screamed to reach you, bury himself inside you so completely that nothing—not time, not fire, not the Creed—could ever sever what bound you together.

You tugged him closer, hips shifting, knees rising to cradle his body with your own like instinct had overridden every fear, every question, every word. The press of him against you sent a tremor through your spine, your muscles clenching in desperate anticipation, not just for pleasure but for proof. Proof that this wasn’t a hallucination. That he was here, real and solid and warm, the weight of him anchoring you back into your body after days spent floating on agony and denial.

“I need you,” you whispered, barely louder than the whisper of dust falling around you. “I need to feel you. I need to know you’re real.”

And he gave you that—without a word, without hesitation. Just a groan, low and guttural, as his hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched it high over his hip, aligning himself. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath scalding against your skin, the tremble in his arms betraying the fact that he was just as wrecked as you were—torn open by grief and stunned by hope.

And then, he pushed inside.

It was unbearable in its slowness, every inch a reclamation, every second a sacrament. Your body welcomed him like it had been waiting, like it had been hollowed out and shaped only to fit him. The stretch was divine, brutal in its pleasure, a burn that made your back arch and your breath catch and your fingers rake down the length of his spine because you couldn’t hold this, couldn’t stand it, couldn’t survive it unless he gave you all of it—his weight, his heat, his voice gasping brokenly against your throat.

He bottomed out with a low, breathless groan, and the moment he did, something in you shattered. You felt the tears break loose again—this time not from fear or grief or even relief, but from sheer overwhelming joy. From the way your body clenched around him in welcome. From the dizzying rush of feeling everything at once.

The sound that left your throat barely resembled anything human—it was a gasp, yes, but not one you recognised as your own. It scraped from your chest like something long buried, like a sob half-remembered from another lifetime, one where he hadn’t been ripped from your arms. You hadn’t known how hollow you’d become until the moment he filled you again, until the weight and warmth of him settled into the ache that had lived inside you since the day he was ‘shot’. Each slow roll of his hips sent another wave crashing through you—deep, thorough, grounding—and it was more than just sensation. It was reclamation. It was breath after drowning. It was colour bleeding back into a world that had long since faded grey. His mouth found yours again, and this time it wasn’t a kiss so much as a seal—a dam against the sound of your cries, which trembled high and frantic in your throat, cries not of pain or desperation but of raw, unfiltered relief. You were finally whole again, and that truth settled into your bones with every movement. After days of unbearable numbness, of walking through the world like a ghost in your own body, every nerve had been sharpened to a blade’s edge. You felt everything now—his hands, his breath, the press of his chest against yours—and It hit you all at once—a rush so heady it was almost narcotic, like pleasure waking every nerve at once after days of silence, flooding your system with heat, hunger, and the dizzying high of finally being alive in his hands again.

There was no rhythm. No restraint. Just the frenzied collision of flesh and feeling—each thrust growing rough with purpose, deep with urgency, like he was trying to brand himself inside you, like every stroke was a prayer and a promise and a plea. The heat of him filled you again and again, thick and relentless, until it felt like your body couldn’t possibly hold anything more—but you begged for it anyway, legs wrapped tight around his waist, hips lifting to meet every punishing drive of his. He didn’t ease up, didn’t slow, not when every sharp drag of his cock left you gasping like the air itself couldn’t reach your lungs unless he gave it to you.

It wasn’t about chasing pleasure. It was about surviving the ache. About staying here, in this body, in this moment, where you could still feel him—hot and hard and alive, grinding into you like he could carve your name into his bones. His breath came harsh against your mouth, mingling with yours, teeth grazing lips like he wanted to consume every sound you made. Every moan. Every desperate sob.

Your hands were everywhere—threaded in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, raking down the slope of his back, the curve of his spine, clawing at him like you could tear your way into his chest and never leave. You grabbed at his ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster, trying to keep him pressed so far inside there’d never be a world where he wasn’t. Your name broke on his tongue in pieces, ragged and reverent, lost between the kisses he planted against your throat, your jaw, your open, gasping mouth.

You didn’t just want him close. You wanted him fused to you. Imprinted. Etched into the wet heat of you forever.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you gasped into his ear, the words high and ragged, cracking under the weight of everything pouring out of you at once. Your voice didn’t even sound like your own anymore—too breathless, too raw, too consumed by the white-hot bliss unraveling you from the inside out.

That did something to him.

His pace shifted, stuttered, then surged—all control lost. His hips slammed into yours with reckless abandon, faster, harder, as if the sound of your voice had lit a fuse in him he couldn’t extinguish. His whole body was shaking with the force of it, sweat slicking his skin as your bodies collided over and over in a rhythm that felt more like a goddamn resurrection than anything else.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he choked out, the words torn straight from his chest, cracked and desperate. His forehead pressed hard against yours, breath fanning hot over your face, his eyes clenched shut like the intensity of it all was just too much to bear. He drove deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body jolt and seize, again and again, until the pressure inside you coiled so tightly you thought you might break apart from the sheer pleasure of it.

Your back arched with every thrust, your body dragged upward by the force of his hips before slamming back down into the ruined floor beneath you. You didn’t care. You didn’t feel anything but him—thick, hot, buried to the hilt inside you, like he was trying to fuck you into memory, into reality, into existence.

He was gasping against your skin now, his breath pouring out in short, ragged bursts that seared across your collarbone like open flame, each one edged with something rawer than pain and more desperate than pleasure. His jaw was clenched so tightly it trembled against the curve of your throat, the sinew in his neck taut like a man trying to hold back a scream, like the sheer force of what he felt was something he had to trap behind his teeth just to keep from breaking apart entirely. His grip on your hips had turned punishing, almost brutal, his fingers digging so deep into your flesh it felt like he was trying to leave something permanent behind—not just a bruise, but a mark that said mine, still mine, always. He didn’t mean to hurt you. But he couldn’t stop. Not when the way you moved beneath him was undoing every stitch of restraint he’d tried so fucking hard to hold onto.

He looked down for just a second—just long enough to watch the place where your bodies met, slick and desperate and shuddering with every movement—and the sight alone nearly ruined him. That was you. That was him, buried inside you so deep he swore he could see himself poking from inside you and forming a bulge in your lower abdomen. Your legs locked tight around his waist, your body rising to meet his like you couldn’t bear even a moment of distance, and it shattered something in him, something hollow and hungry and feral. You looked unreal like that—eyes wet and wide, lips parted, the flush of you spreading down your chest as your back arched again beneath him. The shaft of light spilling through the hole in the ceiling cast a pale, holy glow across your skin, catching in the strands of glass tangled in your hair and turning your entire body into something celestial, like you were a vision brought back from the dead just for him to worship.

Then his hands slid up, one latching tight into yours, pinning it down hard beside your head. The other followed, his fingers threading between yours like a lifeline, like if he didn’t hold on he might float away completely. And all the while he kept fucking into you—harder, deeper—his eyes locked to your face with a terrifying sort of focus, like he was watching for signs of life, of love, of you, and couldn’t afford to miss a second of it.

You could feel him everywhere—stretching you open, filling you to the point of madness, the weight of him driving every inch of his cock so deep inside you it felt like he might split you in two. You swore you could feel it in your chest, in your spine, curling in your throat like a scream that couldn’t find a way out. Every thrust hit like a vow, like a promise sealed with skin and sweat and everything he couldn’t say out loud. Like he was stitching you back together with every goddamn movement.

And you let him. You wanted him to. Because every bruising, fevered stroke didn’t just remind you that you were alive—it reminded you that you were his.

Your whole body trembling, not just from the pressure building at your core, but from the sheer impossibility of it all—him, here, real, alive, buried so deep inside you that your bones ached with the weight of it. Every thrust pulled a new sound from your throat, not just of pleasure, but of disbelief, of shattered grief curling into relief. The rhythm of his hips drove you toward the edge, but it wasn’t just ecstasy pooling hot and full in your belly—it was everything you’d buried to survive. Every scream you’d swallowed, every night you’d imagined him dead, every second you’d rehearsed how to live without him—it all surged forward at once, crashing up through your chest like a tidal wave.

He groaned into your skin, voice cracked open with the same unbearable ache you carried, every breath he took like he was drowning in you, like he couldn’t get close enough even now, couldn’t accept there was still space between your bodies no matter how deep he pushed.

And then something inside you snapped—not pain, not even climax, but a rupture of emotion that split you down the center. The first sob hit so softly it barely registered, just a breath stuttering against his neck, but the second followed quick and sharp, your face twisting into his shoulder as the flood broke loose. You were shaking beneath him, wracked with the force of it, tears sliding hot between your temples and his skin, gasping for air like you couldn’t tell where the sorrow ended and the joy began.

Daryl didn’t notice at first that you were crying. How could he, when every inch of his body was pressed against yours like a seal, like something sacred, like if he just kept moving—kept breathing you in and pushing himself deeper into your body—the nightmare might stay buried where it belonged. His face was buried in your neck, the heat of his breath scalding your throat in short, ragged bursts as his mouth moved blindly across your skin, dropping kisses that were more devotion than desire, lips parted in a prayer he didn’t know how to speak.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your head, skimming your ribs, dragging down your back with shaking fingers that gripped like he was afraid you’d dissolve if he didn’t hold you right. You felt like a lifeline beneath him, warm and alive and wrapped so tightly around his senses that the rest of the world ceased to exist. It wasn’t until your body began to tremble in a way that didn’t match the cadence of his thrusts—not pleasure, not urgency, but something softer and more broken—that he finally felt it. 

Not the tight grip of your thighs or the drag of your nails down his back—no, it was the break in your moan, the way the sound caught mid-breath like a sob in disguise. It was the way your whole body trembled, not from the pleasure winding tighter inside you, but from something else—something more profound. Lonelier.

He pulled back just enough to see you, to really see you, and what he found nearly gutted him. Tears streaking your cheeks. Not loud. Not wild. Just steady, silent drops that shimmered in the weak shaft of light cutting through the ceiling, turning your face into something ethereal and wrecked and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache. There was glass in your hair—tiny glints of it catching the light like stars—and he couldn’t tell if the shimmer on your lips was sweat or salt or both, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were crying, and he hadn’t even noticed. His heart punched against his ribs, and his body stilled completely, the rhythm faltering to nothing as his hands gentled in an instant, afraid he’d gone too far, afraid he’d gone too far and hurt you.

“Hey,” he rasped, the word cracked and broken at the edges, like it had clawed its way up from a place too deep to name. “Baby—”

His voice landed against your skin like an apology he hadn’t had time to shape, but already meant with everything he had. And the moment he stopped moving—just the second his hips stilled, just the breath between one heartbeat and the next—something in you snapped. The emptiness, that terrible hollowness where his rhythm had been, flooded your chest like a tidal wave, choking off your breath, making your arms seize tighter around him like maybe if you held on hard enough the cold couldn’t reach you.

Daryl didn’t need to see the tears to know. He felt it in your body—the sudden change in tension, the way your grip shifted from want to need, the tremble that started somewhere low in your spine and worked its way up into your chest, into the way your breath caught like it had hit barbed wire on the way out. He didn’t need to look at your face. He just knew. Because this was you. His wife. The only thing in this world he could read without a single word.

Still, he lifted his head, not out of confusion but out of guilt, because he should’ve felt it sooner. He should’ve known. And the second he saw you—hair splayed out beneath you in tangled strands, cheeks streaked with silent tears that neither of you had registered until just now, your mouth parted like you were trying to breathe through the weight of a hundred lifetimes—his chest fractured wide open. Not because he didn’t understand, but because he did. Because he knew this wasn’t fear. This was grief. This was the part of you that had stayed quiet all this time, the part you hadn’t let yourself feel, not until he was finally here, not until you could fall apart safely in the arms that were supposed to have held you through all of it.

He reached for you like he couldn’t do anything else—fingers threading through your hair, brushing it gently back from your damp cheeks, his touch reverent, delicate in the way only a man who’s loved you for years can manage. His eyes scanned your face, drinking you in, not searching for an answer but for reassurance—for some way to convince himself that he hadn’t failed you entirely, that you were still letting him in. And what he saw gutted him. Not because you were hurting, but because you hadn’t told him. Because you’d carried it alone, thinking he couldn’t bear it, when all he ever wanted was to be the one who did.

“Didn’t mean to—” he started, voice wrecked and hushed against your mouth, but you cut him off with a desperate, aching noise that said don’t you dare.

You pulled him tighter before he could say anything more, your arms locking around his shoulders like a tether that would snap if you didn’t keep it taut. “Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words fragile but clear. “Please, Daryl. I need this. I need you-” you were still crying, not hysterically so but crying nonetheless. And he knew exactly why. Of course he did.  You didn’t have to ask him not to leave you. He knew you would’ve stopped him if it had been too much, and you knew without question he would’ve stopped himself if he’d thought it really hurt you. 

The weight of what it meant to lose him. The cold, gnawing stretch of time you’d spent pretending that hollow space inside you was survivable. The unbearable relief of having him here again, real and solid and buried so deep inside you that the line between grief and grace blurred entirely. You weren’t crying because it hurt. You were crying because it mattered—because every part of you had cracked open under the pressure of loving someone so completely that living without them had nearly killed you, and this… this was how you came back to life.

He leaned in closer instead, forehead resting against yours, hand gently brushing the hair from your face as his thumb followed the path of a tear like it was holy.

His eyes were soft and wild all at once—wide and glistening, like he was looking at the most precious thing he’d ever nearly lost. And his voice, when it came, was low and rough and reverent, shaking with awe, not pity.

“Shhh,” he cooed, barely more than a breath. “I know, baby. I know.”

And maybe you didn’t say anything back. Maybe you couldn’t. But you didn’t need to. Because the sob that ripped through you as you dragged him impossibly closer—the way you held him, gasping and trembling and utterly unguarded—was the loudest kind of yes. And that was it.

That was the moment the last piece of him shattered. The sob cracked you open, but what followed wasn’t collapse—it was hunger. Not just for his body, but for the life threaded through it. For the rhythm of his pulse beneath your palm, for the ragged breath he exhaled against your mouth, for the sweat slicking your skin where it met his, sealing you together like glue and desperation.

The tenderness in his eyes cracked into something else—something darker, deeper. His jaw clenched not with restraint now, but with the effort of not fucking you through the floor. And when you lifted your hips, grinding into him with all the need that had been choking you silent for days, he finally gave in.

He kissed you so hard it hurt, mouth crashing into yours with a force that spoke louder than any words ever could, like he thought if he kissed you hard enough, it might stitch the splinters back together, might fuse soul to soul and silence the ache. One hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away a tear he couldn’t stop, while another fell right behind your thigh, gripping hard, dragging you up and into him again, no hesitation, no pause, just the fierce, undeniable need to be inside you, to move in time with your heartbeat, to bury himself in every place you ached.

And when he thrust again—harder this time, rough and deep and aching—it wasn’t just sex. It was obliteration. It was grief and rage and love and resurrection, all tangled into the rhythm of two people who’d already lost each other once and would rather burn than let it happen again. Every thrust was a scream. Every kiss a promise. And everything else—the fire, the cult, the pain, the memory of your bodies being dragged away—burned away into nothing. Just heat. Just skin. Just the two of you, wrecking each other back to life.

He growled against your skin—not a sound of anger, but of helpless, full-bodied surrender—and pushed deeper, harder, rougher, until your body bowed beneath him and your cry echoed around the barren gas station. His hands weren’t gentle. They were frantic, anchoring your thighs apart like he couldn’t bear the idea of you ever slipping from him again. His palms slid beneath your ass, lifting you to meet him thrust for thrust, pace turning punishing, almost cruel—but never careless. Never thoughtless.

The pace grew sharper. Harsher. Like the tenderness had done its job and now there was only need, coursing through both of you like blood that had been frozen too long and finally remembered how to burn. His hands slid beneath your thighs, dragging them higher, pressing you open until your hips tilted just right, until every thrust hit the place that made your breath catch and your hands claw at his back without mercy.

You could feel it in your chest—the thunder of your heart matching the rhythm of his body driving into yours, so hard now it bordered on brutal, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t violence. It was release. It was the kind of desperation that lived in marrow, the kind that only surfaced when someone had thought they’d lost you forever and just got you back in the flesh, panting and crying beneath them like salvation.

His gaze dropped again to where your bodies met, where you took all of him again and again, where slick and need coated his length and your thighs and the floor beneath. He watched himself disappear into you, over and over, and something in his throat cracked open around a sound that wasn’t quite a groan, wasn’t quite a whimper, but something ruinous in between. His jaw clenched, but not to restrain himself—no, this time it was to hold back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, the way his lip quivered when he looked at your face and saw nothing but home.

You tightened around him, a gasp catching in your throat, and your back arched again, like your whole body was trying to drag him deeper. He followed instinct, chest pressed flush to yours, forearms braced on either side of your head as he rolled his hips deeper, rougher, unforgiving now. He was panting into your mouth, groaning softly every time you clenched around him like your body was trying to keep him, claim him, never let him go again.

“Jesus,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a curse. It was reverence. It was awe. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and was being brought back to life by the way your hands gripped his shoulders and your heels dug into the small of his back and your cries sounded like they’d been buried for days and had finally clawed their way out.

It was obliteration in the truest sense—the complete undoing of everything that had come before. The silence. The fire. The nights spent thinking he was gone. The image of your own blood on concrete. The image of his body, still and crumpled, playing behind your eyelids like a curse.

Gone.

All of it burned away under the weight of him inside you—under the pressure of his breath ghosting over your mouth, of his fingers tangled in your hair, of his body colliding with yours in the kind of rhythm that came not from want but need. His hips snapped with purpose, not just to make you feel but to remind you that you were alive, that this was real and you were still here, and so was he, and you weren’t going to lose each other again. Not like that. Not ever.

You clung to him like he was gravity, like he was the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. And maybe he was. Maybe this wasn’t the world anymore—maybe it was something else, something made entirely of heat and skin and breath and sweat, something holy in its destruction.

Every thrust carved his name into your bones.

Every kiss spilled another vow you didn’t have the words to speak.

And everything else—the Creed, the fire, the bruises on your wrists, the ashes you’d swallowed trying to survive a world that wanted you gone—all of it melted into the background until there was only this. Only now. Only him, burying himself so deep inside you it felt like resurrection, like the act of being loved by him in this body, in this ruined, wounded flesh, was the only miracle you had ever believed in.

He wasn’t fucking you.

He was wrecking you back to life.

It didn’t take long—how could it, when every thrust, every breath, every word from his lips had been cracking open the shell you’d built around yourself like a second skin. The pleasure wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even welcome at first. It surged through you with such sharp contrast to the numbness you’d carried for days that your whole body rejected it on instinct, muscles locking, shoulders bunching, jaw clenched in defiance against something that felt far too good to be real.

You grunted, half in warning, half in protest, the sound raw and confused as if your body didn’t quite know whether it was trying to escape or surrender. You squirmed beneath him, hips shifting as if to pull away, a hand pressing against his shoulder in panic, not because you didn’t want him, but because it was too much—too fast, too bright, too alive. The heat building in your belly was unbearable, a wildfire on nerves that hadn’t felt anything in too long, and the thought of letting it take you terrified you more than the emptiness ever had.

But Daryl didn’t flinch. He didn’t still or jolt or scramble to change what he was doing, didn’t retreat like he thought he’d broken you. He just stayed with you—deep and steady, deliberate and devastatingly tender, each thrust measured not for his own release but for yours, for your healing, for your ability to breathe through it without shattering into dust. His hips rocked into you like clockwork, the same kind of rhythm he’d set from the beginning, grounded and sure, like his body already knew exactly what yours needed before your mind could even catch up.

Your hand fisted in his shoulder, your mouth fell open against his cheek, and when the pressure inside you tipped too far—when it swelled too fast to contain—you broke. Not into bliss. Not into pleasure. Into panic.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, voice so high and wrecked it barely resembled yours, your legs trembling around his waist, your spine arching clean off the ground as your hands scrambled over his back like you didn’t know whether to cling to him or push him away. “I c-can’t, I can’t—Daryl, I—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. It cracked and burned in your throat, dissolved into another wave of sobbing so deep it shook your whole frame.

But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop.

His arm slid beneath your lower back, cradling you close, and his other hand came to your belly, wide and calloused and warm as it pressed gently down—right where the swell of him was buried inside you, right where your body clenched around him like it couldn’t bear to lose the fullness, the heat, the truth of him.

“Right here,” he whispered, not with urgency, not with lust, but with the kind of reverent softness that made your eyes squeeze shut. “You feel that, baby? That’s me. I’m right here.”

The pressure of his palm, the heat of him, the sound of his voice—it grounded you more than anything else possibly could. You whimpered, breath catching as your muscles locked again, your body trying to brace against the tidal wave building too fast to hold back.

“I don’t know how—” you choked, the words jagged, trembling. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you do, you can,” he breathed, and his lips found your cheek, your jaw, your temple, moving in time with the careful snap of his hips, deep and unrelenting, never breaking rhythm. “Let me help you, baby. Don’t fight it. Just stay with me.”

You could feel how close he was. Every muscle in his body was trembling with restraint. His jaw was clenched so tight it ticked beneath your fingertips, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts against your skin. But still, he didn’t rush. He didn’t give in. He held you steady while you unraveled.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and his voice cracked right down the middle, wrecked and reverent. He brushed the sweaty hair from your face with a hand that trembled more than he wanted it to. “Just let me do all the work, alright? Doin’ so good for me, all ya gotta do is let go for me baby, I’m right here.”

Your eyes fluttered open, blurred and wet and shining like glass, and the moment they locked with his, it happened.

The sob that broke out of you was pure surrender—an unfiltered, primal sound that ripped from your throat like it had been caged for days, maybe weeks. And when it finally came—when your body gave in and your climax hit—it was seismic, a rupture that began low in your gut and tore its way through every nerve ending you’d spent too long numbing. It bent you back like a bow, spine arching clean off the filthy gas station floor, mouth falling open around a cry so guttural it didn’t sound human, didn’t sound like you at all, except for the way Daryl’s name punched through it like an invocation.

Your legs locked tight around his waist, shaking uncontrollably, the tension in your thighs quivering against his ribs as if your body couldn’t tell whether it was coming apart or trying to hold onto him for dear life. Your nails dragged across his shoulders in frantic, clawing lines, your fingers curling into the ridges of muscle like you were anchoring yourself to the only solid thing left in the world. And he took it—every tremor, every sob, every ragged cry—with a steadiness that bordered on sacred. Not passive. Not detached. He was there. With you. For you. Every inch of him moving with the singular purpose of carrying you through the storm you’d been bracing against for far too long.

His hips rolled with quiet force, deep and slow and relentless, each thrust dragging a fresh cry from your throat, timed perfectly with the way his hands tightened on your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the curve of your pelvis as if marking the moment into your flesh. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts against your jaw, heat and want tangled with the desperate restraint in his chest, but his voice—God, his voice stayed low, rough, reverent.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, his nose pressed to your hairline, inhaling you like a man who had been starving. “You’re alright, baby. Just let it happen. There you go.”

 One hand slid up your back to cradle your spine, the other dropping low to splay across your abdomen, grounding you where your body was threatening to levitate, thumb dragging slow, soothing circles just above where he was buried inside you. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, measured out like he knew exactly how much you could take, like he could feel every shockwave crashing through your body and was trying to absorb some of the impact himself.

He watched you like he always did in these moments—not just looking, but drinking you in, memorising the way your head tipped back, the way your mouth opened on a cry that broke halfway through, the way your eyes fluttered and flooded like something holy had split you wide open. It wasn’t just the way your body gripped his or the flush that lit up your chest and throat—it was everything. The rawness. The surrender. The way your soul seemed to burn through your skin when you fell apart for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, breathless now, like the sight of you had knocked it from his lungs. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. Always are.”

And still he didn’t let go, just pressed kisses to your jaw, your neck. Still, he didn’t chase his own pleasure, as much as he was dying to do so, didn’t speed up, didn’t falter. He held you steady through it, hips dragging the last waves of it from your body as your limbs trembled and your breath hitched, as if he was the only tether you had to the world and he’d sooner break than let you float away.

Your body writhed, overstimulated and undone, tears mixing with sweat as you whimpered into his neck, barely able to hold your own weight. But he held it for you—held all of it. One hand slid between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest to his like he was shielding you from gravity itself, while the other pressed low against your belly, grounding you, pinning you in place with a gentle pressure right above where he filled you with his dick.

He whispered through it, lips brushing your jaw, your ear, the hinge of your throat. His hands stayed on you—one grounding your hip, the other still gently pressing into your abdomen like an anchor.

“‘That's it,” he whispered, lips against your ear, breath warm and wrecked and trembling. “Just feel it, baby. You’re doin’ so good. I got you.”

Even as his own body trembled, even as his jaw clenched and his back arched and his breath hitched in his chest like a man barely holding back, he stayed with you. For you. Because he knew what this was. Knew this wasn’t just about getting off—it was about being held. Being found. Being alive.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but feel—every inch of your body lit up and trembling, a live wire sparking beneath his hands, his hips, his mouth. It was too much. Too much sensation, too much emotion, too much of him after so long without. You were raw from it, undone, and still he moved with that same aching reverence, each thrust anchoring you deeper into the moment like he knew you were slipping from the edges of it. You were tragically oblivious to another orgasm approaching you like a semi.

The orgasm that hit you didn’t just unravel you—it erased you. Your vision flared white, then dimmed, sounds muffled and distant, as if someone had dunked your head beneath warm water and held you there. The gas station vanished. The cold tile floor. The sting of your fingernails clawing down his back. All of it blurred into light and heat and the pounding of your own pulse as your body arched violently, legs locking around his waist before falling slack beneath you.

You didn’t faint, not exactly. But you went somewhere—somewhere too bright and too quiet to be real. Your arms dropped from around his neck. Your head lolled back. Your body sagged like every nerve had been cut loose at once.

And Daryl felt it instantly.

His movements faltered, breath catching in his throat as he blinked down at you, eyes wide with sudden, gut-punching concern.  “Hey,” he gasped, rough and shaking as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb sweeping across your clammy skin. “Hey, baby—hey, c’mon, stay with me, just look at me. What's goin' on?”

His voice cracked around the edges like a fault line splitting wide, that old rasp wrecked with worry. He shifted instinctively, one strong arm sliding beneath your back to cradle you close, supporting your weight like your bones had melted clean away—and they had. You were limp, pliant in his hands, your chest fluttering beneath his like a bird caught in the palm of a trembling hand.

Your lips parted on a soft, breathless sigh, lashes fluttering like you were trying to open your eyes, to come back to him.

His hand didn’t stop moving. Fingers threaded through your damp hair, brushing it back from your forehead with almost reverent care. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and raw with emotion. “You with me? Yeah? You’re alright, baby, I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

His voice was wrecked. Wrecked and full of awe. Because even with his heart hammering in panic, even with his arms trembling around your body, he still couldn’t stop staring—couldn’t stop drinking you in, the way your skin glowed in the fractured light pouring through the broken ceiling above. Glass glittered in your hair like stars scattered in ink, your lashes damp with tears, mouth slack and lips swollen from his.

But he still hadn’t stopped. His hips still moved, slow and deep, instinct overriding thought. Relief washed over him; You were here. With him. You’d let go. And you were beautiful in it.

Your mouth moved—soft, slack, whispering nonsense or maybe his name—and your eyes finally opened, still dazed, still lost in the haze of aftershock. He watched the awareness bloom slowly across your face like sunlight creeping over the edge of a cliff. You were breathless. Glowing. Tears streaked your cheeks, but they didn’t come from pain.

He kissed your forehead, lips warm and firm against your skin, grounding you to him. “There she is,” he whispered. “Told ya I’d get you back.”

And you didn’t say anything—not at first. You just smiled, dazed and tearstained and impossibly soft, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder like you were trying to fuse your bodies together completely.

And all he could do was hold you, breathe you in, and keep moving—slow and steady and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

You barely got the words out—breathy and slurred, more sensation than speech—but they shattered something inside him all the same. “Inside,” you gasped, voice catching in your throat, your eyes locking with his like you were offering him salvation. “Please, Daryl—inside, I want it, I need—”

And that was it. That was it.

His body jerked like you’d pulled a trigger, the last thread of restraint snapping clean in two. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if you were sure, didn’t second-guess—because he knew. Knew you, knew this, knew how long it had been building, how right it felt. His hips snapped forward hard, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural sound tore out of him—half-growl, half-moan, all surrender.

His brain short-circuited around the edges, every nerve ending hijacked by the heat of your body around him, the way you clung, trembling and gasping, like you needed this just as much. He chased that feeling down with everything he had, like coming inside you wasn’t just release—it was proof. It was ownership. It was home.

His body seized like something sacred had split open inside him, every muscle going taut beneath your hands, his breath catching hard in his chest as he drove himself as deep as he could go and stayed there. One last thrust, a stuttering grind of his hips that pressed you flush together, and then he was spilling into you—hot, thick, and endless—like his body had been holding back too much for too long and now it was all pouring out, every drop proof he was still here, still yours. His mouth dropped to your shoulder as a guttural moan ripped free from his throat, wrecked and helpless, the kind of sound that only came from a man giving everything. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist, where they held you still, where they cradled the place your bodies met like he could feel the way he was filling you, the way you clenched and fluttered around him like you were trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there forever.

The room was spinning gently, like the world had tipped sideways and finally decided to stay that way. You weren’t sure if it was the high or the way your body felt so thoroughly used, so utterly wrecked in the best way imaginable—but something in your chest cracked open, and all that came out was laughter.

It started quiet—just a shaky exhale and a grin pulling at your cheeks, still flushed and wet with tears—but it grew fast, breathless and bright and disbelieving. You curled your hand over your face as the sound bubbled out of you, unstoppable, giddy, the kind of laugh that only ever comes after near-death and resurrection.

“Shit,” you wheezed, blinking through the haze, your chest rising and falling like you’d run a marathon. “I blacked out. I actually blacked out—what the hell—”

Daryl was still buried inside you, breathing just as hard, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. But when he looked down and saw you—your eyes all crinkled, your mouth open in that ridiculous, beautiful laugh—something in his face softened so completely it almost broke you again.

He let out a low, breathless huff that was halfway to a chuckle. “Jesus,” he muttered, brushing your hair off your face with the back of his hand, eyes wide with mock offense and real relief. “You really had me goin’ there, woman. One second you’re clawin’ me to death, next second you go limp like a damn ragdoll. Thought I broke you.”

You snorted, still grinning like a lunatic. “You did. In the best way, though. Next time maybe ease up on the death-by-dicking. I saw heaven, hell and my Grandma.”

He let out a quiet huff, low and breathless, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and dragged a hand across his face like he still couldn’t believe you were real—alive, warm, mouthy as ever. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear with more care than you’d seen in days. “She say hi for me?” he muttered, voice rough with something too raw to name, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, betraying the grin he was trying not to let slip.

You grinned, already stretching like a cat beneath him, arms sliding up to loop around his neck with the kind of lazy confidence that only came from being thoroughly worshipped. “She did, actually,” you hummed, brushing your lips against his jaw as your fingers tangled in the ends of his hair. “Said if you keep that up, she might just pull some strings to keep you around a little longer.” You felt him laugh against your throat, low and rough, and the way his body relaxed into yours made your stomach flip all over again. Then his mouth found yours, soft at first—just a kiss, just the promise of one—but it deepened quick, and suddenly you weren’t so sure this was over.

The kiss hadn’t really ended. It had just slowed, softened, thinned into something weightless—like the last glow of a fire smoldering low. His hands roamed lazily over your skin, his hips shifting in the smallest, slowest rhythm, like the world outside of you didn’t exist. But your mouth kept going, even as your body melted into his, nerves still buzzing with leftover aftershock.

“I should probably be panicking,” you mumbled against his jaw, your lips brushing the stubble as you spoke. “Marshal’s gonna notice I’m gone. Someone’s bound to start asking questions. If they find my boot prints outside—”

He made a quiet sound in his throat, a distracted exhale that ghosted across your collarbone as his fingers finally found the clasp of your bra. You felt him working it one-handed, slow and clumsy in that way he always was when he was too preoccupied to focus. But you just kept spiraling

“Marshal’s probably clocked it by now,” you murmured, voice half-slurred with exhaustion and overstimulation, one hand absently trailing over Daryl’s shoulder. “Bet he’s halfway to setting the damn woods on fire lookin’ for me. Gonna be a whole thing when I show up without an escort and smelling like—”

You paused, blinking hard as Daryl’s mouth closed around your nipple.

“—like redneck,” you finished on a gasp, brows furrowing, breath catching sharply in your throat.

Daryl didn’t say anything at your jab, not with his tongue circling lazy and warm, not with the way his hands were working behind your back, clumsy in that single-minded way that meant all his brain cells had migrated south. The clasp of your bra finally gave, and you felt him exhale against your chest, low and almost reverent, like unwrapping the last damn Christmas present in the world.

“Anyway,” you managed, though your voice wobbled. “We’ll probably need to slip back soon, or else he’s gonna send a whole—oh, fuck, Daryl—send a whole damn—”

He sucked harder, just enough to make your spine twitch and your train of thought derail entirely. A soft whimper slipped out before you could catch it, and he pulled back just far enough to catch your expression with a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You finished?” he asked, voice gravel and amusement as one hand slid down to your hip, fingers splayed.

“Almost,” you muttered, chest heaving, eyes hazy but determined. “I was just sayin’ if he finds out I’m gone, he’ll—”

He dipped again without warning, tongue dragging slow over your other nipple, and your words crumbled with a breathy choke. His hands were everywhere—palming, teasing, pressing you down like he could memorize you by touch alone. Because he had.

You sucked in a shaky breath, fingers tangling in his hair. “Okay. Alright. Maybe that can wait a minute—”

“Damn right it can,” he murmured against your chest. And then, because you were still making tiny half-attempts to talk, even now, even with his mouth full of you, he pulled back just enough to give you that look—that exasperated, fond, completely ruined expression—and muttered, “Shut up, woman.”

You were still wrapped around him, your legs draped loose over his hips, your skin sticky and warm against the floor, and the air between you almost too full to breathe in. His mouth hovered at your chest, his breath hot where it fanned across damp skin, but it was the weight of him inside you that still anchored everything—that made your pulse slow down, your mind quiet, your soul crawl back into your body like it finally had a reason to stay.

Just the smallest shift of his hips, subtle and deep and slow enough to make your spine curve like a bowstring, your whole body sighing around the feeling. It wasn’t urgent this time. There was no clawing, no chaos, just the rhythm of trust, of comfort, of him easing the two of you back into motion like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet each shallow thrust, the slick, slow drag of him filling you again and again like the echo of something sacred. His hands cradled your waist like you were something breakable, like he was terrified of pushing too far too fast, but he still kept going, steady and sure, his forehead dropping to your collarbone, his lips dragging blindly across your skin as he whispered something soft you couldn’t quite hear.

Your body responded before your mind did—back arching, thighs tightening around him, the stretch and pull of every movement settling low and molten in your belly. You pressed your cheek to his hair, your fingers carding gently through the strands at his nape, and for a moment, you just existed there—entwined, slow-moving, breathing each other in like the rest of the world had burned away.

He exhaled against your neck, rough and trembling. “Still with me?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, hands curling under your back as he rocked into you again, a fraction deeper this time.

You smiled, hazy and dazed and unbothered by anything but him. “Barely. But I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And neither was he.

Not when the way you moved beneath him made his breath catch, not when your warmth pulled at him like gravity, not when the sound of your voice—wrecked and playful and still full of life—was enough to make his knees weak. His hips rolled again, just a little faster, his eyes finally lifting to catch yours.

And God, that look—you felt it more than saw it. Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Neither of you had moved far—not really. Your legs were still loosely draped over his hips, heels resting against the backs of his thighs, your arms wrapped around him like you were trying to memorize the shape of him all over again. Daryl’s hands were splayed wide against your ribs, fingertips tracing absent circles just beneath your breasts, but the real connection—the one that neither of you dared speak for fear of breaking it—was deeper than that. He was still inside you, buried to the hilt, the fullness of him grounding you more completely than anything else in the world could.

And then, slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t register it at first—he started to move back and forth.

Not thrusting. Not fucking. Just a slow, rhythmic grind of his hips against yours, a smooth roll that had you sliding together like waves on a tide, every movement unhurried and devastating in its simplicity. The friction was low and steady, a deep ache blooming between your hips as your slick bodies rocked together, the drag of him thick and warm and maddening in the most patient, reverent way. It was less about building toward anything and more about staying here—right here—suspended in the aftermath, wrapped around each other like nothing else could touch you.

You mirrored him instinctively, your hips tilting up into every careful grind, your arms tightening around his back, mouth brushing along the curve of his shoulder. Your skin clung to his, sweat-slicked and flushed, every nerve ending burning in the low light. And God, it was slow—almost torturous in its tenderness, like your bodies had decided they weren’t ready to let go yet, not even an inch, not even now.

Daryl’s breath stuttered against your throat, warm and shaky and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, and he was watching you, eyes flickering from your parted lips to the way your brow pinched and then eased with every roll of his hips. You felt like a live wire beneath him, pulled so tight you might snap, but you didn’t want to stop—not when every slow grind of his body against yours felt like a prayer being answered.

He cupped the back of your neck with one calloused hand, his thumb stroking behind your ear as his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around your thigh to coax it higher, opening you up further, pressing you closer. He wasn’t chasing anything. He was holding you in it—this sacred, suspended moment where you didn’t need to speak to understand, didn’t need to move fast to feel everything all at once.

And still, he moved—steady, slow, unwavering—his hips grinding into yours with a reverence that bordered on worship. Your foreheads touched, your breath tangled, your bodies rocked in that quiet, unbreakable rhythm, and you both knew without needing to say it: even after everything, even after the blood and fire and silence, this—this right here—was still yours.

Your hands rose to his face, fingers skimming over the bruises that marred his cheekbones, tracing the cut below his eye with a featherlight stroke. His jaw twitched under your touch, a sharp breath caught in his throat—but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, like he needed to feel your fingers more than he needed to breathe.

You kissed him then—not frantic, but deep and shaking, your lips dragging over his as your body rocked beneath him. He was still hard inside you, filling every inch, the stretch still sweet and hot. Every thrust sent a slow ripple through your belly, your walls clenching weakly, tender and swollen from everything you’d just given.

When your hips shifted, chasing him, your breath hitched. You weren’t done. You didn’t want it to end. Not yet. Not when the ache between your legs felt like proof you were alive. Not when the slick sound of your bodies still meeting filled the space like a heartbeat.

His hand slid up your thigh, curling around the back of your knee as he adjusted the angle, driving just a little deeper, enough to make you whimper softly against his mouth.

And when you clenched around him, head tipped back with a broken noise caught in your throat, he kissed the salt from your cheeks and kept moving—slow and deep and endless, like the only thing holding him together anymore was the way your body still wanted his.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, the words shaped more by breath than voice. “I won’t.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came. You were too full of him. Too hollowed out by everything else.

His brow furrowed as his hand cupped your jaw, holding you still like he needed you to hear it right. “I kept thinkin’… if I had to go back to her without you—” His voice broke on the word her, just barely. “If I had to look Dani in the eye and tell her her mama was gone, that I couldn’t protect you…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like the thought itself was poison.

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t -'

You felt his words more than you heard them—each one a tremor against your skin, his chest tight beneath your palm, his voice cracked and breaking open in the dark. He wasn’t crying. Not exactly. But you could feel the weight of it, all the same. The terror he hadn’t voiced, the guilt he’d been choking on for days. It pressed into the curve of your spine like a second heartbeat, like if you didn’t speak now, he might drown in it.

So you found his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the dirt and blood at his temples, his jaw, his stubble. You tilted his head until his eyes met yours, and even then, he tried to look away. But you wouldn’t let him.

“No,” you whispered, your voice thick but steady. “You won’t have to do that. You won’t have to say those words.”

He stared at you, jaw tight, breath uneven, like he was waiting to be told it was just a lie. Just another dream that would vanish in smoke.

But you didn’t flinch.

“Dani’s still gonna have her mama,” you said softly, but with more strength than you expected. “And her daddy. Both of us. She’s gonna see us walk through those gates, hand in hand, same as we left.”

Daryl closed his eyes. His throat worked around something unspoken, and when he opened them again, there was water gathered at the corners—blinking stubbornly against it, jaw clenched like it might hold the rest of him together.

You kissed him then. Not frantic, not hungry. Just the press of lips meant to anchor, to promise, to stay.

“And you’re not gonna lose me,” you said against his mouth. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, a silent, fractured motion, and wrapped himself around you like he didn’t quite trust the world not to take you again. And maybe you didn’t either. But that didn’t matter. Because in that moment, in the hush of the abandoned station with only the creak of the wind outside and the cooling sweat between your skin, the only thing either of you believed in was this.

You didn’t know if that was true—but it sounded like hope. And you needed something to believe in.

You moved together like nothing else existed. Not the wind battering the broken walls. Not the cult that tore you apart. Not the blood, not the smoke, not the wreckage that clung to your skin and memory like rot. Only this. Only the desperate push and pull of two bodies relearning each other by touch alone, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

The rhythm you found wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate like before—it was slow, reverent, a quiet conversation of hips and breath and the slick, aching slide of him still buried deep inside you. Each slow grind sent a ripple through your spine, a soft hum low in your belly, and you clung to him—not from fear this time, not from the ghost of grief clawing behind your ribs, but simply because you could. Because he was here and he was yours, and the weight of his body felt like home pressing into all the right places.

Your hands threaded through his hair, keeping his forehead pressed to yours, and for a long, swaying moment, it felt like the whole world was just skin and breath and the slow, coiling heat curling between your hips. He whispered something then—something low and hoarse and sweet against your mouth, something like “that’s it, baby,” and “feel so good round me,” and “mine, always,”—and it unravelled something in you that hadn’t dared come forward the first time. You felt it start in your chest, in the centre of your ribs, a warmth that spread like sunlight beneath your skin, melting every last bit of tension from your body.

You didn’t flinch from it. You didn’t fight it this time.

Instead, you let yourself fall into it—let your body arch to meet him, your breath break against his jaw, your thighs tighten around his waist as the pleasure rose steady and deep. Your orgasm bloomed slow, like a flower opening in time with his hips, and when it crested, it felt like the kind of surrender that didn’t tear, didn’t burn. Just opened. Welcomed. Wrapped around you like a blanket you’d been missing your whole life.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your voice broke, not loud or wild, just soft and reverent, a choked whisper of his name carried on a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. And Daryl held you through it—his hand pressed firm against your lower belly again, his other curled beneath your head, his body grinding into yours with a rhythm that said he never wanted to stop feeling you like this, never wanted to be anywhere else. He kissed you through it, mouth warm and open and grounding, whispering your name between every breathless praise.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice frayed and trembling, eyes locked on your face as you came undone beneath him. “Shit, baby, I’m-”

And then he stilled, breath catching sharp in his throat, hips jerking once—twice—and he buried himself as deep as he could go, letting out a sound like he’d been holding it in for years.You locked your legs around him, hips lifting instinctively to draw him as deep as he could go, needing to feel every throb, every shudder, every last drop of him fill you up. His forehead dropped to yours again, his whole body shaking against you as he spilled into you, breathless and broken and so profoundly there it made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

You both stayed like that, trembling and tangled and far too full of each other to move, the world outside forgotten. Your fingers threaded into his hair, your nails dragging down the damp line of his spine, holding him there, inside you, where he belonged. You could feel it all—his pulse through his cock, the tremor in his thighs, the helpless twitch of his muscles as he emptied himself into you again, slower this time, but no less complete.

Wel... things can only get worse from here.

____________________________________________________________

Taglist:miss0giarra, jovialcatduck, brianna-merlim

[chr0llossexygf]

IN RUINS 2

PAIRING: spencer reid x fem reader

SUMMARY: spencer reid has always had something against you. during a particular case, spencer snaps and says something he shouldn’t have said leaving you in ruins. but what happens when your in danger and he still hasn’t explained why he reacted the way he did. will he have the time?

IMPORTANT COMMENT!!!!: hi my pumpkin cupcake stinky wonky pookie bears. IM SO SORRY IVE BEEN A FRAUD! 💔💔 jokes but I’m rlly sorry I haven’t been writing for the past months ive been to the hospital multiple times and also had someone close to me pull a ‘I’m dead’ card on me and then I was oh! BUT I think I’m okay I think I’m better and I’ll start posting more I have a lot of ideas but tbh this one was a draft before allat happened so it’s shit but and I wanted to get rid of it cus it js reminded me of everything that happened before 😭 BUT I’m rlly rlly sorry ITS SO LATE

" why is your mom calling you she hasn't called you in 7 months " scott anderson says rubbing his face repeatedly his fingers shaking, his other hand is in a fist digging his nails in the palm of his hand. he walks away from jj who's tied up on the floor with her feet and hands wrapped in rope. the grip on your phone tightens.

" she's calling me because it was my aunts birthday scott." you say looking at scott in the eyes. he stands up biting his nails. " your lying to me." he says walking to you, his eyes dark. you wish his eyes at-least looked like they had nothing behind them, but his eyes definitely have something behind them.

his eyes look determined. they looked commited. and he’s looking at you. your eyes widen. your hands become sweaty. you take a step back. “ i’m not lying to you scott.” you respond back gently shaking your head. you raise your eyebrows softly smiling at him. “ i wouldn’t lie to you scott.” you say the grip on your hand tightening to the point where your hand is shaking.

his gaze softens for a second, his eyes aren't so dark now. his eyebrows soften. " you wouldn't lie to me y/ n?" he whispers gently walking up to you. you nod gulping, " ¡ wouldn't lie to you scotty" you whisper smiling. he smiles. taking another step towards you. you take a deep breath in.

"y-your doing a great job y/n" spencer's shaky voice speaks into the phone. it's the only thing keeping you sane right now. he sounds nervous. you can hear him gulp repeatedly. he's stuttering a lot right now. he's probably blinking a lot. a habit he has when he's nervous. a habit you've absorbed from afar. " your doing a really really great job y/n. i'm so proud of you." no he shouldn't have said that. he should not have said that. he shouldn't have said that. you tear up. why are you tearing up? you can't tear up right now. not right now. please not right now.

your throat feels heavy. your heart feels heavy. a part of you feels funny. your ears feel funny, never having heard those words before. your brain is trying to process the words. it can't process them. it's funny though. no matter how much insane messed up stuff you've heard on the job none of it really ever seemed to take a toll on you. but hearing those 5 words. it's taking a toll on you. and it's not the right time. why are they so triggering. what are they triggering? the inner child inside of you who never got to hear those words? the teen inside of you who never got to hear those words? or is it adult you who still hadn't heard those words up until now? it's too much. why are you tearing up?

“ why are you crying.” scott says. something in his eyes has changed. oh god. his eyes darken. his eyebrows tighten. he’s shaking his head smiling. “ what is your mom saying? why is she making you cry? do you want me to kill her?” he says with pleading eyes smiling. he’s taking a step towards you. “ or are you not talking to your mom right now…” he mumbles. your eyes widen. you shake your head. “ or…your not calling your mom you bitch!” he shouts taking another step towards you. you don’t have time to react. he grabs you by the neck slamming you against the wall. his hand tightens around your neck.

you choke on your words. the tears that gathered up finally start to fall. your free hand wraps around scott's arm thats choking you. you repeatedly hit his arm. " please stop." you plead shaking your head. his grip tightens on your neck. " your a liar. your just like him." he spits his gaze darkening. he grabs your phone throwing it across the room. it knocks over a glass vase.

"¡'m not like him." you choke out shaking your head. " shut up! yes you are!" he shouts in your voice, spit getting on your face.

" let her go!" ji shouts from the floor. her voice cracks mid sentence. probably due to fear. watching you struggle is affecting her. just watching you struggle makes her feel as though she is the one struggling.

scott turns his head around. " what did you just say?" he says slowly releasing you. you take a deep breath in. you look at scott. another wave of fear hits you. what's he gonna say to jj? what's he gonna do to jj? she shouldn't have said anything. she should've kept quiet. he can't hurt her. you have to do something.

" i said let her go. you can't hurt her. she's what you want right? you can't hurt her. why would you hurt someone you love?" jj says her eyes darting between you and scott. to scott she looks desperate, to you. you know what jj's trying to say with her eyes.' we will be fine. seeing ji look at you like that. a rush of adrenaline hit you. you have got to do something. why are your hands so weak. why do you feel as though you don't have control of your body. why do you feel as though you can't control anything. damn it.

" you show love by hurting the ones you love." he whispers. you slowly reach for the gun in your pocket, trying not to alert him. and god is it hard " y/ n would know." he says chuckling. your so close to the gun. " isn't that right y/n?" he turns around to look at you. he sees your hand. he sees the hand thats reaching for the gun. he grabs your gun. your hand immediately forms into a fist, you punch him in the jaw. he falls back. holding his jaw. " you bitch!" he shouts.

you run to jj. you drop down to your knees. your shaky hands immediately start to undo the knots of the rope. "jj you need to get out." you say out of breathe. your trembling hands making it harder to undo the rope quickly. " no- what. y/n dont. i'm not leaving without you. the team is coming t-they're on their way y/n. ji says shaking her head in denial. her hands are untied. " god jj! i always follow your orders! just follow mine! just this once." you snap back moving onto her legs. you untie her. " get out of here now jj! he wont hurt me jj. hes obsessed with me he wont. trust me." you say nodding.

jj hasn't been a profiler for a long time. anyone else on the team would've called you out for your bullshit right now. if he wanted to hurt you. he definitely would. he would do anything to get you to be obedient. he could probably kill you if he wanted to. but jj doesn't know that. she thinks he's just a stalker who's obsessed with you and probably wouldn't seriously harm you. but you know unsubs like him all too well.

ji stands up running to the door. she opens the door. she turns to look at you again. you look at her and smile. " just go." you mouth. she quickly nods running out and closing the door. a wave of relief washes over you. jj is fine. jj is okay. jj is safe. he can't hurt jj anymore.

your not fine. your not okay. your not safe. he can keep hurting you. you turn around. he's standing right behind you. he's looking down at you. he's standing tall. his eyes are on you. his expression is dark. his eyes are empty. not a single thought behind his eyes. you were wrong. his eyes without a single thought behind them is scarier. because now you know, there's nothing really stopping him. there's no determination. there's no commitment. there's absolutely nothing behind those eyes. those eyes that are just about to do you harm.

“ me looking down on you…does this remind you of anything?” he says tilting his head to the side smiling. you shake your head. but oh boy do you know exactly what he’s talking about. your dad. “ oh right sorry. let me do something that will surely make you remember.” he says chuckling. he crouches down. he punches you right in the eye, your left eye. the one with the healed over stitches. you stiffen at his touch. not just because your scared of him. yeah of course your scared of him. but also because you’ve never had someone touch you in such an intimate place. you’ve never had someone grab your cheek and gently caress your scars.

he starts laughing. " oh my god let me see that" he gently grabs your cheek. tilting your head up towards him. he runs his finger on the scar. " he did that didnt he?" he whispers gently rubbing the scar. " he gave you this scar didnt he? i read it.. in one of your hospital records. he gave you this 2 weeks before he left right?" he whispers gently caressing the scar. your shaky hands reaches for his cheek.

he stiffens at your touch. he's just like you. " he gave this to you..right?" you whisper, gently caressing the cut on his lips. scott nods. " you and me.we are the same y/n. we both grew up in the same households. we both put up the same abuse. we..we are meant for each other y/n. your meant for me. and i'm meant for you." he whispers caressing your cheek gently. you nod.

" yeah.yeah we belong together." you mumble nodding gently.

i thought so too..until i saw a picture of you and your co worker spencer reid together." he whispers softly still smiling. your eyes widen. " w-what." you mumble. he chuckles, " yeah.i saw a picture of you two together. it was when you and your team were working that case in chicago." he whispers tightening his grip on your cheek. you shake your head.

" s-spencer? spencer reid? he-he means absolutely nothing to me." you say gently reaching for his hand. " don't lie to me." he whispers tearing up. " i'm not lying to you scott." you whisper rubbing your thumb gently against his arm. " your lying to

me. all you do is lie. your just like him." he whispers tears rolling down his cheeks. " i'm not like him scott." you whisper shaking your head, trying to calm him.

" your just like him.you lying bitch." he shakes his head standing up, forcefully pulling you up with him. his fingers dig deeply into your cheeks, surely 100% going to leave a mark. but who cares at this point.

" scott just listen to me-' he cuts your desperate cries with a punch to the mouth. you fall down to the floor, on purpose however. you want him to think your weak. your worn out. he can easily control you. he can easily throw you around like a rag doll. so he can feel some sense of confidence and have a sense of control. something he probably never experienced.

"i'm not listening to you. now you listen to me. you... you listen to me y/n. we are both the same person. we deserve absolutely nothing. we deserve everything our fathers did to us-"

" you know that's not true scott." someone speaks up from behind scott. their voice is strong and stern. it brings you comfort. never would you have thought, laying on the floor with blood dripping down your chin that the sound of someone's voice would bring you comfort. your heart feels warm. you can feel the familiarity of having control over your body come back. you smile. how could you be smiling at a time like this? your smiling. really hard while looking down at the floor. you refused to look up at scott. you refuse to do so.

because deep down you know you would be staring at the version of yourself that's buried deep inside you. that part inside you that keeps you wondering everyday, if you didn't take the path you took would you be like that. would you have done the same thing he had done? what makes him so different from you. just because you carry an id that gives you power over any normal civilian and a gun that's supposed to protect you and others. that doesn't make you any different though. because even though you have those things, you still think like scott. what if you truly don't deserve anyone in this world that would treat you with respect? what if you truly deserve someone as messed up as fucked up ad you are? because then they wouldn't understand right? they wouldn't understand how your mind works. but..like scott said. you probably deserve someone like scott, someone so sick and twisted-

why are you like this. why are you taking his words to heart. are you really that desperate and pathetic that you start taking an unsubs words to heart just because he shared an intimate moment with you. why? is it because you never in your life had experienced something like that and now you yearn for it? you start to believe every word he's said. your so naive. and your so vain. how can you be so gullible. why are you the way that you are. none of what scott said is true. none of it, absolutely none of it.

your too preoccupied with your brain breaking you down too notice two people coming over to you. your zoning out. your thinking hard. really hard. something like this requires a lot of thinking. but it shouldn't though. your supposed to just shrug off his words. not pay any mind to them. he's a mentally ill unsub who's murdered 5 women. nothing he says should make you reason with his thinking. there's nothing to reason with. he's insane. your not insane. your not insane. your just a girl who's seen some insane things.

" hey. your okay. i got you." morgan says gently grabbing you by the arms. "i got you y/n." he whispers picking you up gently. you stand up looking at the wall infront of you still zoned out. " hey y/n." emily pats your shoulder gently tilting her head to the side looking at you with such pain. you shake your head and look at both of them. " hi emily." you respond looking at emily blinking repeatedly. " hey you." she says smiling. " we've gotta get you to the ambulance come on y/n." morgan says wrapping his arms around you, pushing you into him.

" j-i don't need medical care morgan." you say trying to push your heavy head away but finding it way too hard. he feels too comfortable. too comforting. he feels too nice. his cologne smells masculine. really masculine. why is it comforting? why does it bring you comfort? you close your tired eyes for a second. " hey hey don't close your eyes on me I/n." morgan says tilting his head around to take a look at you, you shake your head softly. " i'm not dying morgan." you groan.

emily chuckles. " morgan's probably enjoying this." emily says wrapping up arm around her shoulder helping you walk, " cant have derek enjoying himself too much we all know how cocky he'll get and how high his ego will sky rocket." emily adds on looking at you smiling. her words make you chuckle. a painful chuckle. when your lips curve to let out a laugh a wave of pain washes over your face. "ow ow." you chuckle closing your eyes. morgan shakes his head,

"yeah you wish you can have a bit of this ego." morgan replies.

rossi opens the house door. his eyes immediately look to you. " it's alright i've got her." he says running to you. " derek go take care of reid he's in the ambulance." rossi says putting his gun away. morgan slowly and gently lets you go. rossi quickly replaces morgan. your head immediately shoots up. that hurt. you didn't even know you could do that. why did your head shoot up so quickly? just a second ago you were leaning into morgan for support because you couldn't bare to hold your head up and now suddenly you have all the energy in the world to shoot your head up.

"w-wait whys reid in the ambulance?" you ask your eyes wide, your pretty sure your eyes are half closed though. you can't bare to hold them open. you can already feel your left eye bruising. you can taste blood in your mouth. and you know there's blood dripping down from your eyebrows, from the healed over stitch. rossi and emily push you forward helping you walk. why aren't they answering you? what happened to reid? whys he in an ambulance? is he injured? what's wrong with spencer? what happened to spence? " i think that's a question he should answer." rossi says. what does that mean?

your quickly brought out of the house, thank god. you feel like if you spent another second in there you would go ballistic and break down crying. your heads down, your too tired. you see a pair of shoes infront of you. who's shoes are those? who is that? and why did they stop right infront of you? it's not spencer. spence would never wear those shoes. he was wearing converse earlier. dark blue converse. why do you remember all of this? don't you have some sort of concussion? how do you remember what pair of shoes spencer wore? god...

you feel emily and rossi's grip weaken around you. the unfamiliar person infront of you reaches forward and takes you. they lead you away from rossi and emily. your too tired to even care. they lean you against them. " where's...what's wrong with dr spencer reid?" you mumble stumbling in their hood barely having the energy to hold yourself up. " it's alright i°ve got you. here." they sit you down on something. there's bright red lights flashing around you. an ambulance.

" ma'am i'm gonna get an IV bag started is that alright with you?" the medic asks opening a cabinet. you nod your head hazily. you lean your head against the walls of the ambulance. he takes your arm rolling your sleeve up. you feel the soft pinch. your thankful for it though. it's stopping you from dissociating and falling asleep. you don't wanna fall asleep until someone tells you why spencer is in an ambulance. why do you care for him? why do you care for him after everything's he said- oh right. after what he's said. why do you care for him after he just publicly embarrassed you? that's so stupid. why are you so pathetic and desperate. did he publicly embarrass you? half of the team probably already knew. it's not that hard to figure out. it’s probably why you are the way that you are. they’re profilers. of course they would figure that out. what he said was true. they all probably agree. oh god..

" let me go! let me go! i don't need medical attention she needs it more than me! let me see her!" you hear a voice shout from the distance, you recognise it. your heartbeat quickens. not like earlier though. not in the way your heartbeat quickened earlier. that was in fear. no. this. this is in relief. your stomach starts to stir. in nervousness. your still leaning your head against the wall, but your looking down. your hair covering your face. you stop hearing his voice.

" ma'am i need you to lift your head up." the medic says gently placing a tray next to you, a tray your guessing is full of medical supplies and alcohol. you softly nod your head sitting up. the medic grabs one of the medical instrument opening the wrapping. he moves to the side to quickly put on gloves.

“ oh my god y/n..” you hear him say your name, in so so much pain. he sounds so upset. is he in pain? why does he sound so upset. what happened to him. is he okay. you look up. you see him. you look into his eyes. and suddenly all the words he’s said earlier rush buck into your clouded messy mind. but they don’t hurt as much. your so used to men blurting out hurtful words to you and you having to get over them, what else do you do? ask them to apologise? expect them to apologise?

no. they don’t do that. they’ve never done that. best thing to do is just get over it, because you probably deserve it right? that’s what you were taught.

he looks tired. his eye bags look darker than what they usually would look like. his hair is messier then usual. the two buttons on his dark blue vest are unbuttoned. he’s wearing his fbi vest. his dark blue pants have wet stains on the side of them. your guessing because he would repeatedly wipe his sweaty hands on them. a habit he has when he’s nervous.

he looks into your eyes. he sees the bruise that's already forming in your eye. the trail of blood rolling down your eyebrow from what he can see, that scar you have. you have blood rolling down the side of your face. your neck is red. an imprint of a hand already appearing. his heart hurts. it hurts so much. seeing you like this. but how dare he right?

how dare he feel pain in his heart? the pain your feeling physically and mentally is probably 10x worse than what he’s feeling. he wishes he was feeling it though, he wishes that right in this second all your pain would be transferred to him. add it on to his pain. he feels so guilty. you don’t deserve this. this is his fault. this is his fault. this is all his fault. your never gonna look him in the eye again. whenever you do your gonna remember this day. and how much pain he put you through. he hates it. he hates it so much. he hates himself so much.

"y-y/n." he's out of breath. he doesn't know where to start. he didn't have time to think of an apology, spending the entire car ride panicking nervous about you and wether you were safe or not. but now he can't think of anything.

he can't think of anything when looking into your eyes, the only thing he's thinking of is how badly he wishes he can go back in time and prevent all of this from happening. or make all of this happen but only put himself in your shoes. make him go through all this pain instead of you. You don't deserve this. you don't deserve him. you don't deserve his stupid apology that's about to come, that is if he can even muster up an apology right now. you deserve so much better than him.

"y/n i'm so sorry." spencer starts shaking his head his eyes wide. he can't think of anything. his iq of 187 has suddenly dropped down to 20. spencer who seemed to never stop his rambling suddenly can't think of a single thing to ramble on. you just made him stupid. and not in the way it's supposed to be. you make him stupid when you smile at him. not like this. he can't think of anything. he doesn't know where to start. he shakes his head.

" god can't you do your job!" spencer snaps grabbing a medical wipe and pouring saline solution on it. he stands infront of you. his angry demeanour quickly vanishes once his infront of you. something just hit him. he freezes infront of you. it's like all the color, the little color he already had in his face has drained.

you look at him in confusion. all though your upset at him it doesn't stop you from caring and growing concerned. " w-what?" you say blinking repeatedly looking at him. hes still looking at you. his lips part. he blinks repeatedly. he shakes his head.

"i-i'm just..i got scared." he stutters his voice cracking. " why?" you ask tilting your head to the side. " i'm scared your gonna flinch once i touch you." he replies quickly. really quickly. any normal person wouldn't catch it. but you did. vou've learnt to keep up with spencer's quick rambling. oh. oh. whys he so considerate? y/n stop. you can think that. you look down at your thighs. unable to think of anything to say. if he did touch you. would you have flinched? would you have reacted? you don't know. but spencer's not him. right?

" i'm not gonna flinch spencer." you say looking up at him. he nods his head gulping, "a-alright." he says. he lifts his shaky hand up. he gently dabs the medical wipe on your cut. disinfecting it. ouch it burns. your nails dig into the palm of your hand. his eyes are stuck on the cut. the scar. he knows where it's from. he might've been with garcia when she did her usual background snooping on new members of the team 2 years ago. he remembers how guilty he felt after it. finding out about such a dark part of your life without your knowledge or permission.

but that guilt doesn't compare to the guilt he's feeling right now. he feels tremendously guilty, he caused the scar to re open. all because of his foolishness. if he just shut his mouth earlier and wasn't such a smart ass. if he maybe was the one to go with you to scott anderson's house and not jj he would've been able to protect you. he probably would've shot scott anderson the second he would've laid his hands on vou.

he doesn't trust himself aorund vou. atleast not from the harm of unsubs and has the need to shoot any of them if they ever did you harm. he would probably lose his job. if he was there he probably would've lost his job. but he doesn't care. for your safety. he doesn't care.

" i'm so sorry y/n-" you can feel the medical wipe shake on your eyebrow, from spencer's shaky hands.

" it's fine spencer." you mumble looking into his eyes. is it fine though? is it really fine? whys he apologising? he's not supposed to be apologising right? this is new. this is so very new. they never apologise after hurting you. this is so unfamiliar? how are you supposed to react? do you tell them how you really feel? do you immediately accept their apology? they never apologised to you when they hurt you. whys spencers apologising? what do you say?

" it's not fine y/n. i-i hurt you. i c-caused this." he says spitting his words out in a shaky manner. what do you say or do? you've never made it this far whenever something similar to this happened in the past.

" spencer it's fine. i shouldn't have egged you on earlier anyways-" why are you taking the blame. y/ n stop. it's not your fault. it never is your fault when something like this happens. y/n please. it's not your fault. stop taking the blame. his heart aches even more. his throat feels heavy. who hurt you like this? who broke your heart like this? who messed up your image of love like this? who hurt you this bad. he hates them. he hates them for making you like this.

" y/n i know you have the personal need to justify everything i've said but y/n stop, just stop. i hurt you okay. and even though saying that out loud and accepting the fact that i said that it thr worst thing i've ever done in my entire life it's nothing compared to what you felt when i said that. i don't wanna be like him y/n. i don't wanna be him. i don't want you to think i can be him. i don't want you to see him everytime you see me y/n. because that would kill me even more. y-you don't have to talk to me anymore y/n i just don't want you to flinch or have this horrible feeling of rememberence whenever you see me. please just.. just don't take the blame for this because it's my fault. this entire thing was my fault and i put you through this y/n. you don't deserve this. i'm really sorry.”

spencer rambles. trying to push the heavy feeling in his throat away. he can't cry. he doesn't deserve to cry right now. he's nervous though. he's nervous about what your gonna say. he doesn’t have the right to feel nervous though. he should accept whatever it is. he did this to himself. whatever the outcome is. he just hopes you don’t have a sense of fear wash over you whenever you look at him and get memories of this day. that is if you ever look at him after this day.

no one's ever said that to you. you feel your tired eyes tear up. your about to cry. oh no. spencer panics. does he comfort you? do you even want his comfort? he doesn't deserve to touch you, he thinks. he drops the medical wipe.

" n-no please don't cry. ill go call

over emily or jj or morgan or hotch just p-please dont cry. i'll go-" it physically aches him to leave you like this. but he has to. he doesn't want you to feel uncomfortable. he just made you cry. you must really hate him. he understands though. he just wishes you understand how sorry he is. but you probably will never know. because you probably don't expect him to feel sorry, you probably think he's faking it. he just needs you to understand that he's not him. he's not your dad. spencer actually feels sorry. he feels so so sorry for everything he's done and said. but you had to put up with years of your dad taking apologises you probably don't believe his. he hates himself.

you stand up. you barely have room to think clearly before a tear rolls down your cheek. spencer immediately removes his fbi vest, you bury your head against spencer's chest. you wrap your hands against his chest. he doesn't wrap his hands around you though. he's scared to touch you. your not sobbing. your too tired to sob. you just let tears slowly roll down your cheeks. " your not him spencer." you say out loud. spencer's heart skips a beat. he slowly wraps his hands around you. " i'm still mad at you. you shouldn't have said that earlier. b-but i forgive you spence." you mumble against his chest. he shakes his head, " you shouldn't forgive me y/n. your supposed to be mad at me. your supposed to be yelling at me. or-or hitting me." he says.

" i am mad at you spencer." you say pulling your head away wiping the tears.

"alright. good." he says

looking down at you. " oh god- im sorry that was stupid i shouldn't have hugged you-" you immediately start apologising shaking your head. you immediately sit back down. oh god your so stupid. why did you just hug him? your so embarrasing oh god. did you feel the need to hug spencer because you just needed to make sure that spencer wasn't him.

not that you would know what your dads embrace would feel like. but you just needed to make sure.

" no please don't apologise. d-do you mind if i sit next to you?" spencer asks pointing at the space next to you. you look at him and slowly nod your heart. he sits next to you. " once ive healed i'm yelling at you spencer." you say looking down at your legs, your tired eyes aching. " alright." spencer says nodding. you should yell at him. and you will. he had no right. but your too tired right now. you just hope. you really really hope that spencer doesn't spiral once your back in quantico and probably will forcefully be taken into the hospital by emily and jj. you really hope he doesn't drown himself in guilt and spiral. why are you so caring? does spencer care about you the way you care about him? that's foolish right? he wouldn't right? does he feel his heart quicken when he sees you? does he care the way you care? that's stupid god y/n you probably have a concussion just shut up.

yeah how stupid y/n. because if you knew the way spencer cared about you or the way his heart quickens when he sees you. you wouldn't believe it. it will take time though. it will take time for you to believe it. he's willing to work hard during that time. he just hopes you know even the slightest bit. but he wont say anything right now. you've already been through enough. he wont say anything for a while. though when the time is right. maybe you'll finally know how much he cares about you. for now, he'll settle for this just for now. until he can gain your trust back and make his feelings known. he'll settle for this. because just being next to you makes him happy.

@corpsebridenightamare

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[iluvbuckets]

before you read and masterlist <3

'*•.¸♡ welcome to my blog ♡¸.•*'

❥ i currently am only writing paige bueckers x reader fics

❥ this is just for funsies, so i write when i can or want to in my free time and publish as soon as they're finished :) i have right heart dysfunction and post concussion syndrome, so please have some grace w me!! some days are harder than others, but i’m trying my best to post as often as i can!!

❥ REQUESTS: i do take them. i try to work on them as soon as i get them, but i'd rather take my time to find the inspiration for it, no matter how long that takes, than rush and put out something sloppy :) if you sent me one and i haven't replied, there's a good chance it's started in my drafts!

❥ i will NOT write smut about minors, so anything with hopkins!p will contain no adult content :)

⚠️ DISCLAIMER! ⚠️ if one of my fics contains smut, it will more than likely be sub!paige. sometimes vers!paige, but those usually still include sub!paige themes. but the dynamic is ALWAYS included in the warnings (both for smut/non-smut) so please read them :)

COLOR KEY: includes smut – pink no smut, fluffy – blue – (does not include angst) no smut, angsty – red – (may include fluff as well)

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ MULTI-PART/SERIES ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

╰┈➤ WILD THOUGHTS paige had always just been your brother's best friend. your little brother's annoying best friend. on a typical summer trip to your family's cabin, you start to realize maybe Paige isn't so little and annoying anymore. wc: 9.3k

➥ PART 2: I WANNA KNOW PEACE AGAIN it's been almost a year since you last saw paige. you had been trying to deny the tension between you two, but when you find yourself at her wnba draft party, there's no denying that she is much, much more than your little brother's annoying friend. wc: 6.3k

➥ PART 3: coming soon!

╰┈➤ SCHOOL GLOBES you and paige had been best friends since you first moved to minnesota in 7th grade. you had never really considered yourselves to be anything more until one night when you're studying in her room, you find yourself leaning in. wc: 2.2k

➥ PART 2: HOW CAN WE GO BACK TO BEING FRIENDS? wc: 2.7k

➥ PART 3: WHEN I'M WITH YOU wc: 824

╰┈➤ CONCUSSION PROTOCOL you and paige are teammates on the dallas wings and she takes a hard hit to the head in the second quarter. wc: 2.1k

➥ PART 2: GAME TIME DECISION after the wings vs sky game where paige took a hard hit to the head from an opponent, she is placed under concussion protocol. you had a particularly intense reaction to the hit, and it does not go unnoticed by the women's basketball fans. now, there was already speculation that you two had a romantic relationship on social media, but this only added fuel to the fire. the overwhelming concern and worry for the possibility of her having a serious head injury has new, deeper feelings you had never considered before bringing themselves to the front of your mind, and you begin to wonder if maybe those comments were right all along. wc: 27k

╰┈➤ THAT LITTLE CRUSH? based on this interaction between natisha hiedeman and skylar diggins during the lynx vs storm game. wc: 4.2k

➥ PART 2: coming soon!

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ONESHOTS ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

╰┈➤ UNTITLED you and paige are best friends. one night you come over to hang out, expecting paige to either be on her ipad or sat in front of her tv on the playstation. instead, you find her hiding in the bathroom, overthinking about hateful comments. you try to reassure her–if sticking a hand down her pants counts as reassurance. wc: 3.1k

╰┈➤ MY HAIR after her first two months of games where paige sported a slick back ponytail, she suddenly shows up to a game with two dutch braids leading back into a low bun. it was slightly different than her previous iconic game day hair, but everyone went crazy over it. wc: 1.1k

╰┈➤ SHE'S MINE paige is starting to crash out a little before one of her games, and you decide to help her relax. wc: 1.6k

╰┈➤ TAKE IT LIKE A TAKER you and paige are freaked tf out wc: 4.6k

╰┈➤ FLEX FOR ME paige had invited you to come with her to a late-night solo practice session and you agreed, expecting to finally be able to finish the book you were reading. however, you quickly find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from her biceps and neglecting the book altogether. you just hoped she didn't notice. wc: 4.3k

╰┈➤ CAN I TRY? paige tries your strap for the first time wc: 1.7k

╰┈➤ DON'T WANT THAT SHIT (I'M ALLOWED TO SWITCH) paige went home with your roommate except your roommate didn't quite hit the spot wc: 1k

╰┈➤ THERE'S SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW you have a girlfriend but paige just can't get you off her mind wc: 2.1k

╰┈➤ MAKE YOU FEEL IT while on tiktok live with some of the team, you decide to stick your hand down paige's pants. you figured she would just slap your hand away, but you weren't going to complain that she didn't. wc: 10.3k

╰┈➤ BUT I JUST CAN'T REFUSE COMING SOON! you were almost sure this was a form of purgatory. all you wanted was for paige to do something–anything–that proved that you weren't just an afterthought. you begged and begged and begged for her to love you the way she did in the beginning, to do more than the bare minimum, to stop making you feel like you were too much. but that was a year ago–when you were still together. now she's doing all those things like she never stopped and you're making promises you can't keep that keep her hanging on. you know you should've walked away a long time ago, but you just can't bring yourself to let her go.

[thedensworld]

Illogical Project | C.Sc

Pairing: Ceo! Seungcheol x reader

Genre: fluff, humor, stranger to crush

Summary: It was just a project to get rid of a side chick, but Seungcheol fall. Deeply.

I was having so much fun writing this! Part 2 yall ask is here

Seungcheol didn’t have to do this. But he needed to do it. Logic flew right out the window the moment he’d typed your name into the company group website. Imagine his surprise when your profile popped up, revealing you were part of the marketing team—under his own label, no less.

The woman sneaking around with his cousin’s fiancé was one of his employees?

Seungcheol let out a dry laugh. Well, this just got interesting. It shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of you.

It has been two years since Jiyeon, his cousin, and Jeonghan got engaged. Their engagement had been more of a business deal than a love story. And although Jiyeon’s engagement to Jeonghan was supposed to be purely transactional, it had been a lifesaver for Seungcheol. Thanks to her, he no longer had to endure his grandfather’s endless nagging about getting married.

But then, yesterday happened.

“Jeonghan’s been cheating on me!” Jiyeon had wailed, storming into his office like a whirlwind. Seungcheol hadn’t thought much of it—Jiyeon tended to exaggerate. He’d been about to brush it off with some nonchalant comment until she hit him with: “I think I’m going to call off the engagement.”

Hold up. What?

That wasn’t part of the plan. Jiyeon couldn’t break off the engagement! Without it, Seungcheol’s peace and freedom would go down the drain. He’d be right back to enduring those endless blind dates set up by his grandfather. Dinners with girls whose names he’d forget before dessert even arrived. Absolutely not.

Which led him to this moment, finding you—Jeonghan’s secret girlfriend. His smirk widened. If cutting you out of the picture meant keeping Jiyeon on board, then so be it. He’d convince you to take your cheating ways elsewhere.

Who would’ve thought his biggest problem was one of his own subordinates?

If anyone could see him now—Seungcheol, the company CEO, scrolling through employee profiles like a suspicious boyfriend—it would be mortifying. But hey, desperate times called for desperate measures. And there was no way he was letting his hard-earned freedom slip away because of Jeonghan’s wandering eyes and your sneaky rendezvous.

*

"Mr. Choi has been acting strange lately," your manager said as she returned from his office, a puzzled look on her face.

"He’s refused every ad plan we’ve pitched to him. And now he’s specifically asked for you to handle it."

Your brows shot up in surprise as you pointed at yourself. “Me?”

“Yes, you. He wants you in his office in ten minutes—with the best idea you can bring to the table.”

“Wait, ten minutes?!” You shot up from your chair, scrambling to find the folder you always kept at your desk. Panic set in as you grabbed your iPad—your lifeline filled with every concept, draft, and half-baked idea you’d ever had. “Why are you just telling me this now?”

Ms. Shin shrugged nonchalantly, already turning her attention back to her own tasks. “It slipped my mind. Good luck!”

You let out a frustrated sigh. Typical Ms. Shin. She was a perpetual headache wrapped up in business casual attire. Just yesterday, she’d dumped her entire presentation prep on you, claiming she was “too busy” to handle it herself. Never mind the fact that you were the one who’d developed almost every campaign concept the department had used for the past two years.

But still, you remained a shadow. Despite your efforts, you were practically invisible in the department—overworked and unnoticed.

As you rushed to the elevator, the thought crossed your mind: Why did Mr. Choi want to see you now?

Was he starting to see through Ms. Shin’s facade and realize where the real work was coming from? Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and anxiety. This could either be a breakthrough… or a complete disaster.

Jeonghan used to tell you a lot about Seungcheol, his college friend. From what you’d heard, Seungcheol was the embodiment of professionalism. He wouldn’t judge you for staying in the shadows to support your boss all these years, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. The truth was, you didn’t know him well enough to understand what went on in his mind.

To you, Mr. Choi was just your boss’s boss—the executive you occasionally spotted from a distance as he strode through the office with that air of authority and responsibility. He was the face of Heidos Food, a man who commanded respect and led by example. His dedication and work ethic were part of the reason you’d decided to join this label among the Heidos Group’s many subsidiaries.

Taking a deep breath, you managed a smile at his secretary. “Mr. Choi is expecting me,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

The secretary gave a curt nod and led you to the door. You couldn’t help but feel small as you stood before it, staring at the imposing wood panel. The secretary knocked gently and stepped aside, motioning for you to enter.

This was it—your first time stepping into the office of the man who practically ran the entire division.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you took a deep breath and stepped inside.

What could he possibly want from me?

"It was disappointing, Ms. Ji."

Your heart sank as Mr. Choi’s voice sliced through the silence after you wrapped up the impromptu presentation.

“I don’t see your idea being as innovative as I expected. The format feels repetitive—similar to every program the marketing department has produced over the past few years.”

You bit your tongue, resisting the urge to argue. How could you not? Internally, you were screaming. Of course, everything looked the same—they were all your ideas! Yet, it wasn’t like you could point that out to him.

Instead, you forced yourself to respond with a calm, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Choi tapped his pen thoughtfully against the desk, his gaze never leaving your face. “But,” he continued slowly, “it does have potential. It just needs a bit more… observation and refinement. Do you think you can handle this project, Ms. Ji? It’s rather risky.”

His question caught you off guard. Risky? Since when did Mr. Choi—who typically preferred playing it safe—assign risky projects to subordinates? Still, you couldn’t let this opportunity slip away.

“I’m confident I can handle it, sir. If you trust me, I’ll deliver.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he nodded. “Good. In that case, pack some clothes. We’re going to Singapore for a seminar tomorrow.”

What?!

You blinked at him, stunned. Singapore? Tomorrow? You hadn’t even processed what just happened before he dismissed you, turning his attention back to his paperwork as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

*

Seungcheol had no idea where your confidence came from. He’d incidentally overheard your phone conversation with Jeonghan earlier, and it was all sweet and annoyingly romantic.

Alright, maybe it wasn’t exactly accidental. Maybe he intentionally eavesdropped—just a little—but who could blame him? He couldn’t believe how bold you were to have such an intimate call with Jeonghan right in front of him.

So, people are right when they say love is thrilling when you’re playing with fire, he mused, his annoyance growing.

"You should pay attention to her more," he heard you say, your voice dropping to a softer tone that made Seungcheol’s scowl deepen.

Then you added, with a laugh that sounded entirely too carefree, "You’re right, I’m the better companion."

He felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Companion, huh? The nerve of you—being all cozy with Jeonghan right under his nose. He was already irritated by this whole situation, but now he had to endure your lovey-dovey chatter too?

“Alright, I gotta go. Bye... Have a nice day!” you finished, your voice as sweet as honey.

The moment you hung up, Seungcheol snapped himself into a more composed posture, acting as if he hadn’t just been caught leaning against the wall, listening like a gossip. He made a show of dropping himself onto the couch in front of you.

To his further irritation, you looked up with an even brighter smile.

“What should I do today, sir?” you asked, voice cheerful and professional, as if you hadn’t just been caught cooing over the phone.

Seungcheol had to think. There was really nothing too strenuous on the agenda for you today, but a part of him—call it the vindictive part—wanted to see you squirm, especially after witnessing your little show of affection for Jeonghan.

“Take notes on everything,” he ordered, watching your expression closely. “Mingle with everyone. Join every discussion. Since I’ll be attending a separate meeting, make sure you don’t make a fool out of our company. Got it?”

You nodded and jotted everything down like the diligent employee you were. “Okay, noted, sir.”

Seungcheol let out a sigh, not quite satisfied with the reaction—or lack thereof. “Can I trust you with this?”

Your smile remained unwavering as you met his gaze. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

Something about your calm composure only made him want to push you further.

How could you be this unbothered?

On the last day of the seminar, Seungcheol could hardly believe it when his company was presented with an award of appreciation—all thanks to your hard work over the past few days. He had known you were good, but he hadn’t expected you to exceed everyone’s expectations this much.

But what truly grated on his nerves was the way people kept talking about you: “That woman with brains, bravery, and beauty,” they said, almost in awe.

Is this a business seminar or some kind of beauty pageant? he grumbled internally, irritated by how many times he’d heard those words. Every time someone praised your creativity and wit, it felt like another jab. Yet, even he couldn’t deny you deserved the recognition. The achievement might have been unexpected, but it wasn’t entirely surprising.

Now, he found himself sitting at a high-end restaurant for lunch, just hours before their flight back to South Korea. You sat stiffly across from him, clearly uncomfortable. After refusing his invitation five times and trying to hitch a ride to the airport with his secretary instead, here you were—reluctantly.

“You can choose whatever you’d like, Ms. Ji. You’ve earned it,” Seungcheol said, not looking up from his menu as he spoke.

You mumbled a polite acknowledgment, your gaze glued to the menu. Seungcheol raised his hand to call the waitress over and glanced at you, waiting for your order. His eyes widened in surprise when you rattled off your request in perfect, fluent Malay.

“Wait—you can speak the language?” he asked, caught off guard.

You nodded casually. “Yes, I studied and graduated here.”

“Hmm,” Seungcheol murmured thoughtfully. He tapped his fingers against the table, considering your response. “With that kind of portfolio, you could easily settle into a bigger company. Why stay at Heidos Food?”

To his surprise, you shook your head, rejecting the notion. “No, Heidos Food is the perfect fit for me.”

Seungcheol raised a brow. He couldn’t tell if you were just being polite or genuinely meant it. “And why is that?”

You paused, looking a little hesitant before speaking. “Five years ago, I had just graduated, and I attended the company’s anniversary event with someone I knew. I saw your speech there—it was incredible. It motivated me to become a part of Heidos Foods. I applied several times, went through multiple interviews, and finally got my position three years ago.”

Seungcheol didn’t like the way your story painted him as an integral figure in your career choice. He didn’t want to think he was that important. And yet, there was no denying that something about the way you spoke made him pause. He found himself strangely flattered—and maybe a little more intrigued than he wanted to admit.

He glanced away, clearing his throat. Stop it, Seungcheol. She’s not special.

But the thought wouldn’t leave him. He kept stealing glances at you, wondering how he had overlooked these little details about you. Maybe there really was something to what everyone kept saying: brains, bravery, and beauty—all rolled into one package.

No, he told himself sternly. Focus.

Slowly, Seungcheol found himself losing sight of his initial motive for getting to know you better—the desire to uncover the truth behind your connection with Jeonghan. As he spent more time with you, your charm and intelligence began to weave a spell around him, shifting his focus from suspicion to genuine curiosity.

The more he learned about you, the more he realized how difficult it was to see you as just a subordinate or a rival in Jeonghan’s affections.

He hadn’t planned on feeling this way, and it unsettled him. What started as a calculated move to monitor your interactions had transformed into something entirely different.

Seungcheol caught himself daydreaming about your conversations, replaying moments that made him smile. He was drawn to you in ways he hadn’t expected, and that realization left him both exhilarated and confused.

As his initial purpose faded into the background, a new question took root in his mind: What if getting close to you had become the most intriguing project of all?

*

“Can you send Ms. Ji to my office after this? There’s something I need to discuss with her.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she just left the building a few minutes ago due to personal business. She didn’t provide any details.”

Seungcheol nodded in frustration as Ms. Shin, your manager, wrapped up her paperwork. It had been two weeks since the two of you returned from the business trip, and he still found himself at a crossroads. He was working diligently to create a void that would justify getting rid of you, especially concerning your relationship with Jeonghan.

Alright, if he could be honest; he didn’t want to lose a gem like you from the company. The idea of you being Jeonghan’s “side chick” was almost infuriating, especially given your intelligence and undeniable beauty.

Yeah, Seungcheol couldn’t deny that your beauty truly shone when you were focused on your work, and he found it charming every time he handed you a new challenge.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a call from Jiyeon, his cousin. He picked it up, immediately greeted by her sobs.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, his protective instincts kicking in.

“Jeonghan…” Jiyeon cried, her voice trembling as she choked out his name.

“What did that bastard do now?”

There was no immediate response, just the sound of her muffled cries. Then, through the tears, Seungcheol finally heard her say, “He had a car accident after we fought. He’s in the hospital now.”

Within moments, Seungcheol found himself standing outside the operating room with Jiyeon by his side. To his surprise, he spotted you sitting quietly in a corner, clearly distressed. So here you were, the “personal business” Ms. Shin had mentioned.

“Let’s get you something to drink,” he said gently, placing a reassuring hand on Jiyeon’s shoulder and guiding her away from the waiting area. He handed her a can of soda as they sat down together.

“We fought on the phone,” Jiyeon explained, her voice still shaky. “I mentioned his side chick, and he denied it. He said he had no one besides me. I didn’t believe him, and then he said he would explain everything when he came to my office, but he got into a car accident.”

Seungcheol nodded, processing her words. “Y/N was there,” he said, gesturing toward you in the corner. “Y/N. She’s the one Jeonghan was supposedly seeing,” he added, his voice laced with confusion.

Jiyeon’s brow furrowed in frustration as she shook her head. “No, they are siblings. They have the same mother,” she sobbed, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions.

Seungcheol’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What? They’re siblings?”

“Yes,” Jiyeon replied, her expression a mixture of sadness and relief. “That explains everything. I thought he was cheating on me, but it turns out he was just trying to protect her.”

The weight of this shocking revelation shifted the tension in the room, leaving both of them momentarily speechless. Seungcheol leaned back against the wall, trying to digest the news.

Jiyeon wiped her tears, glancing toward you again. “I need to talk to her,” she said, determination filling her voice. “She deserves an explanation.”

Seungcheol nodded in agreement, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. Maybe this would clear the air and mend the rift between you.

*

"Has she done this a lot to you?" Seungcheol heard your voice coming from inside the room as he and Jiyeon were about to enter. Both of them paused instinctively, hovering just outside the door.

"She accused you of cheating. She put you in this situation!" Your tone was laced with a rage Seungcheol had never heard from you before. There was an intensity, a fierceness in your voice that was completely unfamiliar to him.

"I could’ve lost you…”

Jeonghan’s voice was soft, barely audible, as if trying to calm you down. “I’m fine, Y/N. I promise. It’s not her fault.”

Jiyeon, who had been poised to enter the room, suddenly froze, her eyes widening in realization. She glanced at Seungcheol, and he could see the confusion and guilt reflecting in her gaze. Before she could turn away, you stepped out of the room, your eyes red and swollen. The sight of Seungcheol and Jiyeon standing there, having clearly overheard the conversation, caught you off guard, but you quickly composed yourself.

You cleared your throat and walked past them with your head held high, your expression a perfect mask of indifference, as if you didn’t realize—or perhaps didn’t care—that they’d been listening in.

Seungcheol watched you go, his mind spinning. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the college days when he and Jeonghan had shared a dorm room. As the only Korean students on campus, they naturally gravitated toward each other. He recalled Jeonghan often mentioning his younger sister—a sibling from the same mother who was in middle school at the time. Seungcheol had never met her, but from Jeonghan’s stories, it was clear how much he treasured her.

"I get a headache every time she doesn’t pick up my call!" Jeonghan would grumble late at night, throwing his phone down in frustration. “She’s so stubborn, but she’s all I’ve got.”

And now, it all clicked into place. The sister Jeonghan had spoken of so fondly, the one he worried about constantly, was you. You, the woman who had captivated his attention with your intelligence and charm, were Jeonghan’s sister. Someone who had been right under his nose this entire time.

*

The hum of the office printer was the only sound in the room as you carefully gathered the documents you needed to submit. Steeling yourself, you walked to Seungcheol’s office and knocked gently before stepping inside.

Seungcheol glanced up from his computer when he heard the door open. The usual lighthearted banter that had developed between the two of you was noticeably absent as you approached his desk and placed the file in front of him.

“Here’s the proposal, sir. It needs your signature,” you said softly, keeping your eyes on the document and not on him.

Seungcheol picked up the pen, his gaze shifting between the file and your calm, composed demeanor. After scribbling his signature on the dotted line, he cleared his throat, an awkward tension hanging between you two.

“Is… Jeonghan doing better?” Seungcheol asked cautiously, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Yes,” you replied, your voice finally holding a hint of warmth. “He’s recovering well. The doctors said he’ll be discharged tomorrow.”

Seungcheol nodded, a small wave of relief washing over him. “That’s good to hear. I’m glad he’s getting better. If you need more time off, just let me know. I know you’ve been the one taking care of him.”

You shook your head gently. “No, thank you. There’s already an assigned nurse for him. I’ll be back to work as usual.”

The air between you two was thick with unspoken words and awkwardness. Seungcheol felt the weight of everything he had said and done, of the suspicion that had once tainted every interaction he’d had with you. He knew it was his fault the dynamic between you had shifted so drastically, and now, he was fumbling, unsure of how to bridge the gap he had created.

“I—” Seungcheol hesitated, his usual poise and confidence faltering. “I know I messed up… and I don’t blame you if things don’t go back to the way they were. I just… I miss the way we used to work together, the way we used to talk.”

You blinked, taken aback by his admission. But even then, you didn’t respond with the same enthusiasm you used to. Instead, you offered him a small, understanding smile.

“Thank you for understanding, sir,” was all you said before you excused yourself and walked out of his office.

Seungcheol watched you go, the emptiness in his chest expanding. He had been wrong—terribly, embarrassingly wrong—and now he was paying the price for his foolish assumptions. He had shattered the easy camaraderie that once existed between you, and now, he was left with the cold, polite exchanges that felt more like a punishment than anything else.

You were here, right in front of him, but you felt more distant than ever.

*

You knew exactly what had been happening to you, but you tried to deny it until it finally affected you like it did today. Ms. Shin had already lectured you with words you never imagined she would use, all because of a rare moment of clumsiness that you didn’t even see coming. You had too much on your plate, and the project Mr. Choi had assigned to you was nearing its deadline. In the midst of it all, you accidentally forgot to send an anniversary message to one of your most loyal clients, and Ms. Shin had to do damage control.

“They were very offended, Y/N,” Ms. Shin snapped, her voice carrying throughout the office as she reprimanded you in front of everyone. You stood there, hands clasped in front of you, listening to her and internally cursing yourself for letting things slip, all because you couldn’t get Mr. Choi’s words out of your mind.

“I miss the way we used to work together.”

“I miss—”

“I’ll be reporting this to HR. I can’t handle this kind of negligence anymore.” Ms. Shin concluded sharply, her words reverberating through the office. A collective gasp came from your colleagues, who were too stunned to react.

Later that day, you found yourself sitting in the HR director’s office, replaying Ms. Shin’s words in your mind. You expected another round of the same scolding, but what came next blindsided you completely.

“We’ve received reports about you neglecting your responsibilities over the past three months, and unfortunately, we can’t tolerate this any longer. Please clear your desk before the workday ends,” the HR director said, his tone dismissive.

“What?” The shock was apparent on your face. No warning letter, no opportunity to explain—just an immediate termination.

“You’re firing me?” you whispered, still in disbelief.

“Effective immediately.” His tone was final, and there was no room for negotiation. You were jobless. Just like that.

You felt a scream building up inside you, a storm of emotions you didn’t know how to release. Anger, frustration, betrayal—every word they’d said felt unfair, and you were powerless to fight it. Who were you to contest it? Just another employee, replaceable, forgotten.

By the time you made it home, Jeonghan was the first to greet you, his face lighting up in surprise. “You’re home early?” he chirped, clearly not expecting you at this hour. Ever since he was discharged from the hospital, he had been staying at your place, recovering until he could get around without any help.

His smile quickly faded when he noticed the cardboard box in your hands. His expression crumpled with worry as you dropped the box onto the table with a heavy thud. “Are you… fired?” Jeonghan asked hesitantly, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.

You nodded, letting out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, they fired me. Fuck Heidos. I’m going to start my own advertising company!”

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard by your outburst. “Alright, slow down. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but what happened?” he asked, concern lacing his tone.

You shrugged, collapsing onto the couch in exhaustion. The last thing you wanted was to relive today’s events by recounting them to your brother. You just wanted to forget.

“Does Seungcheol know about this?” Jeonghan pressed on, not noticing how drained you were. “He told me you were handling a project together. Was this his decision?”

“Do you need a marketing staff?” you deflected, throwing the question back at him, trying to steer the conversation away.

“No, I don’t. But if you’re interested, I can make some room for you.”

You shook your head immediately. The last thing you wanted was to work for your brother’s company out of pity or nepotism. It wasn’t like you hadn’t considered it before, but joining his business now would feel like a defeat.

“I told you, you could’ve joined my company from the start,” Jeonghan murmured softly, his tone far gentler than before. “The Heidos you were so proud of has finally turned its back on you, huh?”

You groaned and stood up abruptly, your heavy steps echoing through the small living room as you stormed off to your bedroom. You slammed the door behind you, cutting off whatever else Jeonghan had to say.

“Yeah, Heidos finally threw me out,” you muttered bitterly to yourself as you leaned against the door. The company you had dreamed of working for, the place you’d given your blood, sweat, and tears for over the years—had thrown you out without so much as a second thought.

You took a deep breath, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest. This was the company you had stayed up nights for, the one you’d gone above and beyond for every single day. You’d fought your way in, made a name for yourself, only to be discarded like you were nothing.

And all you could think about was how everything had spiraled ever since that conversation with Seungcheol. How his simple words had shaken your confidence, distracted you, and caused this downward spiral.

But the worst part?

You still cared what he thought.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at the wall as Jeonghan's words replayed in your mind, taunting you.

Heidos finally turned its back on you.

Was that it, though? Was it really the company you were angry with? Or was there something more?

Your gaze dropped to the floor as a bitter realization crept in. Were you really interested in Heidos all along? Or was it Mr. Choi?

You closed your eyes and let out a slow breath, your thoughts drifting back to the first time you saw him in person. It was during Heidos’s anniversary gala, a grand event that showcased the company's milestones.

But there he was—Choi Seungcheol, the CEO’s son, standing on the grand stage, delivering a speech with the kind of charisma that made everyone hang on to his every word. He talked about vision, about passion, about how Heidos wasn’t just a business—it was a dream they all built together.

You remembered the way his eyes scanned the room as if acknowledging everyone’s efforts personally, his voice carrying conviction and authority. He seemed approachable yet untouchable at the same time. There was a spark in him that drew you in, like a flame you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by, even if it meant risking getting burned.

When he mentioned the value of individual contributions, you couldn’t help but imagine yourself as one of those valued employees he spoke of. That night, you had felt an overwhelming sense of pride, a hope that you, too, could be part of something bigger. Part of his vision. It made you work harder, push through every obstacle, and make a name for yourself in the company.

But what if, beneath all those aspirations, it was his approval you were really after?

Had it always been about earning a place at Heidos, or had it been about being acknowledged by him? Did your heart race because of the accomplishments, or was it because of the fleeting interactions you had with him?

You tried to shake off the thoughts, but the memories kept flooding back.

There was the time he complimented your work during a company meeting, the way he’d asked for your opinion during a discussion, and, of course, the project where you saw a different side of him—where he was more than just the stern, high-and-mighty executive everyone knew him as.

"I miss the way we used to work together."

His words echoed in your mind, laced with regret and something you couldn’t quite place. Had you let those words affect you more than they should have? Had you crossed a line somewhere between professionalism and personal admiration?

You huffed out a breath and rubbed your face with your hands. It was hard to admit, but maybe you were chasing after more than just a career.

Maybe it was a person.

“Are you really that naive?” you muttered to yourself, almost laughing at how pathetic it sounded. “You got yourself fired because you couldn’t get over a few words from Choi Seungcheol. Great job, Y/N.”

What had you been thinking? That you meant something more to him? That the way he looked at you was anything other than superficial interest? Maybe you’d been reading into things too much, letting your emotions cloud your judgment.

After all, the way he’d treated you—suspicious, distrustful, wary—it all pointed to how little he thought of you. You were a pawn in his game of protecting Jiyeon. The only reason he ever looked your way was because he thought you were a threat.

And yet… you wanted to believe there had been something more. Something genuine. But now, everything felt tainted.

Because if Heidos was no longer an option, then you’d just have to prove to yourself that you could rise even without the company’s name backing you up.

But first, you’d have to figure out a way to keep your heart in check—especially when it came to him.

“Forget it, Y/N,” you whispered to yourself, staring at your reflection in the bedroom mirror. “Forget about Choi Seungcheol. He was never part of your plan, anyway.”

*

It was his first day back in the office after a week-long business trip, and Seungcheol finally had a chance to sit down and get back into his routine. His secretary entered the room with his usual coffee, already prepared with a list of updates and meetings for the day. He rattled them off efficiently, detailing every appointment and task Seungcheol needed to be aware of.

“I want to know the update on the project Ms. Ji is handling,” Seungcheol said, glancing at the folder in front of him, half-expecting to see her familiar name.

There was a brief pause, and when his secretary responded, the answer was something Seungcheol never anticipated.

“She’s no longer part of our staff, sir.”

Seungcheol frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “What do you mean?” he asked, the question carrying a sharp edge.

“She was terminated a week ago due to negligence in fulfilling her responsibilities,” the secretary explained carefully. “The report came from Ms. Shin, and HR approved it immediately.”

Seungcheol’s scowl deepened, the irritation evident in the tightening of his jaw. He leaned back in his chair, processing the information. “Ms. Ji was managing a critical project with me,” he said, his voice lowering. “Her status required my approval. How is it possible I wasn’t informed about this?”

His secretary’s shoulders tensed, and he hesitated before replying, “I’m terribly sorry, sir. You were occupied with meetings and engagements throughout the week, and I only received the details two days ago myself.”

“Busy or not, I should have been notified immediately.” Seungcheol’s voice was dangerously calm. He glanced at the stack of files on his desk, his mind already racing to piece together what could’ve gone wrong. “I want Ms. Shin and Mr. Kim from HR in my office—now.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary replied quickly, bowing slightly before leaving the room to carry out Seungcheol’s orders.

Seungcheol’s gaze shifted to the half-empty coffee cup, his thoughts a blur of anger and disbelief. Fired? For negligence? That didn’t add up. He knew you weren't perfect, but you were dedicated and thorough. You had handled complex projects before, and while you had your flaws, negligence was never one of them.

Something wasn’t right.

The door opened again a few minutes later, and Ms. Shin walked in, followed closely by Mr. Kim. Both looked apprehensive, likely sensing the storm brewing from the tension in the air.

“Explain,” Seungcheol said without preamble, his eyes fixed on Ms. Shin. “Why was Ms. Ji terminated, and why was I not informed?”

Ms. Shin cleared her throat, meeting his gaze with a strained smile. “Sir, there were multiple instances where Ms. Ji failed to meet her deadlines and deliverables, which impacted the team’s performance. I reported this to HR, and after reviewing her recent performance records, they decided to let her go.”

“And whose idea was it to keep this from me?” Seungcheol’s voice was low and dangerous.

“We didn’t intend to keep it from you, sir,” Mr. Kim interjected cautiously.

“The decision was made quickly due to the urgency of the situation. Given that you were away and Ms. Shin was the acting supervisor for that period, we thought it best to handle it internally until we could brief you properly.”

Seungcheol’s gaze shifted between the two of them, his displeasure evident. “I don’t appreciate decisions being made without my knowledge, especially when it concerns a project directly under my supervision. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they both answered in unison, looking visibly uncomfortable.

“Ms. Ji was fired without a formal warning or disciplinary review?” Seungcheol continued, his voice hardening. “Was she given no chance to explain herself or defend her performance?”

Ms. Shin shifted uneasily, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. “Sir, she had been making several mistakes, and her focus seemed to be elsewhere. It was affecting her work quality. We couldn’t afford to let it slide any longer.”

“Was this decision truly about her work, or something else?” Seungcheol pressed, his gaze narrowing. “Because from what I’ve seen, she was one of the most consistent performers on the team. I want a full report on the matter by the end of today.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Kim replied quickly, while Ms. Shin’s jaw tightened, her frustration barely masked.

“Dismissed,” Seungcheol said curtly, waving them out of his office.

*

You practically jumped out of your bed when you saw an incoming call from Mr. Choi flash across your phone screen. Heart racing, you scrambled to sit up straight before answering.

“I’m outside your place.”

What?

You blinked, staring at yourself in the mirror in disbelief. Just moments ago, you had been in a post-drama-marathon daze, slouched in bed after indulging in a series binge you could never afford the time for before. And now, the very man who occupied your thoughts far more than he should—the Choi Seungcheol—was calling to announce that he was outside your apartment?

“Uh—can you give me ten minutes? I’m not exactly looking presentable at the moment,” you stammered, glancing down at your wrinkled pajamas and messy hair. Your reflection screamed “I-just-woke-up” and “don’t-look-at-me”.

“I—what I mean is!” You quickly corrected yourself, flustered. “I just woke up, so I might look a little… disgusting.”

The last word fell out awkwardly, and you cringed inwardly. Of all the words you could’ve chosen…

“Take your time, Ms. Ji.” His voice was calm, almost amused. You heard the call click off, leaving you in stunned silence.

Oh God, what was he doing here?

You dashed into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and washing your face in record time. The face staring back at you looked different now—the long hair you used to style meticulously was gone, impulsively cut to shoulder length last week in a fit of frustration and exhaustion. You sighed and brushed it diligently, making it look as presentable as possible. Changing out of your pajamas into something more decent—a casual blouse and jeans—you took a deep breath before heading outside.

Stepping out of your building, you spotted his sleek car parked along the road, and there he was—slipping out of the driver’s seat, looking effortlessly handsome despite the casualness of his attire. His usual sharp suit was gone, replaced by a simple white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Even without the formal suit jacket, his presence seemed to dominate the entire street. You couldn’t help but stare for a moment, struggling to reconcile this man’s unexpected appearance outside your home with the same person you admired from afar at work.

Focus, Y/N.

“How are you?” Seungcheol asked, his gaze soft as it met yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer verbally, so you just nodded stiffly, offering a tight smile. The truth was, you weren’t okay—not even close. And a part of you wanted him to understand that without you having to spell it out. But another part of you was wary, unsure how much he even knew or cared about what happened.

“I just found out about your termination this morning,” he began, and you blinked in surprise. You hadn’t expected this to be the topic of conversation. “I’m so sorry.”

You stood there, rooted in place as you stared at him. What was going on?

“I shouldn’t have let Ms. Shin handle things like that,” he continued, voice low, the frustration evident in his tone. “I knew she’s been trying to drag you down all this time. I knew you were the one carrying the department, handling all the toughest projects… That’s why I’m sorry.”

The Choi Seungcheol, the man who exuded confidence and charisma at every turn, now looked uncharacteristically small and uncertain standing before you. The apology caught you off guard. You had prepared yourself for cold professionalism, or maybe even indifference. But not this.

“I won’t force you to come back to the company,” he said gently. “That’s entirely your choice.”

He paused, looking as if he was weighing his next words carefully, then took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to lose the chance to tell you…”

Your heart thumped loudly in your chest as his eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in his gaze making it hard to breathe.

“I might like you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. “Romantically.”

What?!

The world seemed to freeze around you as you stared at him, your mind racing to process his words. Seungcheol… liked you? The very same Choi Seungcheol who spent years being distant and impossible to read? He liked you, romantically? This couldn’t be real.

“I—I don’t know when it happened,” he continued, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. “But somewhere along the way, I realized I was looking forward to seeing you every day. You were more than just a competent employee; you were someone I admired. And then… I started to miss you.”

The sincerity in his words left you speechless. You glanced down, unable to meet his gaze as you tried to figure out what to say. Was it possible that you hadn’t just admired him from afar but had harbored deeper feelings too?

“I understand if this is too much for you right now,” he said softly, stepping back as if to give you space. “I just needed you to know… I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when I should’ve been. And I’m sorry that you had to go through all of this because of me.”

His voice was gentle, and for a moment, the street around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you standing there, suspended in this unexpected moment.

What could you possibly say? Words failed you, so you did the only thing you could—you nodded, acknowledging his apology and his confession, still unsure if you were dreaming or awake.

“Thank you… for telling me,” you managed to say quietly.

Things could never go back to the way they used to be.

[svt-charlotte]

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ COMPILATIONS ⤷ Times when SHUARIN made svt (and carats) thirdwheel on stage

SYNOPSIS : a series of clips where Shuarin were seen being cheesy on stage combined together to make an interesting full length compilation.

📝 : I am SO sorry it took me so long to respond to this request. It honestly has been cooking in my drafts for a WHILE because I originally planned to post this on Tuesday with only five clips, but I added two more for you guys to read! This took me longer than expected to write and I honestly can’t tell if I like it or hate it, but I knew that I needed to post something. pls pls pls ( cue Sabrina Carpenter ) send in more requests, I need more ideas of what I should write!

KEY ⤸

english dialogue

[ additional captions ]

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 00. INTRO

it’s your favorite lottiepop back again with another amazing compilation of our baddielicous queen, CHARLOTTE!!

this time it’s featuring her bae, JOSHUA, because every carat knows that they are the cheesiest couple to exist on planet earth

I picked out a couple of MANY moments where they were being cheesy to put into this video, so PLEASE ENJOY and tell me if you would like a part 2!! ( there’s already one in the making )

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 01. ‘HOT’ MUSIC BANK FANCAM

Energy was radiating off of each member, all of them ready to perform their newest release: Hot. Every single one stood in their designated positions, the only thing stopping them from starting their performance was the absence of the music.

[ r u still streaming HOT cause I am ]

Joshua and Charlotte were coincidentally placed diagonally from each other. Charlotte tapped her foot to the line that she sang in her head, and absentmindedly hummed it out loud. Little did she know, her partner watched her lovingly from behind.

“Cute,” Joshua muttered quietly. Though not quietly enough because the second she heard it, Chaerin whipped her head around to look at Joshua.

She narrowed her eyes jokingly at him, “repeat what you just said please.”

Joshua chuckled before repeating, “I said, you’re cute.”

Charlotte smiled gleefully at the compliment that she received on a daily basis from her lover, but for some reason, she never got tired of hearing it.

“Thanks babe.”

“Anytime cutie,” Joshua winked flirtatiously.

[ to be winked at by THE hong joshua 😫 ]

The couple was so immersed in one another that they didn’t even notice three of their own members staring at them in disgust.

“You know, just because you are happily in love, doesn’t mean that you should rub it in other’s faces,” Dino stated a little too seriously.

“You know, now that you’ve said that, we’re gonna rub it in more,” Joshua said mockingly.

“I wish I had love like yours. I’m jealous,” Mingyu confessed as he daydreamed like a hopeless romantic.

[ IM SO JEALOUS AS WELL ]

“You should be. Our love for each other is elite,” Charlotte described proudly.

“Ew,” Seungkwan pretended to gag, “actually stop before I throw up.”

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 02. JOSHUA’S ENCORE MARATHON

The crowd roared, screaming encore in unison. All the members stood in the middle of the stage, Joshua particularly standing out.

“Encore!” He yelled into his microphone, “let’s go!”

Unexpectedly, Joshua sprinted down the stage, letting the adrenaline rush through him as he ran. The sound of Call Call Call! roared from the speakers mixed with the energetic cheers from fans. People outside passing by most likely heard how chaotic the dome was.

[ WE LOVE DEDICATED MEN ]

Among all the members who encouragingly chanted Joshua’s name, Charlotte sat quietly next to Hoshi. She giggled to herself as her eyes followed her lover, who continued to run around like a mad man. Yep, that’s the boy I fell in love with, she thought.

[ shes laughing as if thats not her man ]

Once the first verse of the song was over, Joshua stopped to take a breather before running back to where his fellow members stood as the song repeated. He couldn’t let Carats down by stopping now.

[ HALF WAY THERE OOOH ]

Running back he could see Hoshi and Dokyeom stand up, creating a makeshift finish line using their arms. Though maybe he got a little too excited because right before reaching the “finish line”, he somehow managed to trip over himself, falling flat on the stage.

Back on the other side, Charlotte, who was a bit concerned started to stand up to go help Joshua. Dino stood up and gently pushed her back down, stopping her from going.

“I’ll go get Shua hyung,” he mumbled before running over to his elder.

Joshua rolled over onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling feeling defeated. Before he could even process what was happening, Dino ─ coming out of nowhere pulled him to his feet, racing to the end with his hyung.

The second Joshua passed the finished line, he collapsed into Charlotte’s arms causing her to fall back onto the stage. Charlotte wrapped her arms around him while she giggled at Joshua’s exhausted state. She pushed Joshua to sit up, signaling Dk to get him the closest water bottle.

[ not him crushing her lmao ]

“Drink,” she urged as Joshua caught his breath.

Charlotte began to fan her boyfriend with her hands as he continued to drink from bottle.

“You’re insane for doing that, you know that?”

Joshua chuckled, “I do and you love that.”

[ DAMN RIGHT SHE DOES ]

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 03. CARAT ASKING JOSHUA OUT

Joshua happily walked around the main stage, watching as Carats jumped up and down to Aju Nice. His eyes skimmed through all the posters that were being waved in the air, looking for his name in particular.

One immediately caught his eye as it had JOSHUA written in big black letters. The sign had said, “can I go on a date with you? I’ll make sure to pay!” causing Joshua to laugh at the cheeky fan.

Seeming as the Carat was close enough to hear Joshua, he asked, “what about Lottie?”

[ 😍 look at him being a considerate boyfriend ]

Before the fan could even scream a response back, Charlotte waltzed over hearing her name.

“What about me?”

Shocked, he had no choice but to point out the sign. Her eyes followed his finger before carefully reading over the words. Charlotte dramatically gasped, describing her as appalled would be an understatement.

[ how dare that carat try to steal her man 😤 ]

She held up an X using her arms, signaling that her man was taken and didn’t need anyone else to take him on a date.

At this point the fan was going insane, not only had she managed to get the attention of one member, but now she had the attention of two.

Just to add to the Carat’s excitement, Charlotte mouthed to the fan, back off he’s mine, when Joshua had turned away.

[ oh she is iconic and she knows it ]

Charlotte laughed as the girl continued cheer, shooting her a wink before dragging Joshua away by the arm.

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 04. CHARLOTTE “FORGETTING” A JACKET

It was early March, meaning that the air was still frigid and icy cold. Everyone was bundled up in sweaters, beanies, and some even gloves. Charlotte, however, believed that she was immune.

“I’ll be fine,” she had said to S.Coups when he asked why she was going on stage without a proper jacket.

news flash, she did not end up being fine.

“How are you not frozen already?” Jun asked as Charlotte clung to his much warmer figure.

“Because, I’m magical.” She said while literally shivering.

[ girl me too ]

Joshua, from the other side of the stage immediately noticed Charlotte shaking. He had offered his fluffy jacket to her before, though he should’ve known that Charlotte would have stubbornly rejected it.

But now that he could physically see her in her unhealthy state, what kind of partner would he be if he let his girl freeze to death?

Running over to Charlotte, he had taken his soft jacket off, getting it ready for her. Luckily, he had worn another sweater underneath, fully aware that Charlotte would most likely later need an extra outer layer.

“Here,” He said, draping it over her shoulders.

[ I wish someone would give up their sweater for me ]

The shivering slowed down as Charlotte stared up at Joshua with big eyes, “Shua, I told you I didn’t need your jacket.”

“Yea, but I also vowed to keep you safe til death do us part so…” He shrugged.

[ OH ITS SERIOUS HE PULLED OUT THE VOWS ]

She smiled, removing herself from Jun to hug Joshua instead. Jun, not wanting to watch the two any longer, ran off somewhere where he wouldn’t be forced to thirdwheel.

“I love that you keep me warm.” Charlotte whispered into his chest.

Joshua leaned down, his forehead touching hers, “I love that you’re mine to keep warm.”

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 05. CARAT BONG SHUARIN VER.

Seventeen all stood gathered at the far stage as they waited for Joshua to start his Carat Bong. Charlotte watched eagerly on the side, silently waiting for her cue.

“Carat Bong one time!” Joshua exclaimed.

Music that could only be described as mystical played as Joshua spun around causing Carats to cheer excitedly.

“Wait,” he stopped, “Carats I think I’m missing something… or maybe someone.”

[ I wonder who…🤔 ]

The stadium was all of a sudden filled with a questioning silence. Some whispered quietly about who Joshua could possibly be talking about, while others waited for him to reveal who could be part of his Carat Bong.

Joshua grinned before turning to where Charlotte stood. She felt him grab her hands, smiling sheepishly as he gently pulled her to the center. Fans went wild as they finally realized who he was referring to as his “someone”.

“That’s better, don’t you think Carats?” Joshua stated cheekily into the mic.

[ YESS MUCH BETTER ]

The cheers grew impossibly louder at the interaction. Carats just simply couldn’t get enough of Joshua and Charlotte together.

As the screams finally dialed down, Charlotte finally spoke up, “Okay, Carat Bong one time!”

The mystical sound played once more as Joshua took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips to give it a sweet kiss.

[ AWW HES SO CUTEE ]

“Ooooh,” Dk hollered into his mic.

“He’s serenading her!” Dino declared.

The stadium boomed with ecstatic and enthusiastic shouts. Fans laughed at the member’s funny antics and watched lovingly as the couple had their moment.

“Carat Bong two time!” Joshua sang.

This time not only did he kiss her hand, but gracefully twirled Charlotte around as if they were dancing in a ballroom. Carats erupted once more with deafening shouts, absolutely loving what was currently going on.

[ oh what I would do to be with someone like joshua ]

“Wow, so romantic,” Hoshi spoke.

Joshua smiled, “Carat Bong eight time!”

Charlotte was once again spun around like a ballerina before she was dipped by Joshua. He held her as if she was about to hit the ground, staring into her eyes mischievously but lovingly. The two held eye contact for a moment, blocking out all the noise. The only person Charlotte saw in that moment was Joshua ─ her Joshua, the rest all faded as if they were the only two people in the world.

[ bro just kiss already 🙄 ]

Seungkwan squealed, dropping his head on Vernon’s nearby shoulder in second-hand embarrassment. Jun stood there with his mouth open, and Woozi stood there with an ‘I’ve seen this way too many times to react’ type of face.

[ WOOZI IS SO ME ]

Joshua pulled Charlotte back up, still holding her in his arms. She hid her face in her hands to hide her beet red face.

“Don’t hide from me,” he laughed as he pulled her back to their spot among the line of members.

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 06. KISS ME BABY

Darl+ing played through the speakers as fans lovingly sang along. There was a playful feeling as the members ran around the stage interacting with Carats.

As the second chorus rolled around, Charlotte unknowingly stood at the end stage alone as she sang her line. The 13 members watched her from the main stage, they laughed as she obliviously danced by herself. Joshua simply couldn’t take his eyes off of her, he was simply in awe at how beautiful she was.

[ HES LITERALLY LOVESTRUCK ]

Once she finally turned around, Charlotte realized that she looked like a complete idiot being the only one on the wrong side of the stage. She flashed an embarrassed smile to the audience before running to her members.

After focusing on Mingyu and Dino during their parts, the big screen switched to show Joshua singing his line, “kiss me baby.”

Charlotte then took everyone by surprise by scooching herself into the frame just enough to give Joshua a kiss on the cheek. The kiss had sent a shiver down his spine and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Carat’s shouts reached there maximum as Joshua’s face flushed a rosy pink.

[ she saw the opportunity and TOOK IT ]

Being forced to walk away from Charlotte, Joshua tripped over his own feet as he stumbled back into his position. Some members had there mouths hung open in disbelief, and others laughed at Joshua’s flustered reaction.

[ she kissed him so good she got him trippin ]

His eyes found Charlotte’s as he gave her a look that screamed, “what was that?” To which she answered back by mouthing, “what? You said, kiss me baby.”

[ I HONESTLY WOULDVE FAINTED RIGHT THEN AND THERE ]

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 07. SHUARIN TALKING ACROSS THE STAGE

Charlotte waved her hand up and down as she waltzed across the side of the stage. She waved and blew kisses towards Carats, stealing their hearts within seconds. The girl looked absolutely ethereal with the wind blowing through her hair and the bright light shined on her gleeful face, no one could disagree.

[ SHES SO PRETTY I CANT ]

Especially not Joshua.

He watched her from afar, quietly admiring the women he married. He loved everything about her, her eyes, her smile, her affection for fans. Everything about her was perfect to him.

Though, Joshua must’ve been staring too long or maybe not discreetly enough because Charlotte turned around, immediately locking eyes with him. It’s like she had eyes on the back of her head. Charlotte giggled, noticing him blush as he realized he had been caught.

“What?” She mouthed to him.

“You’re pretty,” he mouthed back, winking at her playfully.

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to blush, she could never get enough of Joshua telling her she was pretty. She heard it everyday but still got flattered every single time.

“Thank you, handsome,” she laughed when she noticed Joshua waiting for her to praise him back.

[ THEYRE SO CUTEE OMG ]

“Who are you talking to?” Jeonghan asked, who had been ominously standing next to Charlotte, watching the whole scene unravel.

She gave him a look with her eyes before pointing out, “Joshua.”

“Of course you are,” Jeonghan sighed, rolling his eyes.

[ HANNIES SO TIRED OF THEM 💀 ]

⌗ ࣪ ˖ 08. OUTRO

alright my amazing lottiepops, sadly this video has come to an end 😢😢

but it’s ok cause I have many more videos that will surely entertain you guys coming soon…

remember to like, comment, and click subscribe! until next time carrots 🥕

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