#so i rarely draw stitch…

[anon372]

[ganondoodle]

uwu

catching feelings for radahn again bc i have just watched a stream of someone fighting him .............

hes a funny case really, usually my brain likes to just start spinning stories around characters i fall for but with him i dont really know what to do, i just get emotional about him and his theme (mainly base game ... DLC still makes me feel even more sad), i just kinda want to clean of the rot, give him a blanket, some tea and tell him how cool he is lol

[arabella0001]

beneath the uniform

pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader Anime: Attack on titan Synopsis: a wound leads to more than just physical healing.

Warnings: light teasing, rough sex, dirty talk, fingering, power control, fluff

Levi’s blade flashes as he cuts through an enemy without hesitation. You draw your weapon, rushing to fight alongside him in the narrow, blood-soaked underground chamber.

The air is thick with the clash of steel and cries of the wounded. Blood spatters your face as you fend off another attacker. A sudden pain tears through you, and you cry out. Levi spins, cutting down a foe near you, his sharp eyes catching your injury.

"Keep going!" he barks over the noise. "We can’t let them get the upper hand!"

When the last attackers flee, Levi sheathes his blade and moves to you, his gaze grim. He offers his hand. "Let’s get out of here. And clean that wound."

The ascent to the surface is treacherous, but Levi leads with ease, glancing back to ensure you’re following. Once outside, he examines your wound. "That needs stitching," he mutters.

"Thank you, sir," you say quietly, preparing for what’s coming.

Levi shakes his head. A rare softness flickers across his face. "Don’t thank me yet. It’s gonna hurt like hell." His hands work deftly over your torn flesh, and every stitch sends jolts of pain through you.

When he finishes, Levi ties the bandage firmly. "That should do it. Rest up. We’ll need to move soon."

After what feels like an eternity, he nudges your shoulder. "It’s time to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes, Captain Levi."With a curt nod, he leads the way through the wilderness.

Eventually, the camp comes into view. Soldiers turn to you with concern as Levi directs the medics. "Patch her up. I’ll check on her later."

Once inside the tent, you hesitate before speaking. "I’m sorry for slowing you down. I should’ve been stronger."

Levi listens, his expression unreadable. Then he speaks, voice sharp but steady. "You’re lucky to be alive. And you’re damn right you should’ve protected yourself better." He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

"Thank you, Captain Levi." Your voice trembles, and relief washes over you.

Levi clears his throat awkwardly "Rest now."

After leaving the medical tent, Levi tries to focus on his duties, but his mind keeps drifting back to you—your pale face, the sight of your injuries. The unease lingers, and by nightfall, it weighs heavily on him.

A strange sensation fills him - something foreign and unsettling. It takes him a while to realize what it is: concern. Concern for you.

At night, you lie awake thinking of Levi—his steady voice, his sharp gaze. You admire him, crave his approval, and dread disappointing him. The feelings are overwhelming, a mix of longing and fear you can’t escape. You wonder if he’ll ever see you, not as a soldier, but as someone worth noticing.

The next morning, during breakfast, he notices you instantly. Relief flickers briefly across his face when he sees you looking better, but his sharp gaze darkens when you sway. Already weakened from yesterday, your chest tightened, and heat flooded your cheeks. The mix of nerves and exhaustion made your knees buckle as the room spun faintly.He strides over, steadying you with a firm hand. Your blush deepens under his touch.

"Easy there. You're not going to pass out on me again, are you?" His voice, gruff but laced with concern, makes your heart race. The warmth of his hand lingers, sending butterflies through your chest. He dont know what is making you act so weirdly.

"If you faint, I’ll make you run laps until you drop," he growls, though his protective stance remains firm. Soldiers’ stares draw a snap from him: "Eyes off, unless you want extra guard duty." The intensity in his voice makes your cheeks flush even more.

Later that night, footsteps outside your barrack make you peek through the crack in the door. When you see him, your breath catches, and a blush spreads across your face. "Captain Levi?" you whisper.

"I need to talk to you," he murmurs, stepping closer. Nervous but eager, you open the door fully, inviting him in. Your heart pounds as he scans your room before locking eyes with you.

"I’ve been trying to figure out why you acted so strangely at breakfast," he begins. His tone is steady, though his gaze feels like it’s piercing straight through you. "And I think I might have an idea."

You fidget under his scrutiny, your hands trembling as you manage, "What is it, sir?"

"You were acting like a girl who likes her captain." His bluntness sends your cheeks burning hot. You stammer, trying to deny it, but his hand cuts off your protest.

"Save it. I already know," he says, stepping closer. His fingers lift your chin gently, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. Your heart pounds furiously, your blush deepening as you realize he’s reading every emotion you’re trying to hide.

"Don’t deny it anymore," he commands, his voice soft but firm. "It’s time we talked about this."

Swallowing hard, trembling, you whisper, "Y-yes, Captain Levi… you’re right." The vulnerability in your voice stirs something in him, and his brows knit slightly.

"It’s not wise to have feelings for your commanding officer," he warns, his words sharp but his tone laced with a strange warmth.

Shame washes over you, and you lower your eyes, voice trembling. "I know… I-I’m sorry. I’ll get over it, I—"

He presses a finger to your lips, silencing your apology. The touch sends a spark through you, and your wide eyes meet his.

"No," he says firmly. "Don’t apologize. It’s only fair if I do the same." His words leave you breathless, your heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. "W-what?" you whisper, caught between disbelief and longing.

Levi pulls you into a rough embrace, his lips crashing down onto yours in a desperate kiss. The passion between you is undeniable, despite his initial hesitation. And for once, he allows himself to indulge in these forbidden feelings. Feeling your response, Levi deepens the kiss. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until there's no space left between us. There's a wild desperation in his actions, fueled by years of suppressed desires.

"I should punish you," he murmurs against your lips, "for having such foolish feelings."

"Captain Levi…"you whisper while panting heavy and very flustered. Ignoring your plea, Levi trails kisses down your neck, leaving a hot trail of tingles in their wake. His grip tightens around you as he pushes you back onto the bed, his body hovering over yours.

"But I can't bring myself to do it," he admits, "because I've got these damn feelings too." You gasp softly, surprised by his admission. Without another word, Levi claims your mouth in another heated kiss. His body presses against yours, the hardness of his arousal pressing insistently against your softness. With a growl of pure need, he breaks the kiss long enough to peel off his shirt.

"Do you want this?" he demands roughly, "Tell me you want it."

"Yes" you murmur. Hearing your admission, Levi grins wickedly. His hands move to unbutton your uniform, pulling away from you only long enough to strip you bare.

"Good," he murmurs darkly, "Because I don't plan on stopping." With a growl of anticipation, Levi positions himself between your legs. His fingers trace teasing patterns along your inner thighs before finally finding their way to your soaked center.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks huskily, "To feel my hands on you like this?" you moan embarassed. Levi's fingers explore further, delving deeper into your folds. His thumb brushes over your sensitive clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm beneath him.

"And is this what you really want?" he teases, "For me to fuck you senseless until you can't remember anything but the feel of my cock inside you."

"Yes, sir" Smiling at your submission, Levi slides two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that sweet spot within you. His thumb continues its assault on your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Just remember," he whispers,"it's your fault for getting attached to your commander." You whimper softly, encouraged by your responses, Levi adds a third finger to your soaking cunt, stretching you expertly while his thumb keeps working on your throbbing clit. He increases his pace, each thrust of his fingers meeting with eager resistance from your walls.

"That's it," he groans, "squeeze my fingers like a good little soldier." You gasp and moan loudly

"Levi.. " Levi smirks at your near slip-up, enjoying the fact that you've forgotten his rank. His fingers continue their ruthless assault on your needy pussy, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"You'll address me properly," he corrects sternly, "or I won't let you cum."

"Captain, please…"At your plea, Levi leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue invades your mouth as his fingers work overtime inside you, curling just right to hit that sweet spot.

"Say it again," he demands against your lips.

"Please, please, Captain.. "Levi grins wickedly at your plea, loving the way you're begging for release. His fingers pump into you harder, hitting that sweet spot over and over.

"There's my good little soldier," he purrs, Levi smirks at your reaction, loving the way you're still panting and flushed after your orgasm. He withdraws his wet fingers from your pussy, bringing them up to his lips.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, "I haven't even started fucking you yet." Levi watches your reactions closely, enjoying the way you blush under his gaze. He stands up from the bed, stripping off his pants and underwear to reveal his fully erect member.

"Well then," he says, climbing back onto the bed, "let's see if you can take more than my fingers." You look at his dick nervously because it looks intimidating, you still cant believe you end up in your situation with your Captain.

Noticing your hesitation, Levi lays down beside you and pulls you close. His hand reaches down to guide his length between your folds, teasing your entrance with the tip.

"It's okay," he whispers reassuringly, "just breathe and relax."As you begin to relax, Levi starts pushing into you slowly. The head of his cock stretches your entrance before sinking deeper into your tight heat. Each inch brings a new wave of pleasure and slight discomfort.

"That's it," he groans, "… You can take it."you moan softly as he enters you, you feel so full and aroused, start moving with him so he can go deeper. Levi begins to set a slow, rhythmic pace. His hips grind against yours as he sinks deeper into your warmth, each thrust eliciting a low growl from deep within him.

"I knew you could handle it," he grunts, "Now squeeze that pretty little cunt of yours around my cock."

"Levi.. " Levi smiles at your words, pleased that you've forgotten to adress him better once again. His thrusts become more forceful as he pushes deeper into you, filling you completely with each stroke.

"You're doing good," he murmurs, "Keep taking my cock like a good girl."Hearing your soft moans, Levi can't help but push you further. His hands grip your hips tightly as he pounds into you relentlessly. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through his veins.

"That's it," he grunts, feeling your body tighten around him, Levi knows you're close to climaxing again. He quickens his pace, pistoning in and out of you with brutal efficiency.

"Come for me," he commands, "Let me feel that tight little pussy squeeze my cock." Seeing you climax, Levi can't hold back anymore. He thrusts one final time, filling you with his hot seed as he roars out his release. Collapsing onto the bed beside you, he pulls you close into his arms.

"That was��," he murmurs breathlessly, "one hell of a fuck." You pant heavily, you feel so vulnerable. Levi notices your silence and vulnerability after the intense session of lovemaking. He pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck gently.

"Y/N…"he whispers reassuringly,"We're okay… It's just us right now." You hug him, and he holds you close, feeling your vulnerability. He knows things are complicated between you two - he's your captain and you're his soldier, but they've admitted their feelings for each other.

"Just relax," he murmurs against your skin, "We'll figure it out…"

"Capta…Levi" you correct yourself "…can i ask you a question? " Levi chuckles softly at your correction, appreciating the intimacy of it. He nods, encouraging you to ask whatever's on your mind.

"Yeah," he says simply, "Go ahead."

"For how long did you feel like this about me? "Levi hesitates for a moment, considering his response carefully. He'd been trained to keep his emotions hidden, especially from those under his command.

"A while now," he admits quietly, "But I didn't want to complicate things… Until you made it clear by your reactions that you felt the same."

"You think others will judge us? Because of…you know…"you ask anxious. Levi lets out a soft sigh, running his fingers through your hair soothingly.

"I don't give a damn about what others think," he murmurs, "As long as we're careful… And as long as it doesn't affect our duty."

"You are right.. " you nodd gently and nuzzles into his neck "C-can you sleep here? " you ask scared of his reaction. Levi considers your request, weighing the risks and benefits. As your captain, he has duties that must be attended to, but perhaps tonight…

"If you want me to," he murmurs, "I'll stay."

"Yes" Levi pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck gently. Despite everything, despite their different roles and responsibilities, there's a comfort in being near you.

"Good," he murmurs, "Then let's get some rest…" you yawn soflty while feeling so loved "Good night, Levi… "

Feeling your body relax into slumber, Levi stays awake for a while longer. He watches over you protectively, savoring the rare moment of peace and intimacy. Eventually, exhaustion catches up with him and he drifts off to sleep alongside you, keeping you safely in his arms throughout the night.

[sunnwila]

dimples

high school best friend! sam winchester x f! hunter! reader

⋆༺♱༻⋆

summary: sam winchester transferred to your high school in your junior year. he lasted all of five months there but in that time, you grew close enough for sleepovers. you reunite on the hunt years later... closer to his brother than he likes honestly. it's shocking that you can hunt for all of two minutes before he sees you take down a vamp.

warnings: some very mild angst, some fluff. jealous sammy and dimpled sammy. nerdy sammy. LOTS of back story i got carried away, sorry. some shit head big brother dean too. brief j*hn winchester mentions... idiots in love!

i love sam's dimples, what can i say.

⋆༺♱༻⋆

The first time you met Sam you were freshly seventeen in your junior year of high school. Sam was just a year below you, despite being seventeen himself (he was forced to stay back a year because of moving around so much. This severely irked him).

No one had the nerve to go up to the new kid, he was lanky and had a mean resting face that dared people to mess with him. You didn't have it either honestly, but luckily for you, you didn't need to because Sam had beat you to it.

"Is that Frankenstein?" he asked, pointing to the book in your hand. His locker was a couple across from yours, but the hallway was nearly empty. He shut his with a click before striding over to you with his head tilted in curiosity. You looked down to the book you had taken out, it was the assigned reading for your Honors Lit class, and you gripped it at the realization that he was talking to you.

"Uh. Yes," you stumbled over your words which made him quirk a half smile, his dimple peeking out at you. Suddenly the giant kid with a size too small shirt and shaggy brown hair seemed completely harmless. You smiled back and from that moment on you'd been inseparable.

Dean had teased Sam endlessly about his "girlfriend" when he would pick him up from school and see you lingering by his side on the stairs.

"Girl and friend, Dean. She's my friend who happens to also be a girl," he would correct annoyed as he slid into the passenger seat, inconspicuously looking back out the window at you.

"Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night," he retorted with a chuckle and a glint in his eye.

Sam and you would pour over books, endlessly dissecting plot structure and sharing character analysis. He would geek out about whatever he was learning in history while you carefully listened and drew little cartoons of him while he babbled.

(His face would light up when he saw these drawings of himself, or sometimes it would be a panel of cartoon-him and cartoon-you doing something silly. Every time, he'd insist you sign them before carefully putting it in-between the pages in his book).

He'd purposely annoy you with arguments like who the best classic author was (he said Salinger, you said Steinbeck) and why Dally in the Outsiders was the best Greaser (you were quite fond of Ponyboy).

Sometimes you'd read in silence together, the white noise and the sound of his breathing enveloped you and you'd sometimes (a lot of times) get distracted peeking over your page to study his face and the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.

Practically attached at the hip, you two would walk down the halls together, laughing about whatever stupid thing you could think of to get a peek at his dimples.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't harboring the teensiest crush on him.

What wasn't to love? His smile was the cutest. He was a full head taller than you, and then some. He loved to read all of the same books you did, and he was ever the gentleman, kind and reassuring. And he was funny! Most of the time you were in stitches when he would crack the rare joke (apart from his little sarcastic comments).

The only problem was that you didn't know a thing about him. All you knew was that he moved around a lot and had a brother. There was never a mention of his mother or father. The one time he had mentioned John was brief, and it was that he was kind of a hard ass because he was a Marine. The subject was quickly dropped in favor of Napolean and Napoleonic code, something he started reading about when he got bored in Pre-Calc the week prior.

You'd never gone to his house, but he would often come to yours, first to study, then to watch movies, then for dinner. Eventually he was spending weekends at your house. Your mother thought the two of you were dating. You had to shush her anytime she thought to bring it up with a sly smile at dinner. Sam wasn't stupid, he knew, but politely continued to eat with a faint blush on his cheeks, pretending he hadn't heard.

It irked you that you two could share so much of your time with each other, but you still knew so little about him. He knew everything there was to know about you. You'd only learned the little things, his favorite color (orange, the burnt siena kind), his favorite book (The Catcher in the Rye), how he liked his eggs in the morning (over medium, not too runny, but enough that he could dip his toast in it), and his favorite band (Alice in Chains). You took what you could get, and you never let it show, but it disappointed you that he didn't trust you to tell you. You were so vulnerable with him, did he think that you wouldn't understand?

One Friday he didn't come to school. You texted him a quick where r u??? before going into your shared chemistry class. You didn't hear from him the whole day and didn't see him again until that Tuesday. Worried sick, you pushed him for answers, especially for the black eye he was sporting. He dodged your questions and gave halfhearted attempts to change the subject until eventually he shut you out. He moved out of town a day later with no explanation. He had sent a goodbye text, but that was the last you heard from him.

For the next few years, you thought about Sam. All you'd had left of him was his Radiohead CD and an arbitrary green t shirt. You'd texted and texted but got no response.

When you'd graduated top of your class, you wished he was there. When you'd had no prom date, you wished he was there. When you were applying to schools you wished he was there.

When your mom got killed by a rugaru in your second semester of your freshman year of college, you'd wished he was there.

And like any hunter worth their salt, you dropped everything and began hunting the thing that killed her.

For a while you were chasing your own tail in circles. You came across other small hunters, but it wasn't until you'd met Bobby that you were finally able to track the thing down. All those years of your mom insisting on kick boxing and Jiu Jitsu classes were starting to make sense.

She'd been a retired hunter and a close friend of Bobby's. He told you that your father had been killed by a shifter a month before you were born, leaving your mother in ruins. Instead of aiming for revenge, she swore it off to keep you safe.

Fat load of good that did you.

Rugaru dead, you found yourself spending a lot of time with Bobby. You didn't go back to school, but you did start carrying your own weight around the scrapyard and helping with the hunter information hub.

That's how you met John Winchester. And evidently Dean.

When you first met them, you couldn't believe it. Were these the infamous Marine father and annoying brother Sam hardly spoke about back then? You couldn't believe it. You obviously hadn't known before that Sam's family were hunters, but things began shifting into place in your mind when you put two and two together.

He'd clam up when the subject of college was brought up, all the weekends he'd spend at your house, avoiding questions from your mother about where his family was and if he'd told them he was staying over. All the ominous talk about not wanting to go into the family business. Your heart swelled at the thought of seeing him again, only to deflate when Bobby had to explain that Sam wasn't in the life anymore. It was then you realized that all the time Sam spent with you, was to escape.

Pieces of you were glad Sam got out. His reluctance to mention his dad then made sense. But what stood out in your mind most often was his fiery blush when you told him that with the way he talked himself out of trouble all the time, he'd make a decent lawyer

Even three years later, you still thought about him. You missed him.

So you got to know the parts of Sam he hadn't shown you before.

Dean took to you almost immediately. He remembered you from that beat-down-town years ago and enjoyed annoying you just as much as his brother once had. When you got on your feet again and started hunting, you'd tagged along with John and Dean, eager to get out. When John got sick of lugging you around, calling you dead weight (not without a sneer and a scoff of disbelief from you) he sent you and Dean to small-fry jobs.

A month or two in, Dean and you found a rhythm. Find the monster of the week, do your homework, scramble to kill the thing, celebrate with a few beers and a night at a dive.

You hardly brought up Sam. It was a touchy subject. From the tidbits you'd gathered on drunk sappy nights with Dean, Sam had left without looking back. He'd run off to college and was determined to leave this life and his brother behind. Dean hadn't spoken to him in years. You weren't sure if you should tell him that it didn't sound like Sam to leave with no contact, but then again, he had done the same thing to you. You'd only been friends for five short months; you had no idea who he could've grown up to be.

John brought him up when he needed to point out how much better Sam was at research then you were, or really anything you did-- Sam was better. The pride in his voice mixed with the disappointed look in his eye encouraged you to keep your mouth shut. Usually, you'd just sit there and fume, you hadn't known the man long enough to spit something back, sufficing with muttered fuck you-s under your breath. You hadn't wanted to upset Dean, you knew how highly he thought of his father and had decided it wasn't worth it.

Fire would rise in your chest when you saw the pained look on Dean's face anytime his dad talked about Sam. In the months you'd gotten to know him, you became fiercely protective (something that made Dean wildly conflicted, he was the big brother/mama bear... having someone else dote on him was foreign, but strangely not unwelcome).

Usually, when John started on a tangent, you just removed yourself and lugged Dean with you. He kept the shouting up as you two stalked off to the Impala, or the Motel, or wherever he wasn't. It was around those times where he would send you two off on your own.

That's how you'd found yourselves in the Impala on the way back from a hunt in Raleigh. It took a week and a half to find a haunted doll hiding in someone's attic, but you'd managed to salt and burn it without much damage. Two years of hunting with Dean put you at a comfortable ease during a hunt and the two of you pretty much knew the ins and outs of each other, both as hunters and as friends.

On the way out of North Carolina, Dean decided to call John, to check in and see how his hunt in California was going. Fourteen missed calls later, Dean was worried. Bobby hadn't heard from him, and John wasn't necessarily a friendly hunter, so none of Bobby's hunter friends had seen or heard anything either.

The car was silent while he figured out what to do in his head. His resolve never faltered, his gaze trained on the road ahead.

"I think I should get Sam," he said.

"What?" The idea of seeing Sam for the first time in over five years almost made your heart stop. But you didn't want to be selfish. it wasn't fair to bring him back because of a silly schoolgirl crush.

"Our dad's missing, Sam deserves to know," he had replied, knuckles tightening on the wheel.

"Dean, are you sure we should even bring him back in?" As much as you missed Sam, you respected him more.

"Our Dad is missing," he said with a tone of finality that shut you up. You'd have plenty of time to argue with him later, it wasn't worth it right now.

"I'll drop you off at Bobby's," he added.

"What?" you repeated, starting the fight you'd planned for later. There was no way you were sitting this out, you'd told him as much, but he wouldn't have anything of it. This was something he felt he didn't need to drag you into. You didn't even like his dad anyways, he had said. Which was true but hearing him say it felt like a slap in the face, as if you weren't allowed to want to help Dean, someone who had become family.

The car ride was silent after your argument. You'd gotten out of the Impala without a word, lingering to see if he might say something. When nothing followed, you stood there like an idiot for another second before a simple "Goodluck" fell from your mouth and you shut the passenger door on him. You'd turned and trudged into the ranch ahead, too stubborn to actually give a proper goodbye.

For days you wanted to cry. You hadn't heard anything from him, Bobby mentioned he had called when he got Sam, but nothing else. When you got over yourself, you realized that in Dean's stupid protective head he probably thought he was looking after you. Whatever he thought had made his dad disappear, he didn't want you to get hurt. That's what Bobby had said. You tried to not let it sting whenever you thought about him thinking you weren't capable or a good enough hunter.

A week passed when you heard about Jess. Still nothing from Dean or Sam. You hadn't known he was in a relationship, neither did Dean, by the way he spoke about him--at least, he had never mentioned anything. A twinge of regret pierced through your heart, and embarrassingly enough, disappointment. That stupid high school crush never really went away. But you'd only sort of gotten to know him, briefly, you had no claim on him.

You didn't call Dean to check on them. You didn't want to press, you were sure Sam didn't need that right now.

Another week passed with nothing from them, and you quickly got sick of sitting around all day and decided to go back out and hunt. Overthinking your relationship with the both of them wasn't doing you any good. Bobby was worried for you, but you'd amassed quite the skill since your mother died, your fighting skills far passed anything Dean could muster, and your aim was getting better as time went on.

You took a car from the yard--something you'd been tinkering with for the time you'd spent there--and packed a bag. Then the gear. And after a nice roast dinner you'd made for Bobby and yourself, you hit the road, following a lead on a djinn down in Tennesse.

And just like that, you had spent a year hunting on your own. Not necessarily with the same efficiency that you achieved when you were hunting with Dean, but you handled your own well enough. Hunts took a little longer, but then again, you were finally on your own, no crutch to fall back on. It was relieving as much as it was lonely. You missed sharing breakfast or lunch or dinner with Dean at a diner, laughing when he stuffed his face.

And the money thing was kinda hard. Dean handled the fake credit cards. You'd learned how to hustle pool and so instead of committing credit card fraud, you used good old-fashioned misogyny to win a couple hundred bucks from loser guys at bars.

It was one of these nights that you found yourself at the edge of a pool table, hustling a group of guys that had a little more to drink then they probably should've.

Five of them crowded around the other side of the table, four cheering on the fifth who was currently aiming for a striped ball in the corner pocket. You'd beat two of them already, but somehow the others couldn't believe that you, a woman, could not beat them. Let alone have the smarts to hustle them out of their money. It must be beginner's luck they chortled amongst each other.

The laughing stopped when you beat the fourth guy. And like clockwork, the fifth stood up to play. You had to roll your eyes. Did they even consider the fact that you were hustling them? You couldn't tell if they were more upset that they were losing their money or that it was a woman they were losing to.

Either way, pride got in their way. Another win, and you had over half a grand in your hand. You had to laugh.

"Good game, hon. You almost had me!" you shook your head in amusement.

"You bitch," the fifth man snarled. Two other men saddled up behind him, giving menacing stares.

They weren't so amused, apparently.

"Freaky, huh? I mean, are you sure you guys weren't going easy on me?" you couldn't help yourself as you pocketed the cash. You hoped the kitchen was still open, maybe you could get some mozzarella sticks to celebrate your win.

"You think you're funny?" One guy said.

"Oh no! A little girl like me? Funny? Can't be," you grinned. A small audience was forming as people began to take notice of the hostility radiating off of the men. You knew when to quit it, so you smiled extra sweet at them, an evil glint in your eye, before bending down to pick up your bag from the ground.

It was at this precise moment that a few things happened at once. First, the fifth guy (the ringleader if you will) stepped forward, no doubt, with the intent to scare you. You had anticipated this and popped up, ready to play dirty and kick his knees in, when another man from the audience stepped in with a deep "Hey!" You got a brief flash of leather, and, unable to stop what had already been put in motion, side swiped the fuck out of the man stepping up to your defense.

"Shit!" he cursed as he went down. Shocked and apologetic, you turned to help him up, barely catching a glimpse of your victim, when a heavy hand came crashing down on your shoulder and pulled you away roughly. Assuming it was one of the other pissed off guys, you turned and swung in the general direction of what you assumed to be your attacker's head.

A familiar "oof" came when you made contact with a cheekbone. Immediately your brows furrowed, your hand slackened and your heart dropped. It couldn't be.

Your mouth was too slow on the uptake and Dean beat you to it. Hauling himself up from the floor where you'd swiped him down and called your name in disbelief. Your eyes widened when you realized.

Your head whipped around to see Sam standing behind you holding his cheek, bewildered.

"Holy shit!" you looked between Dean and Sam, the angry men stood forgotten on the sidelines of the whole ordeal, unsure of what to do. You paid no mind as you looked back to Sam again, not convinced this wasn't a dream.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked as he pulled you in for a hug. You embraced him and shoved your face in his leather jacket.

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you quipped, slapping his shoulder.

"Getting attacked by you, even though I was about to defend your ass!"

"My ass doesn't need any defending, thank you," you smiled.

"Right. You had it handled," he rolled his eyes. You slapped his shoulder again.

"Yeah, I did. I'm a way better fighter than you," you shrugged.

"You are not."

"Bobby thinks so."

"What?" That got him. Before you could unleash your witty reply, Sam cleared his throat behind you, turning both yours and Dean's attention to him. He wouldn't look at you at first, just made big expectant eyes at Dean.

"What?" he said, clueless. Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning back to you with a soft smile on his face.

"Hi," he said, all sheepish.

"Hi!" You beamed and immediately pulled him in for a hug. He was at least three inches taller than the last time you'd hugged him. He smelled the same, though. Just the feeling of his heart beating against your cheek pulled you back to seventeen, pining after him and laughing in the echoing hallways.

"What are you-"

"Why are y-" you both cut each other off with an awkward chuckle as you pulled away.

"Sorry, you go," you smiled.

"No, no. You first," he gestured with his hand, eyebrows furrowing in curiosity, dimples peeking out in amazement.

"Uh, before you two start, can we sit? I need a beer," Dean chimed in with a grimace. You rolled your eyes, Sam mirroring your expression before turning to the nearest booth.

When you guys settled, Sam across from you and Dean on your right, you ask your question again, "Why are you guys here?"

"Hunt, duh," Dean replied, taking a sip from his beer. You saw Sam's eyes widen in annoyance in Dean's direction.

"Oh. Right. Sammy, she's a hunter now," he explained. Your head spun back to face Sam.

"Wait, you didn't know?"

"How was I supposed to know?" he replied, half joking, half butthurt at being left out.

"Well, I assumed your brother told you," you shrugged, looking to your right and fixing Dean with a look.

"Sorry, but he would've gotten all worried and distracted. You know how he is," he busied himself with a ring on his finger, avoiding eye contact.

"You're an idiot," you said before turning back to Sam with a smile.

"So you're a hunter..." he trailed off.

"Yeah, have been for about... four and a half years now?" you sighed.

"Wow. And that's how you know my brother," he said, eyeing Dean.

"Yeah. Went hunting with him and John a few times. Then with Dean for like, what? Six months?" you turned to ask.

"Eight," he replied.

"Eight months I guess," you said turning back to Sam. He had an unreadable look on his face. If you hadn't known any better, you'd say it looked like jealousy, but that couldn't be. He'd tensed up when you brought up John too, and by the clear lack of him around, you understood that they still hadn't found him. You didn't push the subject.

Sam's hands rested on the table in front of you, his fingers woven together and fidgeting. He didn't say anything for a while, just looked at you like you could disappear any moment. He seemed like he wanted to say something but refrained. Maybe for Dean's sake, maybe for his own. You wished he'd just say it.

After a moment he smiled, "Man, I can't believe it's you. I thought for sure you'd be a professor or something," he shook his head.

"A professor? Why?"

"Well, I was gonna say doctor, but you hated chemistry so much back then..." he trailed off. You laughed.

"Yeah, you're right," you wanted to reach out and touch his hand just to feel him. You still didn't believe he was right there in front of you, after all the years of wishing you could see him, hear his voice.

Dean spoke up then, "We're here about some disappearances."

"Me too. It's a vamp nest," you said without turning your head. You couldn't stop staring at Sam. He was looking down at his hands, so you drank him in without freaking him out. His hair had gotten longer; he kept his bangs though. The urge to trace the moles on his face made your fingers twitch and you had to squeeze them to remind yourself of where you were. Of who you were to him. His girlfriend had only died just last year.

"You're quick," Dean replied, "when'd you get here?"

"Mmmm, last Friday?"

"Huh," Sam chimed in, studying your face. Though he tried to mask his surprise at your efficiency in finding the monster in a short few days, his mouth gave it away, twitching in disbelief.

"Right, well, y'know where it is?" Dean sipped the last of his beer and motioned for another.

"Oh yeah, couple buildings down from here, was gonna head over after I gambled for my lunch money for tomorrow," you grinned. Sam laughed at this.

"Alright lemme finish this and let's go," Dean motioned.

"Are you hijacking my hunt?"

"You don't want help?" he tutted.

"Yeah, yeah," you swatted him away as he poked your arm. Sam watched this interaction closely, his jaw clenched. You only caught a glimpse of it before he steeled himself and his face went back to neutral.

Dean finished his beer in two big gulps and you and Sam followed him out and to your car.

"You fixed this thing up?" Dean gestured to your mustang.

"Mhmm, this is Cherry," you puffed up your chest in pride as the boys looked onto your cherry red muscle car.

"Creative," Sam quipped with a teasing smile. He peeked into the car, eager to see what you had in there. He wanted to take in as much about your new life as possible. He felt like he missed so much.

You popped your trunk, grabbing a machete and a book from your duffle.

"Hey, you still like this book?" you called out to Sam whose head was almost fully in your passenger side window. He shot himself up so fast, you were surprised he didn't hit his head. Sheepishly, he walked around to you where you held out your beaten copy of Frankenstein that the two of you had gushed over all those years ago. A laugh bubbled out of him, and you warmed at the sound.

"You still have this?" he reached out to take it from you, his fingers brushing yours, butterflies erupted in your stomach.

"Well, yeah. It's in your hand, isn't it?"

"Still a smartass then," he shook his head with a fond smile.

"Says you," you nudged his shoulder. Dean had wandered off to the Impala to grab their gear, so it was just the two of you alone. "You can have it," you said pushing the book closer to his chest. More fluttering in your stomach at the contact with his warm hands.

"No," he tried to argue but you shushed him.

"Seriously. I've read it so many times, I can recite whole pages, word for word." He laughed again at this, and you beamed.

"Fine. But I'm giving it back when I'm done."

"Sure, you are."

"I missed you," he said after a moment of silence. You looked up at him.

"I missed you too."

"I wanted to call so many times," he said.

"That's okay," you looked down and kicked at a pebble with the toe of your boot.

Both of you weren't sure what to say next. The Impala started with a roar in the distance, filling the silence between you two.

"I'm sorry about Jessica," you whispered. You didn't want to bring her up. You didn't know how Sam was doing; you hadn't ever talked about anything so vulnerable regarding his life with him before, but you needed him to know.

Before he could reply, Dean rolled up, window down and head sticking out his driver's side window.

"Alright, let's dust these fuckers, you comin'?"

"Right, yeah" you said, swinging the machete in your hand. Sam cleared his throat, eyeing your swinging before rounding the car and entering the passenger side. You sidled up to the trunk, tossing the weapon in with the others and swung around to the back, sat comfortably behind the brothers.

"How long you been huntin' again? Last I heard from Bobby you were hangin' around there," Dean asked as he sped off.

"Eh, year or so? I go back to Bobby's every coupla months though," you cracked your knuckles in the silence. Sam's head turned ever so slightly in your direction, you wouldn't have caught the motion if you weren't staring. He didn't say anything for the whole ride, but Dean did a whole lot of talking for the both of them, asking how you've been, commenting on the new machete, but never bringing up John.

When you got there, Dean assigned roles. You took the back entrance; he and Sam would take the front. You had a mean swing, and weren't worried, but Sam's eyebrows furrowed when Dean announced that you would be alone. He looked about to speak up, but you interrupted before he could say anything.

"I'm good. There's only like three of them in there, last I checked. I could do this alone if I wanted," you couldn't help the boast. Dean laughed and clapped his brother on the back.

"She ain't a little girl anymore," he strutted off (because yes Dean Winchester struts). Sam followed but not without a look of reluctance to you, "Be careful," he urged.

"I always am," you smiled before jogging to the back. You peered through the windows but saw nothing but shadows. It was pitch black out and there were no lights on inside. The back door opened without any force and you made your way inside, eyes scanning what looked to be the kitchen. You heard muffled footsteps to your right, but turned to see it was just Sam.

"Anything?"

"No, there's gotta be a basement," you replied. The two of you began searching for a door until you heard a grunt come from the room next to yours. There were a few more and what sounded like a punch landing. You and Sam ran to aid Dean in whatever he was dealing with when another vamp descended on you. You swung your machete around and nailed it in the arm. It hissed and swung its other arm at you, grabbing your shoulder.

In the mess of fighting, you caught a brief glance at Sam fighting his own vamp, it getting dangerously close to his neck at points.

You ripped from the vamp's grasp and kicked it down, knocking the wind out of it before swinging your machete around and slicing its head clean off. When you turned to see how the boys were doing, you were met with less success than yourself. Dean had gotten his weapon wrestled from him and thrown to the side.

You charged up to the vamp attacking him from behind and swung, but he moved at the last second and you cut through the air, nearly missing Dean's nose. His eyes widened before turning his attention back to the vampire, turning its attention on you, pissed.

Dean grabbed for his machete on the ground and charged, nicking its shoulder. You turned back to Sam who was far too preoccupied with watching your back that he was losing his battle. His arm was bleeding as he tried to fight off with his other good arm. As you made your way to help, the vamp kicked him across the floor, Sam slammed his head on the cabinets in the fall, and you winced. You turned back to Dean, who had his vamp cornered and was talking smack (because he always has to use that smart mouth). Seeing he was perfectly fine; you turned your attention back to your vampire.

Pissed, you took one swing to the unassuming man and his head thudded to the ground, rolling as you rushed over to Sam.

"Jesus," you said as you helped him up. He groaned. "Why the hell were you watching me?" you remarked, annoyed.

"I wasn't!" he defended, propped up against the cabinets behind him. Footsteps echoed behind you.

"Sammy what the hell!" Dean said behind you.

"He didn't bite you, did he?" you asked, brows furrowed and eyes scanning his body. You looked closer at the wound on his arm, and he hissed.

"No."

"No need to be pissy about it, c'mere," you hoisted yourself up and held out a hand for him to take. He grabbed it and used the leverage to pull himself up as well, not meeting your eyes.

"You could've gotten yourself killed," you scolded.

"Yeah, well I didn't," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"I dunno why you were so worried about me. I told you; I was fine. I can handle myself."

"Yeah, I gathered that," he replied with a huff as he walked through the back door.

"That was it right?" you turned to Dean who had been silent for the time being.

"Yeah, those assholes came from the basement. I checked after I wasted the other vamp."

"Wasted?" you teased.

"Shut up," he rolled his eyes with a smile. You turned your attention ahead of you again and saw that Sam was much further ahead than before, so you jogged to keep up with him.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he grumbled.

"You have a huge gash on your arm, and you hit your head like a motherfucker," you deadpanned. Normally, this would crack at least a small smile from Sam, but he said nothing keeping his eyes trained ahead.

"Listen, I don't understand why you're upset with me," you tried again.

"I'm not upset with you," he reluctantly responded after a moment.

"Then what's up?" More silence. You saw him chewing on his cheek, contemplating what to say next. "C'mon, you're my best friend," you nudged his bad arm, and he winced. "Shit, sorry."

He turned to you with a look in his eye, scanning over your face before speaking, "I wasn't expecting you to be so close with Dean."

You almost laughed, but for Sam's sake you reeled it in. A smile creeps up on you, and you watch his face for a second before replying, "Are you jealous, Winchester?"

He shook his head in disbelief and a small laugh fell from his lips. You smiled, "I missed that laugh." Your cheeks flushed at the moment of vulnerability, and you hesitated to meet his gaze. He dipped his head, so you had no choice but to look up at the puppy dog look he was giving you as the two of you walked right up to the side of the Impala.

You both stopped, saying nothing. You weren't sure what to say. Sam didn't have anything to be jealous of. Dean was your family, sure, but Sam was this big, never ending, sense of warmth. You held on to that stupid crush for years. How could you explain that to him?

You looked at him and studied his face. His lips were pursed slightly and his eyes darted back and forth over your face. You wished so badly to reach out and touch him but refrained, reminding yourself for the umpteenth time that it wasn't your place. Sam still said nothing.

Dean finally reached the two of you, clearing his throat with raised eyebrows. Some sight the two of you must've been, Sam bloody and beaten, and you sheepish and wide eyed, turning from each other to look at Dean.

"Don't you two look cute," he remarked with a smirk, making Sam choke in surprise, his neck stiff with embarrassment. Your cheeks went red, and you squinted at Dean as if you could inflict physical pain through a look. He looked smug as he glanced between the two of you and the both of you took a step away from each other at the implication.

"I need a cigarette," you both said at the same time. Then, "You smoke?"

𖤐

not really proofread... sorry !

[halfmoonaria]

carved into her

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: there are worse things than losing someone—like watching them forget that they ever chose you.

word count: 7.6k

author’s note: why is it always that when you finally have the time to write you have absolutely no motivation..

You were never exactly a stranger to hospitals.

You'd been in and out of them plenty as a kid—stitches in your chin when you fell off your bike, a broken wrist from the monkey bars, that one week your mom was convinced you had appendicitis when it turned out to be gas.

Your parents had taken you to the doctor for every fever, bump, and cough, like they were scared you might slip away the second they looked away.

Back then, hospitals had felt safe. Bright. Full of solutions.

There was always someone who knew what to do, someone with soft hands and a clipboard, someone who smiled when you cried and told you it was okay to be scared.

You used to think hospitals were where things got better. You used to believe that nothing truly bad could happen once you were inside.

But that feeling didn't last forever.

You couldn't pinpoint when it changed. Maybe sometime in high school, when appointments started meaning test results and waiting rooms started feeling colder. Maybe when you realized that some things didn't get fixed just because you showed up and asked for help. Maybe it was slower than that—just a quiet shift, year after year, until the smell of disinfectant started making your stomach twist instead of settle.

And by the time you met Tara, that belief—that soft, childish trust in hospitals—was already gone.

You weren't looking for anyone when she stumbled into your life, which was funny, considering she rarely walked into any room without immediately drawing every eye. She was sharp. A little guarded. Beautiful, of course—but not in that loud, unreachable way. Her beauty had corners, shadows, things you only noticed after staring too long. And maybe that was why you stared.

You didn't fall for her right away. Not exactly. It was slower than that, quieter. A series of long conversations that bled into longer silences. A shared look across a couch when everyone else was talking. That first night she called you at 2 a.m., not because anything was wrong, but because she just "couldn't sleep and thought of you." You weren't sure what you were to her then, but you knew what she already was to you.

Tara had problems. Everyone knew that—even people who only knew her through the headlines. Woodsboro survivor. Ghostface victim. There was always something sharp in the way people said it, like they weren't sure whether to pity her or fear her.

And Tara didn't really help that confusion. She had a temper. A habit of brushing off concern with a smile that didn't always reach her eyes. You learned quickly that she hated being asked how she was doing, and that "fine" could mean anything from I'm tired to I want to disappear.

But she was also—God—she was so nice to you. Unfairly kind. Protective in ways she didn't even realize. She'd bring you your favorite drink without asking. She'd remember the stupidest details, like the name of your third grade math teacher or how you always tapped your foot during scary movies. She'd wrap her pinky around yours in crowded places, like a promise that she was still there.

You knew what she'd been through. You'd read about it before you even really knew her. The attacks. The betrayal. The best friend who wasn't a best friend at all. The sister who left. The house. The blood. The mask.

And you also knew she was still healing, even if she didn't admit it. Even if sometimes she pretended there was nothing left to fix.

She hadn't always been that good at pretending, though. In the beginning, she was softer with you. More open. There were nights she'd sit on your floor in a hoodie that smelled like your detergent and talk for hours—real talking, the kind that made you feel like maybe she trusted you with the parts of herself no one else was allowed to see. You thought that meant something. You thought it meant everything.

But something had shifted.

You weren't sure when it started, and maybe that's what hurt the most—that there wasn't a moment you could point to, no specific night where everything changed. She just started pulling away. She stopped explaining why she was upset. Started skipping the small acts of affection she used to give so freely. She could still be sweet—god, could she be sweet—but it came in shorter bursts now. Flickers of warmth that vanished the second you reached for them.

And you told yourself not to take it personally. You reminded yourself what she'd been through. How trauma rewires everything—relationships, reactions, even memory. But some nights, it was harder to hold onto that perspective. Especially when she came home smelling like vodka and cheap weed and refused to talk about where she'd been.

It wasn't that she drank. Or smoked. Or tried things she shouldn't. You weren't exactly innocent yourself. There were parties you both stumbled home from, laughing too loudly, falling into bed still dressed. There were nights where you passed a joint back and forth on the roof, her head on your shoulder, the world soft and stupidly quiet.

But the difference was... she didn't stop.

Tara didn't know how to measure herself. You learned that the hard way. When you were buzzing, she was gone. Blackout gone. And it scared you—more than you ever admitted out loud. She'd tell you she was fine, that she had it under control, that she deserved to let loose after everything she'd been through. And maybe she did. But it didn't feel like letting loose anymore. It felt like losing her, piece by piece, to something you didn't know how to fight.

It didn't help that she'd tried everything else, too.

Weed. Pills. A line of something powdered at a party you hadn't even been invited to. Cigarettes when she was nervous. Vapes when she was bored. Sometimes she offered you some, and sometimes you said yes—more out of wanting to stay close to her than anything else. But the difference was, you could stop. Tara couldn't. Or maybe she didn't want to.

There was something about the way she looked when she was wasted that made you ache in a way you didn't know how to explain. Because even though she slurred and stumbled and laughed too loudly, her eyes always looked sad. Like whatever she was running from had followed her there, too.

And you knew what she'd say if you ever really pushed it: that she was fine. That she was allowed to blow off steam. That everyone drinks. That you worry too much.

But that was the thing—you had to worry. Because if you didn't, no one else would.

But it wasn't just the alcohol.

There were other ghosts in your relationship. One in particular. One with sharp eyeliner and a name you couldn't say out loud without watching Tara's whole expression change.

Amber.

She never had to be brought up to be present. She was already there—in the silences, in the glances, in the way Tara sometimes looked at you like she was trying to find something that wasn't quite there. You didn't know all the details. Tara never told you much, and you didn't ask. Not really. Every time you got close, she shut down or brushed it off or changed the subject entirely.

And so you let it go.

Because it made her sad. Because you loved her. Because you wanted to believe that if you gave her enough time, she'd let go of whatever was still tangled between her ribs.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments—when her head was on your chest and you thought maybe she'd fallen asleep—she'd whisper things. Names. Apologies. Things you weren't supposed to hear.

You didn't even know if they had dated. She never said they had. She just called Amber her best friend. Her ride-or-die. Her first real anchor after everything that happened in Woodsboro. But it wasn't hard to connect the dots. The way her voice dropped when she talked about her. The way she still flinched if a scene in a movie even resembled the fire.

Maybe they didn't get the chance to be together. Maybe that made it worse.

Because sometimes, the almosts linger longer than the real things.

And you... well. You weren't her almost. You were her after. You were the one who showed up when the world had already caved in. 

And you told yourself that still meant something—that it meant everything—but there were nights when it didn't feel like it. 

Nights when you'd kiss her and wonder if, for a second, she was pretending it was someone else. Nights when you'd see a flicker in her eye and wonder if you were the stand-in.

The replacement.

The girl who showed up too late.

That's what you were, most days—watching Tara drift through something you couldn't reach, clinging to pieces of someone she never talked about but clearly missed.

But you didn't understand how someone could miss a person who tried to kill them.

You'd asked yourself that a hundred times. Whispered it in your own head late at night when Tara was asleep beside you, her arm thrown across your waist, peaceful in a way that never seemed to last. You knew what Amber had done. Everyone did. Ghostface, manipulative, cruel—dangerous. The kind of person you were supposed to run from, not cry over.

And still, Amber never really left your relationship.

She lingered in the silences, in the too-long stares, in the way Tara never quite laughed the same when someone brought up high school. You never talked about her—not really. It was an unspoken rule, the kind of subject that made Tara's whole body go tense if it even brushed the edge of conversation. And maybe it was better that way. Maybe there was nothing you could say that wouldn't hurt her or you.

But there were signs. Quiet ones.

The photos she didn't delete. The shirts she still wore. The name she never said out loud but always seemed to echo between the walls anyway.

You didn't know what they were—what they had been. Tara never told you, and you never asked. You didn't want to hear her say it. That she'd loved someone like that. That she still did, in some way.

And that was the thing. Amber hadn't just been a bad person. She'd been Tara's person. At some point. And part of you always wondered if that was the part of Tara that kept slipping through your fingers—something you could never compete with, because it was carved into her in ways you weren't allowed to touch.

You didn't try to bring it up. Not often. You'd learned the hard way that pushing her—about Amber, about the drinking, about anything she didn't want to name—only made her shut down faster. The first time you tried, it was late. She'd come home sloppy and giggly, her mascara smudged like bruises around her eyes, still wearing someone else's jacket. You were scared. You were angry. But you'd kept your voice calm, quiet, stupidly careful when you asked if she was okay. If she wanted to talk.

She didn't answer at first. She just pulled off her shoes and flopped into bed face-down, like she hadn't heard you at all.

And then, right when you thought maybe she'd fallen asleep, she muttered, "God, not tonight."

Like your concern was exhausting. Like you were the one making things hard.

After that, you stopped trying to fix it. You started doing what she did—pretending everything was fine, even when it wasn't. Laughing at jokes that made your stomach turn. Kissing her when she tasted like vodka and someone else's perfume. Letting it go.

But it never really went anywhere.

You carried it around with you. The ache of it. The questions. The slow, bitter way it chipped away at how safe you felt with her. You were still hers—still in this relationship, still choosing her every day—but some days it felt like you were loving her from the outside.

There was one night—weeks ago, maybe longer—that still stuck to you like wet skin. She didn't tell you she was going out. Just vanished, phone on silent, until nearly 3 a.m. When she finally came stumbling through the front door, her shirt was wrinkled and she had a scratch on her cheek she didn't explain. You helped her into bed, tucked her hair behind her ear, asked if she'd eaten.

And she looked at you, dazed and glassy-eyed, and whispered, "You're so sweet. I don't deserve you."

She passed out before you could say anything back.

And you didn't say anything in the morning, either.

You just watched her brush her teeth. Pretend nothing had happened. Laugh at something on her phone like she hadn't scared the hell out of you the night before. You made her coffee. You told her you loved her. And then you went to work with your chest aching and your hands shaking like you were the one who'd been drinking all night.

There was this kind of grief in it. A quiet one. Like mourning someone who was still alive.

Because she was still there—in the bed beside you, in the pictures on your phone, in the casual I love yous before sleep—but she was never really with you anymore. Not like she used to be.

And the worst part?

You couldn't even be angry.

Because you knew what she'd been through. You knew what fear did to people, what survival looked like when it was held together with teeth and tape. You knew what it meant when she said she didn't remember parts of that night in Woodsboro. What it meant that she never wanted to talk about it, even when she was crying in her sleep.

But still—you were tired.

Tired of being the one who held steady. Tired of waking up first to check if she was breathing. Tired of wondering if there would ever be a version of her that didn't run headfirst toward the edge of everything, just to see if you'd chase her.

And you always did.

You always did.

Until tonight.

Tonight was different.

It wasn't just another party. It wasn't just another 3 a.m. door creaking open, or another round of whispered apologies soaked in cheap liquor and clumsy kisses. It was worse. So much worse.

You hadn't known where she was. For hours.

Not the kind of "where" that meant she wasn't texting back—the kind that meant no one could find her. Not her friends, not her roommate, not even Chad, who she usually clung to like a brother when things got messy.

Your phone kept lighting up with messages you didn't know how to answer.

Have you heard from her?

She left the party a while ago but no one saw who she was with. She didn't look good.

And for a while you just sat there—on the couch, your leg bouncing, staring at your phone like the right answer might appear if you waited long enough. You weren't even sure what you were waiting for.

A ping. A location drop. A miracle.

But what came was a call. From a number you didn't recognize.

A nurse. Calm, professional, almost robotic. She said Tara had been brought in. Said there had been... substances. Alcohol. Other things, maybe. They didn't know yet. She was stable now, but unconscious when they found her. Alone. Slumped outside someone's building with no ID, no phone, just your name—written on a crumpled receipt in her back pocket.

And you remembered just staring at the wall for a full minute after the call ended. You didn't cry. Not then. You didn't speak. You just moved. Shoes, keys, jacket. The kind of movement that didn't need thought. Just instinct. Just panic disguised as purpose.

The drive there was a blur. The waiting room even more so. But what you remembered—what stuck with you even now, like a film you couldn't scrub from your mind—was the first glimpse of her in that hospital bed.

Pale. Hooked up to fluids. Her hair matted to her forehead. An oxygen monitor clipped to her finger like something out of a nightmare.

You didn't breathe. Not really. Not until the nurse said she'd be okay.

And even then—it didn't feel like okay.

Because this wasn't like the other times. This wasn't some wild night ending in giggles and messy kisses and a hangover. This was a warning. A line.

This was the part where something had to give.

You stood beside her bed and looked at her—really looked at her—and it hit you, in a way it never had before, that she didn't even know how close she'd come to disappearing. Ä

She didn't know what it had done to you. What it had taken to keep loving someone who was trying so hard not to stay. 

And still, your hand reached for hers.

Because you always did.

You didn't even know if she'd feel it. Her skin was cold, a little damp, like her body was still trying to fight its way back from wherever she'd taken it. Her lashes barely moved. Her breathing was steady, but shallow—the kind of quiet inhale that made you hold your own without meaning to, just waiting to see if the next one would come.

A nurse had said she'd wake up soon. That it could take some time for the worst of it to wear off. That her body needed rest. Fluids. Monitoring. The doctor had talked to you gently, like you were family, like maybe you'd been through this before—and the worst part was, you had. Just never this bad.

So you waited.

You sat in the chair beside her bed and watched the numbers blink on the monitor. You stared at the scab on her knuckle, the faded smudges of glitter on her wrist, the curve of her lip pressed against the pillow like she'd just said something and fallen asleep in the middle of it.

And your mind wouldn't stop circling.

What had she taken?

Where had she been?

Who had let her get that far?

Why hadn't she called you?

You didn't realize you'd been crying until a tear slipped down onto her hand.

You wiped it away fast.

The nurse came back once to check her vitals. Offered you a bottle of water. A blanket. You shook your head. You didn't want comfort. You wanted her to open her eyes. You wanted her to look at you like she understood what she'd done. You wanted her to act like it mattered.

When she finally stirred—just slightly—it didn't feel like relief. It felt like bracing for impact.

Her eyelids fluttered open, unfocused and slow. Her head turned barely an inch toward you before she winced.

You leaned forward. "Tara?"

She blinked. Winced again. Her hand twitched under yours. "What the fuck..."

She tried to sit up, but the IV pulled and she froze, eyes darting around, confused.

"You're at the hospital," you said, as gently as you could. "They brought you in last night. You passed out—outside someone's building. Do you remember that?"

She made a face. "No. I... I don't—was it Chad's?”

You didn't answer that. Because it wasn't the point.

"I've been here all night," you said instead, and your voice sounded so much smaller than you meant it to. "They didn't know what you took. They just found you like that. Tara, do you even know what you took?"

She rolled her head to the side, eyes closing again. "Just drank a little. I think. Some guy had gummies. Or something. I don't—God, why is the light so bright?"

You just stared at her.

She didn't look scared. She didn't even look concerned. She looked hungover. Like this was some shitty morning-after, and all she needed was a glass of water and a cold shower.

"Tara," you said quietly. "You were unconscious. You were alone. You didn't have your phone. They didn't even know your name."

She let out a breath. "I'm fine. You don't have to—" She rubbed her forehead. "You're always making a big deal out of shit."

Your chest tightened. "This is a big deal." IS

She didn't respond.

Just turned her face toward the wall.

Like she didn't have the energy to argue. Like maybe it was easier to pretend it wasn't happening if she didn't have to look at you while it was.

You sat back in the chair slowly. Let your hands fall into your lap.

You didn't say anything for a while.

And she didn't ask what was wrong.

She never really did.

Instead, she let out this breathy, almost amused sound. Like a laugh—but softer. Unstable. You couldn't tell if it was from relief or leftover high, or if her body just didn't know what to do with itself yet.

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. "They gave me something," she mumbled, her voice dragging slightly. "I think. Like fluids or painkillers or something."

You watched the way her hand swayed back down to the bed. The way her fingers missed the blanket the first time, then corrected themselves like she was still trying to catch up with her own movements. It was subtle—but it was enough.

She wasn't all the way back yet.

There was something off in the way she blinked, how long it took her to respond. Like her brain was still rebooting and she was floating somewhere above the actual consequences. Still slightly slurred, still too relaxed for someone who had woken up in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm and no memory of getting there.

She turned her head to look at you again, slower this time. "You look pissed."

You blinked. "I'm not."

She gave you this lazy, uneven grin. "You do this thing with your jaw when you're mad. It's like—" She made an exaggerated clench with her teeth, snickering at her own impression. "Like that."

It should've been funny.

If this were any other situation—if you weren't sitting in a hospital room at 7 a.m. with a nurse promising to come back and explain the full toxicology report—it might've been funny.

But it wasn't.

It was terrifying.

Because she wasn't sober. Because she wasn't scared. Because something in her body had crashed and shut down and still she was smiling like it was a goddamn joke.

"Tara," you said, and your voice cracked a little just from how tightly you were holding everything in. "This is serious."

She squinted at you like she didn't understand the word.

So you said it again. "Serious. You didn't come home. You weren't answering your phone. No one knew where you were. And then the hospital calls me at three in the morning to tell me they found you unresponsive in some parking lot and—"

You stopped yourself.

She was watching you now, but the grin was still there, faint at the corners of her mouth. Not quite fully aware.

And somehow, that hurt more.

Because you wanted her to be scared. You wanted her to get it. You wanted her to sit up and say she was sorry and ask you how long you'd been here and if you were okay and how she didn't mean for any of this to happen. You wanted her to feel something close to the hell you'd felt all night.

But she didn't.

She just reached up weakly and tugged at the hospital bracelet around her wrist.

"They spelled my name wrong," she murmured, almost like a joke. "Again."

You looked away.

You couldn't keep staring at her when she looked like that—when her mouth moved like everything was still just some light, passing inconvenience. Like her body hadn't nearly given out. Like her heart hadn't scared the shit out of you.

You leaned forward again, quieter this time. "What did you take?"

She blinked slowly. "I don't... I don't know."

"Tara."

"I said I don't know." A slight edge there—sharp but clumsy. Defensive. "It was just stuff. Like gummies and whatever. Maybe a pill. I didn't check."

You sat back again, exhaling through your nose.

Your throat felt tight. Your chest, tighter.

She looked back up at the ceiling, blinking in that detached, faraway way she got when she was high—when she wasn't all here. When it was easier for her to be floating than present.

And suddenly you couldn't stop thinking about all the things the nurse didn't say. About how lucky it was that someone had found her at all. That it hadn't rained. That she hadn't been somewhere darker, more hidden. That no one had hurt her while she was out cold and completely defenseless.

Your eyes stung again.

You bit down on your lip.

And still—still—she didn't seem to understand why your hand wouldn't reach for hers this time.

You both sat in it—whatever this was—for a few long, dragging seconds. Her gaze drifting somewhere over your shoulder. The hum of the hospital hallway leaking in through the partially closed door. Machines blinking behind her like distant stars, quiet and rhythmic and wrong in their steadiness.

She was staring somewhere just past you, her face lit with the distant haze of someone not quite there. Her body was here—tethered to the thin sheets, the wires trailing from her arm, the pale blue hospital gown—but her mind was floating. Caught in the thick fog that followed nights like these.

You didn't speak. You didn't ask again where she'd been, or what she'd taken, or why she hadn't called you sooner. Because none of those questions would land. Not now. Not when her pupils still looked too big, and her smile flickered without reason, and she kept giggling softly to herself every few seconds like she was chasing the tail end of some joke that only existed in her head.

Then, the door creaked open.

You didn't turn right away. You were still watching Tara—watching the way her fingers absentmindedly pulled at a loose thread in the blanket, like she didn't fully realize you were in the room. Like she thought this was just another come-down in her bedroom or on a friend's couch, not a hospital bed with IVs and vital monitors and the acrid smell of bleach that clung to the walls like old smoke.

"Hi there," a soft voice said.

You glanced up.

The nurse who stepped in had that end-of-shift softness about her—puffy eyes and a lukewarm coffee in one hand, her ID badge slightly crooked. Her scrubs were baby pink with tiny printed hearts and thermometers, and she wore mismatched crocs—one purple, one white. Tired, but kind. Like someone who smiled even when they didn't feel like it.

She gave you both a small nod and tucked her clipboard under her arm. "I'm just going to check a few things, alright? Won't take long."

Tara blinked slowly, turning her head toward the sound. "Okay," she mumbled, still smiling for no reason at all.

The nurse gave a patient nod and set the clipboard down. You could tell she'd done this dozens of times before, maybe even hundreds. There was something careful in her movements. Gentle. Rehearsed in a way that didn't feel cold—just necessary. The kind of professionalism you only got from experience.

She moved to Tara's side and reached for the blood pressure cuff hanging from the wall. "First, I'm going to get your blood pressure, then check your heart rate, breathing, and a few reflexes. Sound good?"

Tara hummed something that might've been a yes. Her head lolled slightly to the side, eyelids fluttering.

The nurse wrapped the cuff around Tara's arm with practiced ease. "You might feel a little tightness here."

The cuff inflated with a soft hiss. You watched as Tara flinched, her face scrunching up a little in confusion. The nurse didn't react—she just kept her eyes on the dial, silent and focused. A beat passed. Then another. The cuff released with a small click.

She made a note on the chart.

Then, the nurse reached for her stethoscope, warming the tip between her hands before pressing it gently against Tara's chest.

"Deep breath in," she said.

Tara inhaled too quickly, like she was trying to prove something. The nurse waited. "And out."

Tara exhaled with a laugh. Not because anything was funny. Just because something in her brain hadn't quite reconnected yet.

You crossed your arms, trying to stay still. Trying not to show how your leg was bouncing under the chair. Because this—this—was the part that always felt the most helpless. Watching someone else check the damage. Watching someone else decide how bad it really was.

The nurse didn't flinch.

She moved to the other side of the bed, pressed her fingers to the inside of Tara's wrist again, feeling for her pulse.

She was quiet for a while.

The kind of quiet you didn't like.

Then she clicked her pen. Made another note. Smoothed her hand over Tara's forearm.

"You're doing good," she said gently, like she could sense the swirl of things bubbling just beneath the surface—even if Tara couldn't. "I just have a few more to go. Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable, alright?"

Tara gave a thumbs-up like she was kidding. But you weren't laughing.

The nurse moved toward the bottom of the bed next, carefully lifting the blanket and testing for reflexes—tapping gently along her shin, then at the bend of her knee.

You watched every movement. Every flick of her eyes. The way she glanced back at the chart, back at Tara, then—briefly—at you.

And it hit you, then, just how long you'd been learning to read expressions on other people's faces—nurses, EMTs, friends at parties, roommates you barely knew. All of them trying not to say something out loud. And you, quietly translating what silence meant.

The nurse clicked her pen once more. Rested her hand lightly on the bed rail. "Just one more thing."

She reached into her pocket.

You saw the small penlight before she even spoke.

She held it up between two fingers like it was nothing—like it was routine. A little plastic tool, harmless on its own. But your chest still tightened. You knew what came next.

Tara didn't seem to register it. She was still playing with the edge of the blanket, thumb brushing over the fabric in slow, lazy circles.

The nurse glanced at you once—just long enough to catch the shift in your posture, the way your arms had locked a little tighter around your ribs—then turned back to Tara with that same practiced calm.

"Alright, Tara," she said gently, her voice low and even. "Last thing I'm gonna do is check how your pupils are responding. It's just standard, nothing to worry about. You'll feel a little light in your eyes, but it won't hurt. Just follow my instructions, okay?"

Tara nodded slowly. Too slowly. Like her head was underwater.

The nurse clicked the penlight on. A thin beam cut through the dim room, almost too bright against the soft yellow glow of the overheads.

"I'm going to shine this in your eyes, one at a time," the nurse explained. "Just look straight ahead at me for now."

Tara squinted as the light moved in front of her. Her eyes fluttered, lashes twitching, but she didn't pull away. Didn't ask questions. You weren't sure she even understood what was happening—only that something was expected of her, so she was trying to comply.

The nurse leaned in slightly, her hand resting lightly against Tara's cheek to steady her head. She moved the beam across each eye slowly, precisely, watching carefully.

You didn't breathe.

"Good," the nurse murmured. "Now I want you to look up for me."

Tara's gaze drifted up.

"Now down."

Then left. Then right.

She followed each direction with the vague sluggishness of someone not quite tethered to their own body. Her focus kept drifting off, landing somewhere behind the nurse's shoulder. Her mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out.

"Try to keep your head still," the nurse said gently. "Eyes only."

Tara blinked slowly. Smiled like she was trying to be cooperative.

The nurse nodded, still watching closely. Her brows pulled just slightly together—only for a second—before her face returned to neutral.

"Now diagonals," she said softly. "Up to the right."

Tara's eyes moved. The light followed.

"Down to the left."

Again.

Your foot tapped soundlessly against the tile.

The nurse straightened just slightly and moved to Tara's other side. "Okay, now I'm going to repeat on this side. Keep looking where I tell you. You're doing fine."

She switched hands with the light, used the other to gently turn Tara's face toward her.

"Look up. Now down. Look to the left—good. And right."

Tara giggled.

You didn't know why. Neither did she.

The nurse gave her a patient smile. "Almost done."

She shifted her stance slightly, double-checked something on her watch, then looked back at Tara,

"Alright," the nurse said, soft and steady. "One more thing for me."

Tara blinked slowly. She still looked pale, but a bit more alert than before—though whether that was clarity or just the last flickers of whatever was still in her system, you couldn't say.

"Go ahead and turn your eyes to the right," the nurse instructed, pointing vaguely toward the window. "Tell me something you see."

Tara's eyes slid in that direction. Her brows knit together in concentration.

"...Window," she said after a beat. "And the curtain. It's ugly."

The nurse smiled. "Perfect."

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, though it barely made it out. You just watched her. Watched how she moved her head back to center like nothing was wrong at all.

"Now," the nurse said, her tone still calm—still just a nurse doing her job—"move your eyes to the left, towards that pretty girl over there."

Tara turned her head slightly. Her gaze followed.

She looked at you.

And you smiled—softly, gently, in that way you always did when you didn't know what else to do but wanted her to feel safe. You weren't sure she even deserved the comfort you were offering in that moment, but that never stopped you before. This was Tara. And you'd spent so long loving her that kindness came on instinct. You wanted her to see that you were here. That you weren't angry. That she didn't have to be scared.

The nurse didn't rush the moment.

She waited a second. Let Tara settle.

Then: "Do you know her name?"

Tara's face didn't change at first.

She just kept looking at you. Calm. Blinking. Brows slightly furrowed—like the question hadn't quite registered, or like it had, but she wasn't sure if it was a trick.

You saw the way her eyes moved then—not away from you, but through you. Like she was searching for something in your face. Something that was just barely out of reach.

Her lips parted slightly. Then pressed together again.

Her eyes narrowed—not cruelly, not confused. Just... focused. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Like she knew the answer was close.

You watched her head tilt, just a little. A crease formed between her brows. Critical, almost.

And your heart climbed higher into your throat.

But then—her face softened.

Slowly, like a wave pulling back from the shore.

Her eyes went wide with something like recognition, something bright and deeply warm. Her lips pulled into the smallest smile. Not her teasing one. Not the cocky, crooked one she used when she wanted to get away with something.

This one was different.

It was sincere. Open. Gentle in a way you didn't see often anymore.

The kind of smile you used to see every morning when she woke up beside you. The kind that made you forget about everything else, even for just a moment.

There it was.

That was her.

The girl you loved. The one who once held your face in both hands like it was something fragile. The one who used to kiss you like she couldn't believe she was allowed to. The one who made you believe—despite everything—that maybe love could be enough.

Your smile grew, without meaning to.

You felt it in your whole body. Because this, this, was what you were still fighting for.

And for a second, you let yourself believe you were winning.

That she saw you. That she knew you.

That something inside her was still intact—that even through whatever she'd taken, even through the haze and the damage and the pieces of herself she'd been slowly drinking away—you were still somewhere in there. Reachable.

She didn't stop smiling. That soft, warm expression stayed on her face as she opened her mouth to speak. Still looking right at you.

And then she said it.

"Amber."

Your stomach dropped.

Just one word. Gentle. Light. Like it came from a place of safety. A place of home.

You didn't move. Didn't breathe.

And Tara—still watching you, still smiling—repeated herself, this time with even more certainty.

"Amber Freeman."

Like it was the right answer. Like she was proud she'd gotten it right.

And your heart split open in a way that felt unfixable.

You felt your face change before you could stop it. Everything in you cracked at once—your expression, your posture, your grip on whatever shred of hope had been left in your hands.

But you smiled.

God, you still smiled.

A tiny, trembling thing that didn't reach your eyes. That shook at the corners. That was built entirely on habit and instinct, like your body couldn't let go of comforting her even now.

Even after this.

Even when it hurt more than anything ever had.

You blinked. Hard. And again.

You looked up toward the ceiling, like maybe if you aimed your eyes high enough, the tears wouldn't fall. You looked down right after, shielding your face so she couldn't see the rest of it—the mess of it.

The betrayal stung like heat under your skin. Like humiliation.

Because she wasn't trying to hurt you. That was the worst part.

She wasn't mocking you. She wasn't weaponizing anything.

She'd just forgotten.

Seen wrong.

And not forgotten some small, fleeting moment. Not a date. Not a joke. Not something forgivable.

She'd looked at you with love in her eyes—real love, that deep-open-vulnerability kind of love—and attached someone else's name to it.

And not just anyone's.

Amber Freeman.

The girl who'd held Tara hostage in her own home. The girl who stabbed her. The girl who tried to kill her. The girl who made you swear to never bring her name up unless Tara did first, because you knew what it cost her to even think about it.

But now?

Now that same name rolled off her tongue with ease.

With affection.

Like it meant something good.

You weren't even sure Tara realized what she'd said. She just kept looking at you like she expected praise. Like she'd answered a question correctly on a test. Her face still soft. Her shoulders still loose. So at peace.

And you—meanwhile—were falling apart so quietly that no one in the room even noticed.

You clenched your jaw.

Tried not to let your chin tremble. Not to let your eyes spill. Not to let that bitter, collapsing feeling inside your chest take hold.

But god, it was already there.

Because the girl who had nearly destroyed her was the name that surfaced first.

Not yours.

Not the girl who stayed.

Not the one who sat beside hospital beds and held her hair and answered the phone at 2 a.m. when she was too drunk to find her way home.

Not the one who loved her through everything.

Through all of it.

You pressed your hand to your mouth, discreetly, trying to collect yourself. You didn't want to cry in front of her. You didn't want this moment—this unfixable thing—to live in her memory, assuming she'd even remember it later.

But your chest felt like it had been hollowed out.

And you didn't know how to breathe around it.

But your chest felt like it had been hollowed out.

And you didn't know how to breathe around it.

The nurse—maybe her name was Clara, maybe you just imagined softness into her—paused mid-step. You saw it in her face, just barely. A twitch in her brow. A brief, flickering glance between the two of you. Like she felt the shift in the room. Like she'd heard the wrong name and knew it was wrong.

But she didn't say anything. Maybe she was trained not to. Maybe it wasn't her place.

Still, the silence thickened like it had weight.

You cleared your throat.

Tried again, gentler. But your voice came out too thin, too cracked. "I'll... I'll be right back."

It didn't sound convincing.

You stood before either of them could respond—your hands stiff, your shoulders locked, your whole body moving like it was held together by threads. You kept your eyes off Tara. You didn't think you could take another look at that smile if it was still there.

And as you turned to leave, as you reached the door and wrapped your fingers around the cold metal handle—

You heard it.

A mumble behind you, half-laugh, half-dreamy slur.

"She's the prettiest girl in the world."

You stopped moving.

The nurse said something low in response, maybe a hum, maybe just a gentle cue to rest. But you didn't catch it. You were too busy staring ahead, frozen in place.

Because you knew who she meant.

Amber.

That name. That ghost. That haunt.

And you weren't her. You weren't anything like her. Not in the way you spoke. Not in the way you looked. You didn't have her sharpness, her smug confidence, her soft-then-sudden cruelty. You'd spent months comforting Tara through the nightmares she left behind. Through the panic attacks and the trust issues and the paranoia. You'd loved her through all of it.

And now?

Now she thought you were her.

You blinked, and it didn't work this time. The tears fell. Fast, quiet, hot on your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, angrily, like maybe if you moved fast enough it would stop mattering. Like you could undo it.

You stepped out into the hallway.

Didn't breathe. Didn't think. Just kept walking.

And right as the door began to swing closed behind you, your eyes flicked back—just one last time.

Tara was still sitting up in the bed, head tilted slightly, brow furrowed now. The fog in her eyes was clearing. That dazed, dreamy look had fractured into confusion. Like something finally clicked.

Like she saw you. Really saw you.

And maybe she didn't know what she'd said. Maybe she didn't even understand why you were leaving. But for the first time all night, her smile had vanished.

And her mouth parted like she wanted to stop you.

But you didn't wait.

You let the door fall shut.

And in the small, aching silence that followed, all you could think was:

You hadn't even wanted her to say your name.

You just wanted her to know it wasn't hers.

You didn't remember walking through the hall. Just the distant murmur of voices in the waiting room. Someone flipping through a magazine. A cough. The low whir of a vending machine.

Nobody looked at you.

Which was good—because your eyes were red, your hands were shaking, and you were holding yourself like you might fall apart if anything so much as brushed your shoulder.

You found the bathrooms and went straight for the handicap stall, shutting the door behind you like it was the only way to keep yourself from unraveling.

And when you finally looked up at the mirror, it didn't feel like your own face staring back.

It felt like the ghost of someone close to who she wanted.

Someone who had loved her with everything, and still wasn't enough to be remembered right.

You stared at yourself for a long time before the first sob made it past your throat. It started quiet—just a breath that got stuck—and then your whole body folded in like it couldn't carry the weight anymore.

Because the truth was brutal in its simplicity.

She hadn't seen you when she looked at you.

She'd seen the person she wished was still here.

And maybe that was the worst part.

That somewhere, buried under everything, there was still a version of her who thought Amber Freeman was the love of her life.

And that version of her...

Had no idea you were standing right there.

[mashtatosworld]

the end of the beginning

summary: it's Diva's first day of school. and this time, it's not Jiyong being the problem - but the menace herself.

The house had never felt so full and so quiet at the same time.

You were sitting on the floor of Diva’s room, her tiny legs swung over your lap as you sectioned off her hair with practiced hands. She handed you clips one by one, carefully choosing them from the pink box in front of her.

A perfectionist in the making.

“Rainbow,” she said solemnly, passing it over.

“Of course, rainbow,” you said, smiling as you clipped it in place.

Behind you, Jiyong was methodically packing her bag - checking the list for the third time, making sure her snack box was in the cooler pouch, her change of clothes were neatly folded in the side pocket, and the little stitched label with her name - Kwon Jia - was facing out.

His fingers hovered over the letters, tracing them almost absentmindedly.

She was really going. He sucked in his lips.

No. No more crying. He thought he had got it all out last night, lying in your arms as he came to terms with the fact that his baby was now four and would be starting big girl school.

Jiyong sighed. He just had to keep reminding himself that she'd have fun there. She'd play all day and come back with drawings for him.

Breathe. Breathe. Oh god, his eyes were watering again.

Angel stirring from sleep cracked through the baby monitor.

You looked up, already rising. “I’ll get her. Can you do socks and shoes?”

Jiyong nodded, dropping the sparkly pencil case back into the bag with a soft sigh. “Come on, princess,” he said, scooping up a pair of pink socks and her tiny white sneakers. “Let’s get your feet dressed.”

She sat, obliging at first, one sock nearly on before she asked sweetly, “Appa, what are you and Eomma gone do today?”

“Well,” he said, grinning as he adjusted the sock, “we’ll be home with Jemi. Maybe go for a walk. Clean up a bit.”

Diva froze.

Her face twisted into instant, fiery betrayal. “Without me?!”

Jiyong blinked. “Well... yes. Because you’ll be at school.”

“No,” she said flatly.

And then - with the speed of someone scorned - her foot yanked out of his hands and the sock was peeled off. Before he could even react, she whipped it across the room.

It hit the laundry basket with a dramatic thwap.

Jiyong stared. “W-what-”

“No go,” Diva declared, standing and stomping over to the bed. She climbed on top, grabbed her pink iPad, and flopped down like this was a perfectly normal Monday routine.

Jiyong scrambled to collect the socks. “Jia-yah, come on. Don’t you want to learn about shapes? You love shapes!”

“NO SHAPES,” came the sharp reply, muffled by the blanket she'd now thrown over her head.

He crept toward her, holding the shoes like offerings. “Jia, please, before Eomma tells me off.”

She started kicking when he got too close.

You walked in, Angel on your hip, blinking at the scene.

“What is happening in here? We're going to be late.”

“She’s can't go to school,” Jiyong said immediately, holding up the abandoned sock like it was evidence in a crime. “She’s not ready.”

Diva threw the blanket off, staring at you with big eyes. "I not ready."

You raised a brow. “You were so excited about using your Hello Kitty lunchbox fifteen minutes ago.”

Then Diva started crying - big, dramatic wails that were louder than necessary and accompanied by precisely zero actual tears.

You narrowed your eyes. She rarely cried. Not like this.

You crouched beside the bed, bouncing Angel gently. “Jia. Tell Eomma what’s wrong.”

She huffed, looked right at Angel, then did a full-body roll away from you, turning her back.

That’s when you knew.

This wasn’t sadness.

This was a tantrum.

You shot Jiyong a look.

He whispered, “I think she’s jealous. About Jemi. About us staying home.”

You turned back to Diva, stroking her hair gently. “Sweetheart, going to school doesn’t mean we won’t miss you. And you know Jemi can barely even talk yet, right? She just drools and kicks and looks surprised at ceiling fans.”

From behind, you heard Jiyong quietly agree, “We'll think of you the whole time."

Diva peeked over her shoulder, just a little. Still grumpy. But listening.

“And we’ll be waiting right here for you when you’re done,” you added softly. “We can get ice cream after.”

She was silent for a moment, staring, before her eyes narrowed at the three of you. "No. Go."

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Diva had not forgiven anyone.

She was in the backseat in full protest mode - sandals strapped on only after Jiyong gave up on the socks entirely. The silver buckles were slightly too fiddly for her to take off on her own, which you suspected was the only reason she hadn’t chucked them out the window yet.

“She’s not ready,” Jiyong muttered under his breath as he pulled out of the driveway.

You side-eyed him. “We’re five minutes in.”

“Exactly, we can still turn back.”

“Appa,” came the syrupy voice from the backseat, her earlier wails now miraculously softened. “I love you so much.”

You turned your head. “That's very sweet, but that trick only works once.”

She'd done it before when you had taken her to the doctors office: butter up the weakest link, Appa.

“I do,” she added, voice climbing in sweetness. “I’m your baby. Don’t send me away. I be so sad.”

Jiyong bit his lip.

“Eyes on the road,” you said sharply. “Don’t fall for it.”

“I don’t fall for things.”

You sighed, choosing peace over war, turning back toward the window as Diva softly began humming - a made-up tune that sounded suspiciously like the words nooo schooolll over and over.

By the time you pulled into the school’s car park, Jiyong was pale.

“Let’s just take her on tour again,” he tried. “We can release a shared album.”

“She’s been on tour three times. Get out of the car."

You turned in your seat and gave Diva your firmest Eomma look. “Let’s go. Now.”

But she was suddenly limp.

“Jia - ”

“No. I not going.”

“Princess,” Jiyong said, opening the back door. "This is just as hard for me, as it is for you."

She screamed like she was being handed over to a villain.

“HELP ME!” she bellowed as Jiyong pulled her out, arms windmilling, sandals kicking wildly.

A concerned woman at the front gate turned, startled. Jiyong winced and smiled.

“It's fine, she’s mine,” he said quickly. “We have the same nose." He held her up next to his face.

You walked a few steps ahead, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Diva’s arms were now locked around Jiyong’s neck like a boa constrictor. Her face was buried into his shoulder, wailing faintly, muffled by his jacket.

As the building got closer, her grip tightened. When he went to gently lower her to the ground, her legs stayed clamped around his waist.

“Princess,” he whispered, “you have to let go.”

“No!”

You tried to help, gripping her back, tugging gently. “Come on, baby. You’re going to have so much fun - ”

She immediately switched targets, flinging herself into your arms mid-transfer. You stumbled back, Angel still strapped in the carrier against your chest.

She let out an excited 'ah' at being so close to her sister.

“Okay,” you grunted. “Now I’ve got two clingy babies.”

“She’s really not ready,” Jiyong said again, adjusting the little back pack on his shoulder. “Maybe next term. Maybe uni.”

You glared at him. “You’re not helping.”

You looked down at the little tangle of arms and hair and pouty faces clinging to your torso like koalas.

“I not want you to have fun without me,” she sniffed.

You softened just a little. “We don’t have fun without you. It’s boring. And we’ll miss you so, so much.”

She looked up at you, big eyes shimmering.

You felt yourself wavering. Then -

“Don't let Jemi play with my toys."

You blinked. “What?”

“No toys Jemi!” she turned to her sister with stern eyes.

And just like that, you were back in tantrum territory.

You sighed and looked at Jiyong helplessly.

He looked at you, equally defeated.

Then you both looked down at Diva, still firmly attached.

It was going to be a long first day.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

When it came to school pick up, you both decided it was best Jiyong go alone.

Diva was already upset Angel was getting to spend the day with her parents, without her, and had blown a loud raspberry at her sister over Jiyong's shoulder as he carried her in.

You started pacing a little by the front door when they were almost an hour late.

Angel was in her bouncer, cooing happily to herself, entirely unaware that her older sister had apparently dropped off the face of the Earth along with your husband.

Maybe he took her for ice cream, you’d told yourself.

Maybe the park. Or the bookstore. Or that overpriced toy shop she loves that smells like plastic and sugar.

Still - you checked your phone again.

And that’s when the front door slammed.

You flinched.

In stomped Jiyong, his jaw tight and stormy as he threw his keys into the dish and his jacket somewhere near the coat rack.

Following close behind him was Diva - thunderous, stompy, backpack crashing to the floor in one dramatic hurl before she stormed down the hallway.

She didn’t even look at you.

You blinked.

“…Hi?” you called weakly after them.

Jiyong made a beeline for the kitchen. You watched as he grabbed a wine glass and filled it to the brim.

He took a long gulp, leaned on the counter, and let out a sharp sigh.

“She told her teacher I wasn’t her Appa.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“At pickup,” he bit, eyes narrowed. “I went to get her - just me - and she stood there and said, ‘He’s not my Appa.’ Just like that. And I didn't have my ID on me! Thank god we look alike.”

You stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Jagi, I wish I was. She’s lucky she’s cute.”

You tried to hide your smile, though it was difficult.

“She’s hurt, Ji,” you said gently, shifting closer and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Jealous. And probably hangry.”

“She got McDonald’s on the way back. I didn’t get McDonald’s. I couldn't even eat, I have emotional trauma.”

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll talk to her.”

He just nodded, taking his wine like it was medicine.

You made your way down the hall, stopping in front of her door, which was open just enough for you to peek in.

Diva was curled on her bed, her uniform torn off - vest still on, but no cardigan or shirt, and her little bowtie discarded somewhere on the floor. Her pink iPad was propped on her lap, playing some overly enthusiastic toy unboxing. She side-eyed you when she heard your steps but said nothing.

You smiled softly. “Hey, baby.”

No answer.

You crossed the room, crouched down beside her little bed, and gently swept her hair back from her face. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either.

“How was school?” you tried.

“Fine.”

“Make any friends?”

“Don’t ‘member.”

You nodded, used to toddler stonewalling. “Appa said you told your teacher he wasn’t your Appa.”

She blinked, still watching her screen. You waited.

Then her head dipped, lips forming into a sad, shameful pout.

You were about to ask again - gently - when Angel’s cry suddenly rang out from the front room. You instinctively turned your head, just for a second, even though you knew Jiyong would get her.

But Diva noticed.

And she huffed, loud and deliberate, rolling over and pulling her iPad closer.

“Go back to your new baby.”

Oof.

You stilled. The ache in her voice was unmistakable, even if her words were sassy. The truth was written all over her little furrowed brows and pursed lips.

You eased onto the bed beside her, nudging her gently with your hip. “No way,” you said. “I’m staying right here.”

Your legs curled around her, fitting yourself into the tiny space like you used to when she was a baby. You peeked at her screen. “So… are they going to open that sparkly egg or what?”

She looked at you from over her shoulder.

Then, silently, she moved the iPad so you could see better.

You smiled.

You rubbed her back slowly as the video played. Her breathing started to even out. Her little body softened, the tension draining away with each swipe of your hand.

Eventually, she turned over, rested her head on your chest, and within ten minutes she was snoring softly - just like Jiyong always did after a sulk.

You laughed under your breath.

“He's definitely your Appa,” you whispered, even though only the walls could hear it.

You pulled the blanket up and wrapped it around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Your first baby. Still your baby.

Always.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

That evening you and Jiyong quietly padded into the living room.

He settled next to you on the couch, one leg bouncing slightly as he scrolled through photos of her from earlier that afternoon, pausing on a blurry one where she was wearing her backpack sideways and scowling at a pigeon. You leaned into him, watching the screen.

“She told me earlier... when Jemi cried… she said to go back to my new baby.”

Jiyong winced, his thumb pausing on the screen. “She's a tad dramatic."

“Hmm, I wonder where she gets that..." You then sighed loudly, resting your forehead on his shoulder. "Ji, she’s not mad at just one of us. She’s mad at both of us. We keep taking turns with her, like she’s a task.”

Ever since Angel was born, of course you and Jiyong had spent time with Diva one-on-one, whether that was shopping trips or pamper days - but never the both of you, together.

“We were just trying to make sure she got time with each of us…”

“Yeah, but not us. Like it used to be.”

He nodded slowly, then turned to you, determined. “Okay. So… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He reached over and tapped your cheek. “Jia Day.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The next morning’s school drop-off was as dramatic as ever.

It was already twenty minutes past the time you’d hoped to be in the car.

“Jiaaaa,” Jiyong called, walking down the hall with her shoes in hand, patience worn thin. “You said you were just grabbing your bag!”

No answer.

He pushed open the door to her room cautiously. Her curtains were drawn again, casting the space in sleepy shadow. And there she was - tucked neatly in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, staring at him from the pillow small and silent.

He squinted, flicking on the lights. “Why are you back in bed?”

She sniffled dramatically and he immediately hurried closer, kneeling beside her bed, smoothing a concerned hand over her hair.

"What's wrong my Princess?"

“I sick,” she said gravely, then without warning, leaned forward and with a loud, exaggerated, "ah-choo", fake-sneezed directly into his face.

He blinked. Slowly. Very slowly.

“…Okay,” he said flatly, wiping his nose with this sleeve. “Now Appa is sick too."

You appeared behind him with a suspicious look. “What now?”

“She’s suddenly got a mystery illness,” he replied with a helpless shrug.

"Oh really."

This was also another regularly used ploy from the Diva playbook.

Just a few weeks ago she hadn't wanted to go to Uncle Dae's birthday party after he accidentally broke Tabi - the latest of her electric toy cars. She had claimed she was 'sick', coughing all over the two of you until the word 'cake' was mentioned. And suddenly she'd been healed.

You glanced at Jiyong. He exhaled, rolling up his sleeves. “Okay. Time for plan B.”

“Wrestling her into her uniform again?” you asked with a wince.

“Unfortunately.”

Ten minutes later, and little progress had been made.

Jiyong was on his knees in her room, hair messed up, hoodie now discarded, gripping one of her sleeves while Diva shrieked dramatically and attempted to escape out the other side of her bed.

“I don’t like it!” she wailed, yanking her hair in frustration, catching him in the eye with a flailing elbow.

You hid in the hallway as Angel sucked her thumb on your hip, eyes wide.

“I don't like it either!” he huffed, struggling to get her into her cardigan as she flopped in protest.

Finally, somehow, she was in the uniform - her tiny bowtie was crooked, and her expression was a mix between deep betrayal and anguish - but she was dressed.

Then came the car seat.

You stayed inside for that part. You had limits.

But it hadn't been as disastrous as dressing her.

Only because Jiyong, wide-eyed and flushed with battle, had caved and handed her a grape lollipop just to get her into the car.

Now she sat in the back, legs swinging, sticky mouth, quiet only because her entire soul was consumed by that one sugar orb.

You gave him a look as he leaned out the window to kiss you goodbye. "She's going to have a sugar rush,"

“That’s gonna be the teacher’s problem,” he mumbled, drawing you in again for another kiss as if he was leaving for war.

You leaned in for a final embrace, and gently peeled off the glitter sticker that was still stuck to his temple. “You did good, Gdaddy.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Then, later that day, you returned to her school gates - together. No Angel in tow. Just the two of you.

Diva spotted you immediately, approaching with a cautious shuffle. Her brows furrowed.

“Where Jemi?” she demanded immediately, still not quite trusting the situation.

“With Halmeoni,” you told her.

She looked between the two of you, analysing. Deciding. Then, without another word, she slipped one of her hands into yours, and the other into Jiyong’s.

You felt her tiny fingers squeeze yours tighter when you said, “We’re having a special day today. Just the three of us.”

She gasped. “Like… like a no Jemi day?”

“Well, we'll see her later, but right now...” Jiyong grinned, lifting her into his arms. “Is Jia Day.”

You’d packed a change of clothes so she wouldn’t be photographed in her uniform, and soon enough you were all seated at McDonald’s, watching her attempt to drink a milkshake with a straw she kept accidentally snorting.

She was delighted.

Then came the toy store.

Diva marched in like she owned the place, you and Jiyong trailing behind her.

“Oh no,” you said quietly, as she beelined toward a shelf of neon goo.

“She’s seen the slime,” Jiyong whispered back, hands resting on your shoulders.

She picked out a pot the size of her head and turned to you with a hopeful smile. “Eomma. Can I?”

You stared at it. “That… will end up in someone’s hair.”

“Jagiya,” Jiyong said softly, squeezing you with a grin. “We said whatever she wanted.”

Diva saw her opening and immediately launched a full-body hug attack on your leg. “Pweeease Eomma?”

You sighed. “Fine. But it stays in the kitchen. And nowhere near Jemi’s hair. Or my shoes.”

She did a little jump of victory. Diva continued round the store, sweeping the shelves of any toys.

And then, to your surprise, she picked out a weird, lopsided goblin doll and added it to the basket. “For Jemi.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“It look like her.”

"Oh," Jiyong nodded slowly, eyeing the creepy thing. "Well, that's very thoughtful to think of your sister."

"She need a toy too." Diva explained, tossing another bouncy ball in the basket for herself.

You and Jiyong locked eyes over her head and exchanged a silent, stunned high five.

Success.

Parenting success.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

When you and Jiyong arrived home, the house was quiet in that suspicious way that meant something was either deeply wrong or peaceful.

You rounded the corner into the living room and found Angel cradled in his mother’s arms, dressed in what could only be described as a... costume.

She was wearing a ruffled onesie with a tutu attached and at least four bows pinned into her hair, one on top of the other like decorative cherries. She blinked up at you both.

“She didn’t cry once,” his mother said proudly, bouncing her a little.

Jiyong sighed in relief. Although Angel rarely cried, she was very clingy. But it seemed that Halmeoni was enough to keep the chubby baby happy.

You grinned, kissing Angel’s plump cheek as you thanked Jiyong's mother and walked her out, promising next time you'd leave both grandkids with her.

Once she left, Diva settled herself in the living room, surrounded by her new toys. Angel was in her playpen, blissfully chewing on the horrifying goblin plush.

You stood in the kitchen with Jiyong, finally catching your breath, sipping tea and leaning against the counter.

"They're playing with their new toys..."

"Yep." You nodded, taking a slow sip as you stared at him with curious eyes. Your husband continued to slink closer, a mischievous grin on his face.

"So, do you think we have enough time to slip away?" He ran a hand from the nape of your neck all the way to your backside, lingering there with a firm grip. "It will only take us five minutes."

"For me, or for you?" You laughed with a scoff.

"Both," He shrugged, confident in his bedroom skills.

Then Zoa padded by, tail high.

With slime stuck in her fur.

Bright green, glittery slime.

You and Jiyong froze, slowly turning to look at each other.

“Oh no.”

You both broke into a sprint.

The living room looked like it had lost a fight with an alien lifeform.

Diva stood beside the sofa, expression unreadable, her entire front glistening with slime. Her bangs were matted straight to her forehead like a greasy helmet. The armrest of the couch had a neon glow.

Angel was now somehow out of her playpen, gurgling and chewing on Goblin Baby. Both green and gooey.

Your eldest stared back at you both. Not guilty. Not smug. Just accepting her fate.

You let out a long, soul-worn sigh. “I’ll start running the bath.”

Jiyong nodded, deadpan. “I’ll try to save the sofa.”

You pointed at him. “And that is the last time slime enters this house.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Bath time was a mission.

Diva went in first, leaving a greasy ring of green goo in the water. Then Angel, who actually enjoyed it, with her hair spiked into a soapy spike. Zoa was wiped down with a damp cloth - she was not pleased.

And now it was Iye’s turn - the cat, standing ankle-deep in the sink, yowling like she was being sacrificed.

Jiyong stood over her, scratched and soaked, attempting to hold her in place with a kitchen towel. “I am going to bleed out here!"

“We have band-aids,” you muttered from your position beside him at the counter, where Diva sat on it, wrapped in a towel.

You were trying - desperately - to comb through her bangs. The slime had set like cement.

“Ow,” Diva whined, squirming.

"Stop moving or you'll really look like Appa." You said as her hair seemed to be getting shorter and shorter with each cut.

You gently snipped at the clumps of matted hair, trying to salvage something vaguely respectable. It was not going well.

Angel was on the floor on a towel, watching the chaos unfold with wide, amused eyes, kicking her little legs like she was at a front-row show.

“We shouldn't have bought that slime,” Jiyong muttered, struggling with the soaked, hissing cat. “How are you always right?”

You shrugged. "I'm raising three Jiyong's. I've learnt a lot."

You then paused in your trimming and looked at your daughter’s very, very uneven fringe.

“...Maybe hats. You'll need hats for a few weeks.”

Diva looked at herself in the mirror and shrugged. “I like it.”

You caught your husband's eyes in the reflection - wet, scratched, exhausted - and just started laughing. Because somehow, despite the mess and madness, this was still the sweetest kind of chaos.

Your chaos.

And slime or not - you wouldn’t change a thing.

Well. Maybe the sofa.

And Iye was never forgiving any of you.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You gently pull the blanket up over Diva’s chest, tucking it beneath her arms as she blinks sleepily at you both. Her bangs - uneven, but absolutely charming - stick slightly to her forehead as she gives you a slow, satisfied smile.

“Did you have a good day, sweetheart?” you ask softly.

She nods, already half in dreamland. “Mmhmm… I wanna show my school friends my new hair.”

Before either of you can say anything else, she’s fully out - mouth slightly open, eyelashes long and damp from the bath, fingers still curled around the edge of her blanket.

You switch on her night light and tiptoe out together, quietly pulling the door closed behind you.

In the hallway, Jiyong exhales.

“You hear that?” you grin, bumping your shoulder against his. “She’s made friends already. Our little socialite.”

He nods, but when you glance up at him, his hand is moving discreetly across his face.

“…Are you crying?”

“No,” he says, immediately defensive, voice thick.

You raise an eyebrow.

He wipes at his eyes again and shrugs helplessly. “It's just all hitting me now - school... Our baby goes to school. And I was her first friend,” he mumbles. “Now she has others.”

You stare at him for a second before wrapping both arms around his waist, pulling him in. His forehead drops against your shoulder as he sniffles dramatically.

“Oh my big baby,” you coo, rubbing his back, “do you need some attention too?”

“…Maybe.”

You laugh softly and kiss the top of his head. “Alright, come on then. Let’s get you to bed before you start asking for slime too.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

happy Diva Day!! our baby is growing up fast - im not crying, you are 😭

the next diva series will hopefully include angel more <3 bless her

thank you for reading! slime was highly requested for this series - and it's not the last we'll see of it...

love always,

mash

xxx

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf , @steponupbabe, @moontabi , @1950schick , @wcnderlnds

[wingedhallows]

is it ok if u write abby comforting reader after she sees her scars? if this is a sensitive topic and if you want to pass, i understand 🫶🏼 i just need abby comforting reader :')

 — MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL —

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PAIRING abby anderson x reader | 0.7k words *ੈ✩‧₊˚ AUTHORS NOTE thank you so much for the request! & thank u all so much for 1k reads on my literally first smut post

♡︎ navigation ♡︎

The room is quiet, safe—a stark contrast to the unforgiving world outside. Even after months with the WLF, survival still clings to you like a second skin, woven deep into your bones, impossible to shake.

But Abby… Abby has been your anchor. The steady force pulling you back, grounding you when the memories threaten to drag you under. You owe her more than you could ever say—every gentle word, every reassuring touch has stitched together the pieces of your shattered heart.

You stand by the window, watching the stars scattered across the endless dark, a rare moment of peace settling over you. With a sigh, you pull your shirt over your head, shivering slightly as the cool air brushes against your skin. Abby said she’d be back late tonight—patrol, duties, things that kept her away. You don’t mind. She always comes back to you.

Just as your fingers reach for the clasp of your bra, the door swings open. A gust of cold night air rushes in, raising goosebumps along your exposed skin. Your breath catches—she’s back earlier than expected. And then it hits you.

Your scars. They’re on full display.

“Baby—” Her voice is soft, but the weight behind it is crushing. There’s something raw in her tone, something almost disbelieving, and your heart plummets.

Dread seeps into your veins like ice. The moment you’ve feared, the moment you’ve dreaded—it’s here. She sees. She knows. And she’ll understand just how broken you are.

She’ll be disgusted.

You stand frozen, eyes locked on the world outside, but all you can hear is the steady thud of Abby’s boots drawing closer. You don’t turn. You don’t speak. There’s nothing left to do but wait—for the inevitable, for her to see you and break you.

“Baby…” Abby’s voice is soft, a whisper laced with something unreadable. Then, her fingers ghost over your skin, featherlight as they trace the scars etched into your back. The contact sends a shiver up your spine, your shoulder twitching involuntarily.

Your throat tightens. “Just say it.” The words barely make it past your lips. Say you don’t want me. Say you can’t bear to look at me. Say I’m not enough.

Abby stills behind you. “Say what?” she murmurs, her breath warm against your ear.

Your chest aches. You swallow hard, willing yourself to keep it together, but the weight of old wounds presses down like a vice. “That I’m hideous.” The words taste like rust and regret.

Abby doesn’t pull away. Instead, her fingertips continue their slow, reverent path over your scars, mapping them like constellations. “You’re beautiful.” The words are whispered like a sacred vow. She leans in, pressing a kiss just behind your ear, and the tenderness of it nearly undoes you.

Strong arms slip around your waist, grounding you in her warmth. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” Her voice is steady, unshaken, like she’s always known this truth—even when you couldn’t see it yourself.

A breath shudders out of you, and before you can stop it, a tear slips free. The fear, the shame—it ebbs, washed away by the quiet certainty of her love. Abby holds you like she always has—like you’re something precious, something worth keeping.

The tightness in your chest unfurls, making space for her, for this moment, for the way she presses a lingering kiss to your jaw.

“I love you,” she whispers, her fingers drawing soothing circles against your skin.

You turn in her arms, meeting her gaze. Hazel eyes—full of warmth, full of love.

“I love you too.”

[urdreamydoodles]

BAT-VILLAINS X FEM!READER

Your first kiss

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, Two-Face, The Riddler & The Penguin

JOKER

- Love, for the Joker, is not something soft. It is not something gentle, nor sweet, nor warm. It is chaos, wrapped in laughter, dipped in madness, stitched together with something sharp enough to draw blood. He does not fall in love—he plummets, crashes, shatters into it with the force of a hurricane. And with you, oh, it is a spectacular kind of ruin.

- The night smells of smoke and gunpowder, the remnants of a heist gone perfectly, beautifully wrong. You are breathless, laughing, adrenaline singing through your veins as you lean against a lamppost, the distant wail of sirens drowning in the sound of his laughter. His face is painted in neon, a mess of colors bleeding under the streetlights, and when he looks at you, there is something wild in his eyes.

- Then, suddenly, he is close—too close, all teeth and chaos and something that is almost hunger. “You know,” he purrs, tilting his head like a predator, “I think I’m gonna keep you.” And before you can respond—before you can think—he grabs you, claims you, crashes his lips against yours with all the elegance of a train wreck. The kiss is frantic, messy, a collision rather than a caress, but it is him, in all his violent, madcap glory.

- When he pulls away, he grins, breathless, eyes glinting with something wicked. “Oops,” he says, licking his lips. “Guess that makes you mine now.” And then he laughs—bright, sharp, insane—and drags you into the night, into the storm of him, into the madness that is loving the Joker.

HARLEY QUINN (HARLEEN QUINZEL)

- Harley doesn’t do anything halfway—not love, not laughter, not chaos. She is all in or not at all, and when she loves, she loves like a firework, bursting and burning and filling the sky with something dazzling. And you? Oh, you are her favorite explosion.

- It’s late, the two of you curled up on a rooftop, eating fast food from greasy paper bags and tossing fries at passing pigeons. She’s talking—always talking—telling you some ridiculous story, hands moving wildly, eyes bright with mischief. And you, you are just watching, because Harley demands to be watched, to be adored, to be the brightest thing in the room.

- Then, suddenly, she stops. Stares. And for the first time in forever, she is quiet. “Y’know,” she says, tapping a fry against her lips, “you’re real pretty.” And before you can react, she launches herself at you, knocking over a milkshake in the process, her hands tangling in your hair as she kisses you—deep, messy, impulsive, a little too much, just like everything else about her.

- When she pulls back, she giggles, nose scrunching. “That was fun,” she declares, wiping a smear of ketchup from your cheek. “We should do that more often.” And just like that, she is off again, talking, laughing, dragging you headfirst into her world, into the beautiful, reckless disaster that is Harley Quinn.

POISON IVY (PAMELA ISLEY)

- Ivy is not soft. Ivy does not fall in love. She grows it, cultivates it, like a rare flower—tender, careful, knowing exactly how much to give before it becomes dangerous. Love, for her, is control, is something precise, something she chooses. And yet, with you, something wild has taken root.

- The air smells like damp earth and blooming flowers, the greenhouse bathed in moonlight as Ivy moves between her plants, fingers tracing petals like a lover’s caress. She does not look at you, not yet, but she feels you, knows you are watching, waiting. “You shouldn’t be here so late,” she murmurs, voice smooth as silk. “The night-blooming cereus only opens for a few hours… blink, and you’ll miss it.”

- And then she turns, slow, deliberate, the faintest smirk curving her lips. “But I suppose,” she purrs, stepping closer, “there are… other things worth staying up for.” And before you can respond, before you can even breathe, she leans in, presses her lips to yours in a kiss that is devastatingly slow. It is not demanding—it is decadent, like honey, like poison, like something that lingers long after the first taste.

- When she finally pulls away, she watches you with something dangerous in her gaze, something unreadable. “Mmm,” she hums, tapping a finger against her lips. “I knew you’d taste sweet.” And then she turns, graceful as ever, leaving you there, breathless, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of her, of the flowers, of the slow, creeping promise of something deadly blooming between you.

BANE

- Bane is a man of discipline. Of control. Of unshakable strength. He does not need love—he needs power, needs focus, needs the kind of strength that is not burdened by foolish emotions. And yet, when it comes to you, something unraveling lurks beneath the surface.

- The gym is quiet, the scent of sweat and metal filling the air as he wraps his hands, preparing for another round of training. You watch him from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, amusement flickering in your gaze. “You fight like a machine,” you tease. “Where’s the fun in that?” He exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Fun is for the weak,” he states, voice steady, unreadable.

- But then, without warning, he moves, closing the space between you in a blink. He towers over you, his presence demanding, his expression unreadable. “You think I do not feel?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, dangerous. And then, before you can answer, his lips crush against yours, fierce, unyielding, like a conquest, like a claim. His hands do not shake. He does not hesitate. He takes, because Bane does not ask.

- When he pulls away, he lingers, his forehead brushing against yours, breath warm against your skin. “I do not love like men do,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost… reverent. “I do not break. I do not yield.” His fingers skim your jaw, careful, reverent, before he steps back, leaving you breathless, shaken, knowing without a doubt—Bane does nothing halfway, and now, you are his.

SCARECROW (JONATHAN CRANE)

- Love, to Jonathan Crane, is a peculiar thing. It is an experiment, a slow dissection, an endless study of human vulnerability. He approaches it with the same fascination he holds for fear itself, wanting to understand, to unravel it thread by thread. But you—you are the outlier, the variable he cannot control, the one thing in his carefully constructed world that does not fit neatly into a hypothesis.

- The air is thick with the scent of aged books and something faintly chemical, the dim glow of candlelight flickering against the walls of his cluttered study. You sit across from him, legs curled beneath you, his coat draped over your shoulders—a quiet, stolen intimacy in the middle of one of his obsessions. He watches you, fingers tapping idly against the spine of an old psychology tome, as if you are a question he cannot quite answer.

- “Fear,” he murmurs, voice almost thoughtful, “is the most intimate emotion. It strips away pretense. It lays us bare.” His gaze flickers to your lips then, calculating, curious. And before you can respond, before you can decipher the intent in his sharp, knowing eyes, he leans forward and kisses you. It is deliberate, precise, an experiment in itself—his lips cool, the pressure almost clinical, but there is something underneath it, something unraveling in him.

- When he pulls away, his breath is steady, but there is a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “Curious,” he muses, fingers brushing against his own lips, as if committing the sensation to memory. Then, after a moment, his gaze sharpens, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “I think I might need… further study.”

THE RIDDLER (EDWARD NYGMA)

- Edward Nygma does not fall in love. He solves it. Love, to him, is a puzzle—one of the most complicated riddles in existence. It is a game of logic, of carefully crafted patterns, of deductions and answers waiting to be uncovered. And yet, despite all his brilliance, despite all his mastery over language and mind games, he finds himself at a loss when it comes to you.

- The two of you are in his lair, a place that is entirely his—a shrine to intellect, filled with neon-green glow, stacks of unsolved puzzles, and the ever-present hum of his restless mind. You lean against one of his desks, idly toying with one of his trophies, while he paces, hands moving animatedly as he rattles off some elaborate scheme. But then, mid-sentence, he stops. Looks at you.

- His eyes narrow, lips pressing together. “I’ve been running the numbers,” he muses, voice quieter now, “and I have come to an… irritating conclusion.” He steps closer, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “You,” he says, as if it is an accusation, “are my favorite riddle.” And then, before you can speak, before you can tease him for his dramatics, he grabs your face and kisses you—quick, sharp, like a punctuation mark at the end of a maddening equation.

- When he pulls away, he exhales sharply, his eyes searching yours as if expecting some grand revelation. Then, finally, he smirks, straightening his tie with a self-satisfied little hum. “I do believe I’ve solved that mystery,” he declares. “Care for another round?”

TWO-FACE (HARVEY DENT)

- Love, to Harvey Dent, is a tragedy waiting to unfold. It is a gamble, a weighted coin forever spinning in the air, never quite landing on a side he can trust. He has been burned before, has been betrayed, has watched the world twist his kindness into a weakness. And yet, when it comes to you, the coin hangs—uncertain, suspended, caught between ruin and something almost hopeful.

- The city stretches out before you both, the rooftop quiet save for the distant hum of Gotham below. Harvey stands beside you, half in shadow, half bathed in the cold silver of moonlight. His fingers twitch at his side, the ever-present weight of his coin resting between them. You watch him flip it absently, his expression unreadable, his thoughts locked away behind the fractures in his mind.

- “You know,” he murmurs, rolling the coin across his knuckles, “everything in my life has been a game of chance.” He finally looks at you then, his mismatched gaze searching. “Even this.” He lifts the coin between you, lets it glint in the light before flipping it high into the air. You both watch as it spins, tumbling end over end, before finally landing—heads. He exhales, slow, measured, then steps forward and kisses you.

- The kiss is firm, decisive, a choice he has made rather than let fate decide. His hands are steady, his grip sure, and for a moment—for one rare, fleeting moment—Harvey Dent is not torn in two. When he pulls back, he lingers, his forehead resting against yours. “For once,” he murmurs, voice rough, “I don’t need a coin to tell me what I want.”

THE PENGUIN (OSWALD COBBLEPOT)

- Oswald Cobblepot is a man who has spent his life fighting to prove himself. To earn respect. To demand a seat at the table that Gotham never wanted to offer him. Love, to him, has always been transactional, a game of power, of alliances, of knowing when to hold your cards and when to play them. And yet, when it comes to you, the game no longer makes sense.

- The Iceberg Lounge is quiet in the late hours, the usual crowd long gone, the scent of expensive cigars and whiskey lingering in the air. Oswald sits at his desk, meticulously counting the night’s earnings, his fingers tapping against the polished wood. You watch him from across the room, perched on the edge of a velvet booth, swirling a glass in your hand. “You’re working too much,” you chide, your voice light, teasing. “Even the King of Gotham needs a break.”

- He exhales sharply, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. There is something calculating in his gaze, something unreadable, and then—without a word—he pushes himself up from his chair and crosses the room in a few determined strides. “You talk too much,” he mutters, and then, before you can quip back, before you can so much as blink, he cups your face in his gloved hands and kisses you.

- The kiss is possessive, firm, an undeniable claim. He is not a man used to softness, but with you, there is something almost reverent in the way he holds you, as if you are a rare jewel in his collection. When he finally pulls away, his breath is warm against your skin. “Mine,” he mutters, voice low, dangerous. “And I don’t share.”

[jellyfishsthings]

Don’t Look at Me Like That

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: injuries, Jason's stubborness

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The scent of antiseptic and stale gunpowder hung heavy in the air, a familiar perfume in our little corner of Gotham's underbelly. Jason sat perched on the edge of the metal table, a grim gargoyle cast in the dim glow of the single bare bulb overhead. Another night, another brawl, another set of wounds screaming for your attention.

He was a mess, as usual. A split lip, a blossoming bruise blooming on his cheekbone, and a nasty gash tearing through the muscle of his bicep. He reeked of cheap whiskey and desperation, a volatile cocktail that often led to nights like these. He was tense, coiled tight as a spring ready to snap.

"Hold still, will you?" you snapped, your voice rough around the edges, mirroring the environment we occupied. He flinched at the touch of the alcohol swab, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Don't need your help," he muttered, the words slurred just enough to betray the pain he was trying so hard to mask.

"Oh, really? Because last I checked, you were bleeding out faster than you could throw a punch," you retorted, your tone sharper than you intended. You hated this dance, the one where he pretended to be invincible and you pretended it didn't hurt to see him like this.

He scoffed, turning his head away. "I could handle it."

"Sure you could. You could also bleed all over your floor and then I'd have to clean it up. So, humor me," You said, picking up the curved needle and threading it with sterile thread. The metallic click seemed deafening in the small space.

He flinched again as the needle pierced his skin. His muscles tightened beneath your fingers. "Easy," You murmured, more to calm myself than him. You concentrated on the task at hand, meticulously drawing the edges of the wound together, each stitch a tiny act of defiance against the chaos that perpetually chased us.

His constant shifting was making the job harder. "Stop being a baby, babe," You muttered, the words slipping out before you could catch them. It was a term of endearment you rarely used, a small, fragile thing you usually kept locked away, hidden beneath layers of cynicism and shared trauma.

The silence that followed was deafening, thick and heavy like the Gotham fog. The only sound was the faint hum of the electricity and the frantic beat of your own heart.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes narrowing, the blue flame in them burning brighter than ever. "Say that again."

Your fingers fumbled with the thread, the delicate strand slipping through your grasp. You pretended not to notice the intensity of his gaze, the way his jaw clenched, the barely suppressed tension radiating from him. "What?" You asked, your voice deliberately casual, struggling to maintain the facade.

"Say it again." The words were a low growl, laced with a raw vulnerability that sent a shiver down your spine. It was a challenge, a dare, and a desperate plea all rolled into one.

You looked up at him, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped bird. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, the years of shared experience, the unspoken feelings, the constant push and pull, all hung suspended between us.

You took a breath, the air catching in your throat. "Babe," You repeated, the word a fragile offering, a glimpse beneath the hardened exterior you usually presented.

He stared at me, his expression unreadable. You could see the internal battle raging within him, the conflict between the need for connection and the fear of vulnerability. He looked like he was deciding whether to kiss you senseless or run as far away as possible.

Finally, a slow, shaky grin spread across his face, softening the harsh lines etched there by years of pain. It was a genuine smile, not the sardonic smirk he usually wore like armor. "Dangerous game you're playing," he said, his voice rough, a little breathless.

Your own smile crept out, a hesitant mirror of his. "Then stop losing."

The tension hadn’t completely dissipated, but the air had shifted. The space between us felt charged, electric. The simple act of stitching up a wound had somehow become something else entirely, a precarious dance on the edge of something real, something terrifying, something… maybe beautiful.

You finished the last stitch, snipped the thread, and applied a bandage. "All done," You said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

He didn't move, didn't break eye contact. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was gentle, hesitant, a stark contrast to the roughness of his usual demeanor.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

It wasn't just for the stitches. It was for everything. For the nights you stayed up waiting for him to come home. For the lies you told to cover his tracks. For the way you held him together, piece by piece, every time he threatened to shatter.

"Anytime, Jay," you said, your voice softer than you thought possible.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "Maybe… maybe next time, we skip the fight and go straight to the 'babe' part?"

You laughed, the sound a little shaky. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"

He grinned again, the devilish glint returning to his eyes. "You think patching me up is fun?"

"Let's just say it's… rewarding," You replied, your gaze dropping to his lips.

He didn't need any more encouragement. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss was rough, desperate, a collision of pain and need and a longing that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

It wasn't a fairytale ending. It wasn't a perfect, sanitized moment. It was raw, messy, and real, just like us. And in that moment, surrounded by the scent of antiseptic and the ghosts of battles fought and lost, it was everything you ever wanted.

We were both damaged, both broken, both teetering on the edge of oblivion. But maybe, just maybe, we could find solace in each other's chaos, a shared understanding in the darkness that threatened to consume us both. Maybe the dangerous game was worth playing, after all. Maybe, together, we could finally stop losing.

[itsagoodluckkiss]

Hi, I wanted to make a request about Luffy x female reader. The reader is feminine but clumsy, emotionally-reserved, unexperienced and kind-hearted. Smart and funny, with a soft spot for Luffy. . As for the plot, "she fell first, but he fell harder", slice of life with a little angst would be perfect. I'm desperate for fanfiction about first experience in everything kinda stuff. I'm not a minor, so it would be very good to see some sensual and awkward smut. I would be glad to read anything you'll write about Luffy x female!reader and I hope that you liked my request (^o^)/ sorry for bad english

It's Okay ~ Luffy x F!Reader

First of all, thank you for being my first request, you made me really happy and I'm really sorry for the really long wait, we had a really rough couple of months. Also, it's the first smut I've ever written so read this with patience. English is not my first language either and I'm sorry for any mistakes. Anyways, I had fun writing this, I hope you'll like it, lots of love!

Words: +3k

Warnings: hurt/comfort, op spoilers, ptsd, mentions of character death, comfort sex, smut with plot, oral (f!receiving), virginity loss (both), unprotected sex, cockwarming, fluffy ending kinda?, no use of Y/N

MDNI

Quiet days on The Thousand Sunny were as rare as mythical zoans. Not only because of dangerous encounters but also because of how calm the whole crew was today. Even your walking ray of sunshine captain was not as wild as usual. But you couldn’t really complain as you could focus on your task in silence.

The tailor of the crew, responsible of sewing, stitching and mending every piece of fabric on the ship. And that included the sails. Strong winds the night before managed a large tear and the next island was a couple of days away. So you had a job to do. Standing on a rope ladder, you effortlessly worked through the sails with elegance. Every piece of fabric in your home deserved care, as you’d always say when you mended the torn up clothes of your crew mates.

You were proud you could provide your family with loved and cared clothes and everything else they needed, top priority along with the dream of becoming the best tailor the seas had ever seen. Your mind wandered away to the smile of your captain every time you placed the fixed straw hat you came to love so much on his head, while you automatically repaired the sail. But your gracefulness started and ended at the needle in your hand.

Looking away into the sea for one second resulted in you prickling your finger. The sudden feeling caused you to lose your step and balance and you yelped as you fell from the ladder, expecting a hard fall and a trip to Chopper’s infirmary. But the land never came, arms wrapping around your frame, drawing you to somebody’s embrace. In fear, you wrapped yourself around your savior’s waist like a koala, your flower patterned dress coming up slightly. Your face went to the crook of his neck for one second, immediately recognizing who it was, and you raised your head to look at him in embarrassment.

“Hi there!”

“Luffy, thank you, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright. Was on my way to check if you needed help. Guess I was right.” he said laughing.

You smiled and hugged him tightly as he put you down on the deck. You were embarrassed, part of it because of your own clumsiness, another part because of the way Luffy’s hands lingered on your waist before letting you go.

“Are you almost done? Picked up a new card game from the last island and I want to play with you.”

“Oh, ah, I, I still have some, some work to do...?”

You didn’t. You also didn’t know why you said that. You said a lot of stupid stuff lately. You loved spending time with your captain, especially when you knew there wouldn’t be a crazy fight following you in a few hours. Falling in love with his brown eyes, his goofy and brave personality and his loyalty to his friends was the reason you said yes to joining the Straw Hats after you helped them save Robin in Ennies Lobby.

But ever since you returned to Sabaody, it’s gotten harder to contain the feelings for your first love. The other night while you two were keeping watch and talking about things you loved, an “I love you” escaped your lips without thinking, proceeding to an inept attempt to cover it by saying how you loved he is such a loyal friend. You felt the blush rushing to your cheeks as you looked again on his face and noticed something you were seeing more and more these days. His trademark smile was reduced to a small upward line and in his eyes there was a gleam of sadness. You couldn’t have that.

“It’s fine, I’ll see you around later I guess-”

“On another note, I can always finish it later. Let’s go play, Captain!”

And you grabbed his arm, running like a child playing chase across the deck toward Nami’s tangerine trees, laughing as you tripped on your two left feet, Luffy holding you upwards and laughing in the process, always there to catch you.

~

The ship was in motion, light rain falling from the night sky as Luffy found himself walking aimlessly on the empty deck. His black hair tousled, his straw hat dangling from the string around his neck, his posture slumped, trying to find some sort of relief in the breeze that hit his face. His trembling hands grip the railing, his gaze lost towards the vast ocean, unable to back focus on anything but his most recent nightmare. Memories of Ace's death spreading, like poison in his veins, once again. He tried to steady his breathing but failed as hot tears run down his cheeks, silent sobs leaving his body, trying not to wake up his crew. He hadn’t talked to anyone about Marineford. There was no reason for his friends to see him in that weakened state. He could tell that everyone felt guilty because they weren’t there for him, he didn’t want to feed that ugly feeling inside them.

You felt restless, worry prickling your skin like a hundred needles at once. Sleep wouldn’t do you a favor so you hoped off bed to get some fresh air on the deck and some moments of peace to think. Luffy’s sad eyes lingered in your thoughts. You couldn’t help but think about how much he had changed since you first met. You remembered the scrawny, eager, brave boy he was. Now his hair was longer and spikier, and he looked stronger than ever before, he was almost a man. Despite his carefree looks, a lot had changed about him. Yes, he was still as eager and resilient and determinated as ever, yet more mature, as much as maturity applied to him. And that big scar across his chest was the only testament of the fight he gave alone two years ago, as he hadn't talked to any of you about it. Not that he had to. You all knew you would wholeheartedly give him the support in any form he’d need. You’d do what you knew best. Take care of the people you loved. And from the moment you joined the crew, you knew your heart belonged to the straw hat captain.

You spotted Luffy in the front of the ship. It was unusual for him to be up and alone this late at night. Your eyes filled with concern, you walked closer to him as you noticed the trembling in his form, worry rising in your chest. Your hand caressing his shoulder slightly, you didn’t want to scare him or make him feel worse.

"Luffy?" you asked softly, voice barely audible over the wind.

Luffy wiped his tear streaked face quickly and tried to control his heavy breathing, wanting to be like his usual self, even if he knew it was too late for acting.

“I…”

He took a deep breath trying to hold it all in. He was the one that was supposed to help people through their crying and problems, to protect them. He couldn’t protect his friends in Sabaody, he couldn’t save his brother. He swore he’d never let anything like those things happen again. He didn’t want to be seen as weak. Not again. Not in front of his crew. Not in front of you.

“It’s okay, Luffy.”

His eyes met yours, a warm and safe gaze, always inviting and full of love, ready to be a place of comfort and joy to anyone that needed it. You wrapped your arms around his shoulder and back, taking him in a comforting embrace. His arms went immediately around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as silent sobs left him once again. He hugged you tightly, hyperventilating as he let every last feeling of grief and pain out. You felt your eyes well too, the pain your favorite person carried alone enough to make you want to scream.

“It’s okay… you’re okay… it wasn’t your fault…”

“I couldn’t… I thought you… were all dead… and… I was right there… I couldn’t save him… he left… in my arms… it should have been me!”

Your heart ached listening to Luffy's sobs, tears running down your face as well. You pulled back slightly, cupping his face in your hands, and looked into his red, puffy eyes.

“Listen to me! Don’t say that again, ever! We all know you’d never let us down. You did everything you could, Luffy, you always do, and it’s enough for us." You said, voice shaking, carrying all the sincerity in the world. "And you always were there for him. You gave everything you had! He loved you so much and you saved him because you showed him how loved and cherished he was! You're still doing everything you can to keep his memory alive. That's what he would want! Don’t do this to yourself, please.”

You wiped the tears off his face and squeezed his cheeks like you usually did when you shared food and laughs together, managing to drag out a small smile from the boy.

“How about we go grab some tea and biscuits from the kitchen before Sanji comes down from his watch and go to my room?” you suggested, knowing Luffy would never say no to food.

“It’s on!”

Stealth wasn’t your strongest suit as you somehow always managed to hit on something. And with Luffy beside you, havoc was almost always certain. Getting out of the kitchen as fast as you could, before Sanji’s yells could reach you, you run into the ship, down to your handicraft’s room. The warmth of the cabin enveloped Luffy, feeling a little more like his usual self now, as he took in the room. That’s were all your great works laid, with needles, threads and sewing machines all over the place. From clothes and blankets to large embroideries hanging from the walls. You laid a soft, fluffy blanket on the ground to sit on. You sipped your scolding tea as Luffy munched on a cookie, taking in your works.

“I don’t know how you can make beautiful things like these.”

“I’ve practiced it a lot. And I love it. I’m glad you like it, Captain.”

You smiled widely, gaining a toothy grin from him.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For always being here.”

You were thinking your next words for a moment before moving the cups and plate from the blanket, taking his shoulders gently as you both laid on the ground, your eyes looking at each other, taking his hand into yours.

“It's alright to not be fine, you know… I'll always be here for you, no matter what.”

“It’s… I’m not thinking about it most of the time… I just have nightmares… it’s hard sometimes.”

“And that’s completely logical, Luffy, you’ve been through hell! I collapsed when I heard the news and couldn’t be with you. I would have run to you if I could. I love you so much and I’m sorry I wasn’t there and…”

You were the one tearing up now, cheeks red from embarrassment as the words slipped through your mouth without thinking. You knew Luffy would be shattered when you heard about Ace. The only thing you wanted was to hug him until you pulled all his pieces back together. He met your gaze. Luffy was never interested in romance. He didn’t thought he needed it. Until he met you and for the first time, he wanted someone to join his crew not only because he wanted them as a friend and they’d be a great addition, but because he felt something different, something he couldn’t quite understand. The only thing he knew was that he loved you a little differently than the rest of his friends. It was his turn to brush the tears off your face now and you melted from his touch. You tried to speak but before you could, his hand, warm and slightly trembling, cup your cheek. His lips pressed into yours, just for a moment, before drawing back only inches from your face.

“I think I love you too.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, heart pounding against your ribs. Never had you thought you’d hear those words from Luffy. Of course, you knew he loved everyone in the crew, but this felt different. You felt like you would burst into flames as you blushed even more.

“You, you do?!”

“Yeah… you’re sweet and strong… always by my side… you’re very important to me…”

You let out a gasp of surprise as you hugged him tightly and crushed your lips into his clumsily, both of you laughing at your enthusiasm. Small, sweet kisses evolved into longer, more passionately ones and soon you were underneath him, his hands caressing your thigh beneath your dress, your hands slowly pushing his vest off of him.

“Are you okay?”

“I am, you?”

“Me too.”

Soon, your clothes landed somewhere else in the room as you felt him caressing your skin everywhere and you gasped into the kiss, him taking advantage of your parted lips to push his tongue into your mouth, tangling it messily with yours. His lips travelled down your neck and lower, soon to be between your legs. A feeling of self-consciousness crept over you as you closed your legs and he smiled up at you as he caressed your thigh.

“Hey, it’s okay, we can stop if you want.”

“No, I want this, I’ve just… never do this before…”

“Neither do I. We’ll find it together. But I want you to be comfortable. You can stop me if you don’t feel okay.”

You smile down at him and relaxed a bit, allowing him to spread your legs and start kissing the inside of your thighs. It felt so good to share another experience with him, and his touch was gentler than you thought it would be. He positioned your thighs on his shoulders and before you could react, his mouth was on you, his tongue licking a stripe before latching onto your clit. Your head fell back immediately as a choked out moan slipped through your mouth, one hand flying to his hair, pulling on his locks gently as the other grasped the blanket beneath you. His eyes were on you, his look was magnetic and focused on the task of making you feel good. A finger circling your tight hole, it pushed inside you slowly as he sucked on your clit, making you whimper from the pleasurable feeling. The stretching inside you new and welcomed, a combination of his mouth and a second finger breaching in has your orgasm approaching faster than you expected. He curled his fingers upwards, hitting repeatedly a spot you had never reached before on your own and it pushed you over the edge unexpectedly. He smiles against you as small moans left your mouth, your whole body shaking, your head spinning.

Coming down from your high, he crawls back on top of you and kisses you passionately, your tongues intertwining. You can taste yourself through the kiss, and it makes you long for more. He breaks the kiss and smiles down at you.

“How was that?”

“Luffy, it was… amazing. How did you know-”

“Didn’t. Just did what felt right. Are you okay to continue?”

You nodded eagerly and he grinned at you, his lips back on yours again. Your hand sneaks between your bodies to grab his dick, gently pumping him up and down, bringing him close to your folds. He moans into the kiss and swats your hand away, gliding himself between your now soaked pussy, his tip touching your clit every time, sending small jolts of pleasure down your spine. He breaks the kiss, his face only inches apart from yours, staring into your eyes.

“You’re sure?”, he whispered.

“Yes captain, please…”

A shiver run through his body as he hears your plead, and he moves his tip against your entrance, pushing in. A small gasp escape you and a sharp hiss leaves his mouth as he slowly slides into you, his movements awkward but gentle, the feeling of your warmth around him making him slightly tremble as he bottoms out. It felt slightly uncomfortable for you at first but the pain you expected to feel was nowhere to be found. His lips were on your neck, nibbling and sucking gently while his arms roamed your body, trying to make you relax as he stayed still, waiting for you to adjust to him. A few moments passed and your hand cupped his chin, bringing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss.

“Feels better now?”

“Yes, Luffy… please, move…”

He smiled down at you and placed another soft kiss on your lips as he began to move, taking it slow and tender, setting a rhythm that made you gasp, the pleasure spreading over you. One of his hands on yours, intertwining your fingers as the other grabbed your thigh to keep you against him, his forehead on yours, eyes closed as you both relished the feeling of your bodies pressed together. His speed picked up slightly as he finds a steady rhythm and you moan his name, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. He smiles widely and kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, your fingers running through his hair, gently tugging at his dark locks.

One hand gripped your thigh rougher now, pushing it upwards, the shift in position allowing him to go deeper, the other sneaking between your bodies to rub at your clit. Your face buries in the crook of his neck, trying to choke down your moans, the knot in your stomach tightening as his thrusts grow faster and sloppier, you feel that he’s close too.

Your lips connect again in a messy kiss and your back arches as you come undone, crying out through the kiss, your nails dragging down his back. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your jaw and neck, his hands grab your hips to drag you to him as he fucks you through your high, his hips stuttering, feeling your walls squeezing him tight, pushing him over the edge with you.

You stay like this for a while, hands wrapped around each other, his face buried in the crook of your neck, savoring the moment. He places a tender kiss on your cheek and turns to face you, his head on your shoulder.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel… wonderful…” you say with a sigh as you smile up at him. His hand caressing you cheek, he placed another sweet kiss before stretching his hand to grab another blanket nearby, covering the both of you. He then lies flat on top of you again, his arms wrapping around you, and closes his eyes, still inside you.

“Luff, we…”

“Can’t move, I feel snuggly right now.”

You laugh softly as you hug him back, feeling his breath slow down as he slowly falls asleep, your eyelids getting heavy as well, a content smile playing on your lips.

“Goodnight dummy…”

[roseyodditea]

totally love your work especially Lighter part then i saw u open the request, so.. if u don't mind or busy, may i request Lighter with a deaf and mute reader. Lighter, who has trouble communicating with them, decides to learn sign language but sometimes he messes up so the reader decides to teach him and as time goes by, the two become closer and you know how it ends, i imagine Lighter trying to express his feelings using sign language (but again he fails because he's too nervous). tysm 💕💕

This is based off of ASL since I am American. Also, please let me know if there are any mistakes! I don't know sign language and I'm not surrounded by people who do.

Just Give Me A Sign - Lighter x gn!Reader

Summary -> 1000 words (exactly!). Lighter's favorite nurse visits Blazewood, and he's trying to learn sign language. Warnings -> Brief moment of an injury (not in detail). A/N -> I think I'm so funny for that title. Also I made the reader a nurse. I know it wasn't in the request but I felt a draw to this storyline.

It was rare you had to make a trip all the way out to the Outer Ring for work. Normally the bikers had a pretty solid trade schedule and wouldn’t need to order emergency supplies, and even if they did Piper would drive the truck back and forth. Today was a special case, and Blazewood had been hit with a bacterial contamination in the well water, so you were hauling antibiotics from the clinic you worked at. You parked your car and shot a text to Ceaser, who immediately exited Cheesetopia and ran up to help you unload the supplies. You saw her lips moving very quickly and since you were distracted you couldn’t lip read entire sentences.

Lighter… back… Hollow… Her face then contorted to frustration and you saw her lips form “Lucy” and decided to not pay attention for the rest of her ramble. After six months of being the nurse contact between your clinic and Blazewood, you think they’d remember you’re deaf. You carry more boxes into the makeshift clinic, storing them properly so the town could start to recover before stepping back outside. Technically you could drive straight back to New Eridu, but you decide to enjoy some time here. Hey, you were getting paid, might as well stretch out the clock.

It was a beautiful day in Blazewood. Little wind so sand and tumbleweeds were at a standstill, a thin layer of clouds to dampen the scorching rays from the sun. You walk over to the random couch and sit, closing your eyes to simply enjoy the warmth as it seeped into your skin. You only bother to open your eyes when you feel a small tap on your shoulder. You open them to see Burnice standing above you, holding a glass. Oh no.

Instead of watching her trying to clumsily fingerspell ‘Nitro-Fuel’, she gestures to the lower level, signing out ‘help’. You follow her only to see a repeat patient sitting on an empty oil drum, his leather jacket and scarf laid across his lap, his chest scratched and bruised and bloodied, a particularly deep wound on his shoulder. She leaves you to him and you quickly grab your phone out of your pocket, typing out a message. 

What now, Lighter?

Lighter glances over to the phone and shrugs nonchalantly, crossing his forearms with his fist’s balled. Fight. Of course that's a sign he knows. He didn’t learn any of the basic conversation signs, but he learned ‘Fight’ and most of the curse words. 

You look at his shoulder and know it wouldn’t need stitches, but it would need to be patched up. You shoot him a frustrated look as you snap on your gloves, Lighter offering a sheepish smile.  Your hands move quickly, practice. Lighter was a good patient, sitting still and only minorly twitching away from the antiseptic. You had his shoulder wrapped up tightly before you took off the gloves, typing something out on your phone before handing it to him. 

Change the dressing daily. Rest.

Lighter nodded before thinking for a moment, his movements uncertain as he placed his hand on his chin, gesturing it downward to you before holding a hand palm out, tapping his fingers together on his wrist. 

Thank you, Doctor

You shake your head, taking his hand and closing some of his fingers so only his pointer and middle finger are out, correcting him to sign ‘nurse’ instead of ‘doctor’ before bringing your fingers in the shape of a v up to your forehead, knowing he’d recognise ‘dumbass’. Much to your enjoyment, he looked a bit offended, but eventually smiled.

**********

With the waterborne illness still running through Blazewood, you came back a few days later to push IV fluids into the dehydrated, lending a hand to the Sons of Calydon when you could. Lucy and Lighter had joined you for a lunch break, Lucy being the only Sons of Calydon member who knew enough sign language to keep up in conversation with you. Lighter was in his own world, eyebrows furrowed tightly like he was deep in thought.

Lucy points to him, taps her chin, and then points to you. He missed you. You smile and look over to the man who was just scooting food around his plate. 

You roll your eyes, gesturing to him, and curling your pointer finger before tapping your lips and then your chest. He should tell me.

You and Lucy conversed for a bit, secretly talking about Lighter who was just watching the back and forth silently. He was getting better at picking up signs, but you and Lucy went too fast for him to keep up. Once Lucy left, Lighter looked at you over the rim of his sunglasses with those big puppy eyes. He might not be quick at picking up sign language, but every time there was a bit of free time between the two of you, he asked for lessons. 

You sat with him for what must have been an hour, running through basic conversational signs. Lighter was learning, slowly but surely. It was sweet. All of this work for him just to learn to talk to you in something other than typing or writing and passing notes. 

After the little lesson, Lighter looked up at you, his hands idly fidgeting. He was nervous, that much was clear. He points to you, taps his chin with his middle finger, before tapping his pointer finger and middle against his wrist. You, favorite, nurse… You’re my favorite nurse. Cute. 

You saw how nervous he was. How he had practiced those movements. So you decided to see just how much he had learned just for this cute little confession. You tap the tips of your flattened hand to the corner of your mouth and then up to your cheek. You smile to yourself as you watch his face explode into a deep blush, almost matching the color of his scarf as he looks away. 

Adorable. He already learned ‘kiss’.

Here are the resources I used for the signs! https://www.signingtime.com/ https://www.signingsavvy.com/

[inky-squid]

Wasn't for her - Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

A late night patrol ends up in Jason realising that, if it wasn't for her, he would have never known what love felt like outside of the shitty examples he had growing up.

First fanfic I've written in like 6 years. so it's fairly low effort (by that I mean I looked for a map of Gotham just so I could write one sentence, but I haven't edited ANYTHING. so sorry if there's spelling errors 😭 feel free to call me out on them)

No use of (y/n), reader is just referred to as her/she. also no physical description other than general descriptors ("sleep mussed hair", "ratty braids" in memory/flashback moment etc)

I mentioned Catherine Todd AND Sheila Haywood as parental figures to Jason. Ik Sheila is very rarely mentioned anymore (in fanfics or otherwise) but she was an important part of Jason's story at some point before being fazed out completely 😭 (no mention of Bruce, was gonna be included but I forgot what I was gonna write 🤷‍♀️)

I also mentioned a Kit Cat Klock, it's the iconic black cat clock (if you don't know what it is, just Google "cat clock", I promise it will come up) the only reason that detail is included is because I genuinely love them, but don't have like £50 spare to buy one 😔

3:58am

By now most of Gotham - even the villains who haunted the streets - were tucked into bed, deep into dreaming of a place far away from the cracked concrete pavements, and crumbling buildings they called home.

Just on the cusp of Crime Alley and Old Gotham, the sound of heavy boots on the rotting metal of a worn fire escape bounced through the sleepy streets, before the familiar sound of a window being slid open accompanied them.

The space given by the window was a tighter squeeze than it had been a few years prior, however the heat that met Jason's face as he entered made it worth it.

The rain had been constant for the past 3 days, not that sunshine would be commonplace, and had resulted in a wet squelch as Jason's combat boots met the plush welcome mat (placed underneath the window purely due to his habit of entering through the window after patrol).

After nudging his shoes off, and removing his helmet, he tiptoed through the apartment, ensuring he didn't step on any of the loose floorboards. With very few injuries, or rather none that needed stitches and could be neglected til morning, he hunkered down on the couch and began removing his equipment.

His efforts to remain quiet proved to be futile, as the shuffling of sock clad feet could be heard down the corridor. Despite this, his focus remained on cleaning his guns, after making sure the safety is on of course (he'd learnt the hard way after nearly taking his toes clean off).

A sleep warmed hand cupped the back of his neck, before gliding around his shoulders to cradle him. A sigh slid from his throat as he leaned into her hold. Finally drawing his eyes away from his, now clean, weapons and holsters, he was met with the sight of sleep mussed hair.

“Hey doll.” The words slipped from his lips in an unintentionally whisper, almost scared to break the quiet that surrounded them.

A small “hi Jay” was all he got in reply, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

A small huff of laughter escaped through his nose as he used her left arm to guide her around the couch and into his side. Without opening her eyes, she settled her head against his shoulder, breathing a contented sigh against his collarbone.

Heat bloomed in his chest as he looked down to find her completely slumped against him, eyes closed and breathing even in sleep. Unwilling to disturb her just yet, he sat for a moment longer, in a position all too familiar after years of being friends, and then everything more for almost as long. Slowly, the tension began melting away from Jason's muscles, taking the lingering cold from the rain with it.

Looking over his shoulder at the ridiculous “Kit Cat Klock” she insisted they buy, he saw that it was now 4:29am. Knowing he wouldn't be able to go to sleep just yet, even though his body begged for it, he took the time to scan the room.

Their apartment was a museum of them. With cinema tickets held to the fridge by a strawberry magnet, possibly hundreds of photos they had taken over the years scattered around the small living room and bedroom, and their childhood teddies (yes Jason had a teddy growing up, so what? it's a bear, and he's cool as fuck) sat snuggled together on the bookcase.

Despite the apartment being hers long before Jason had moved in, it screamed them. not her, not him. Them. It was everything Jason had dreamed of as a child, and everything he convinced himself he didn't deserve. But somehow, at the ages of 18 and 19, the scrappy little girl he ran the streets with as a kid proved him very wrong.

it's crazy to think, but if it wasn't for that scrappy little girl, with 4 of her teeth missing and ratty braids in her hair shoving Jason off a swing when he was 6 and making him swallow his tooth, he would have never know what if felt like to be truly, unapologetically loved.

If it wasn't for her, he would have grown up with Catherine Todd, Willis Todd, And Sheila Haywood, as his only examples of “love” in this world. So while at the time, Jason believed she was the devil incarnate, he's never been more thankful for the childhood trauma of swallowing a tooth.

[sqwimmz]

Some Ygor headcanons cause I can’t stop thinking about him!!

They’re in a totally random order

• He’s had a lot of his limbs reattached or completely switched out. You can’t be brought back to life over and over again and not need some minor (or major) replacements.

• In a similar vein, he’s had to have an eye replaced due to an accident in the lab, and it’s why he now barely takes off his goggles. (It’s also an excuse for me to draw him with two different eye colors hehehe)

• Doesn’t get much sleep but when he does he’s the heaviest sleeper known to man. Has a really quiet, but noticeable snore that’s mixed with incoherent mumbles. Twitches like he’s being electrocuted. Also can’t sleep unless he’s in the weirdest position possible.

• Has pretty messed up teeth as is, but has prominent buck teeth and a tooth gap combo <333 a little insecure about it though.

• Verrrry sensitive to light especially since getting one of his eyes replaced.

• Top love languages are acts of service, gift giving, and physical affection.

• Not one to catch feelings quickly per se, but is easily flustered. Definitely someone who daydreams while working and finds himself needing to stare off into space so the heat from his cheeks starts to cool.

• He is so much smarter than he lets on, and he likes it that way. Very noticeable how intelligent he is when he gets a chance to stitch up some limbs or the topic of the human body is brought up.

• Speaking of which- will infodump if given the chance. He’ll drone on and on about human anatomy or if we truly have souls.

• I love the idea he plays cello but not very often. Something he picked up at a younger age and barely does anymore.

• It’s been mentioned in the park that he’s ticklish and I just think that’s adorable (I love his silly high pitched giggles) but I do think he’ll throat chop you if you try. However he’s not good at continuing his defense and will end up curled on the floor begging for mercy—definitely a big weakness.

• Also occasionally snorts while laughing, which he finds funny and causes even more snorts mixed with harder laughter

• Although short, on the rare occasion that he does stand completely straight he’s a few inches taller. Still shorter than Victoria though.

• Never wears clothes that fit him, almost everything he wears swallows him and is at least a size too big. He knows he could mend them to fit, being good at stitching things up and all, but is too busy to ever remember or care enough.

[hocuspocusbabyy]

Rosemary - Calex

"You screamed like a baby" Alex laughed lightly pushing the theatre door open as they stepped out into the streets of Manhattan. Casey had picked her up that evening for a date and they’d driven out of the city, taken the ferry, in hopes of an evening work free without bumping into anyone or being disrupted. They’d ended up doing shots with George and the rest of shrinks, last time they tried to go for a quiet drink together. The time before that Liv and Elliott had called halfway through insisting that Alex come in for a warrant. You really did have to be the arsehole to say no in their line of work.

They were becoming desperate; and thus Alex had locked their cellphones in their desk at work and disappeared for the evening. Their flats had answering machines.

"I do not scream like a child" Casey deadpanned wrapping the red stitch pattern of her scarf around her neck for the third time, in poor attempts to escape the October winds. Alex had actually knitted said scarf during a trial last month - apparently the blonde had a habit of stress knitting as Munch and Fin both walked in with matching knitted ties the next day.

"I mean Rosemary's baby isn't even scary" The taller woman giggled, her nose scrunching adorably.

"I did not scream," Casey huffed, folding her arms in defence. They’d been seeing each other for a little over three months since that night in the bathroom at Liz’s last benefit; and neither woman had ever been happier. They spent weekends with Casey’s dog Gell, the redheads photo album currently full of the blonde. Asleep on Casey’s couch with Gell laid between her legs, eating icecream in Central Park. The redhead had even snapped a few of Alex on her morning run, she’d taken to walking Gell at the same time.

Thursdays had become their unofficial date night; however Alex’s favourite moments were the stolen ones... when Casey fixed her hair on their way into meetings, or left Alex coffee with a note when she got to the office before the redhead or even when the blonde insisted on childish antics such as leaving events early to make out in the storage closet.

She was everything and nothing that Casey had expected or would experience again.

Alex bowed her head laughing at the deep curl of her rarely untamed hair falling before her eyes. She smiled gently leaning enough to bump her shoulder against Casey’s "Oh? so what do you call what I witnessed back there?"

"That amore, was merely my attempt to have a heart attack without an ounce of dignity" The lawyer smirked slightly, a growing blush visible upon her sharp jaw.

"Oh of course I forgot not all of us have nerves of steel like you, growing up in cracksville Nevada with your dancing aunts eh? Slugger" Alex teased, biting her lip lightly.

"New Jersey" Casey started shifting a heavy hand through the amber drift of her hair, "but you already knew that” the blonde winked, Alex knowing all too well about Casey’s upbringing, her aunts and the Ballet school they ran. The redhead had seen Casey dance many times, she loved to pick her up from the dance studio every Tuesday - sweaty and full of endorphins.

“plus they were much more into Pot than crack.” The redhead winked, “And don't call me Slugger, Amore!"

"Oh, apologies" Alex laughed drawing a hand across her face, gazing around the surprising busy streets - burying her hands into her coat. “We both know you prefer being my pretty girl anyway.” The older woman giggled, shooting the now blushing redhead a wink.

“Little minx.” Casey mumbled, trying to act as if hearing the taller woman call her that, wasn’t such a turn on. Alex merely giggled, reaching out and making a grabby hand until the lawyer grasped one of them within her own. The pair swinging their clasped hands back and forth in a childish manner.

"So... what's our plan for the rest of the night? Not that I don't adore going to see back to back horror movies with you." Casey asked using a finger to flick a stand of hair away from the blonde’s eyes.

"We" Alex started dragging an arm between the pair as they back down the high street "do not have a plan"

"Well, let's make one," Casey smirked, backing the other woman against an illuminated poster for an upcoming movie. Back pressed up against the light Alex shook her head at her 'attacker', scrunching her nose as Casey's face drew closer to her own, light hands framing either side of her face.

Alex's lips are soft, and still taste like the twizzlers they had in the theatre. Immediately, Casey gets lost in the sensation of lips sliding against each other.

The redhead's hands have found her way into the blonde's long hair, tugging ever so slightly. The sensation sent a shiver down Alex’s spine. They break apart to breathe after a while, but their faces stay close, noses almost touching. Like this, Casey can smell Alex's familiar perfume pomegranate, deep and fruity, probably the best thing she's ever smelled - though definitely her favourite thing.

There’s almost no space between them, Alex still gripping the redhead’s scarf holding her closer as she starts giggling.

“Ah ha. What’s so funny?” Casey asks grazing her nose along the blondes lovingly - she was obsessed with Alex’s dainty little nose.

“Nothing” Alex started placing her hands on Casey’s chest giving her breast a quick squeeze, dragging a laugh from the other woman before Alex pushed her away. "I have my own plans tonight, that don't include you"

Groaning at the loss of contact Casey gawked as the lawyer's devilish frame visible even through the large Burberry coat that hung from it drew from beneath her "and here I thought we were a team Cabot.”

"we are" Alex stated connecting the blondes pouting lips - similar to that of a sulking child with her own in a simple kiss, "which is why I need a break"

"you need a break from me?" the frown graving large crevices upon her forehead.

"Yes... so I'll still like you in the morning" Hands reaching her waist in attempts to keep her close Casey sighed.

"You know, you could just take me home, then i would be there for you in the morning?" Casey winked snaking an arm round Alex's waist kissing her neck gently. “I could get up, make you breakfast, drive you to work...” each sentence punctuated with more little kisses, licks and bites.

"My mother is in town and I know how vocal you can be when I 'like' you in the mornings" Alex winked cheekily, kissing her lightly once more and moving away again.

“Can I atleast drive you home?”

“Nope. Because we both know if you drive me home you’ll end up on my doorstep, then my kitchen, then my bed.” Alex accused poking a finger at the lawyer's chest.

“That is usually the goal Amore” Casey teased, reaching out to grasp the other woman again.

“Ah ah ahh pretty girl" Alex warned, causing the shorter woman to groan. Alex grasped her face, kissing those perfect lips gently, “You will see me bright and early at work.”

“Yeah but I can’t do what I want to do to you, at work.” Casey sulked, stomping her feet lightly similar to Elliott when Alex won’t let him mess with the suspects.

“When has that ever stopped you?” Alex asked with a knowing look, that made the other woman blush and look a little sheepish - before a particular memory of having her head between Alex’s legs as she lay across a bullpen desk caused her chest to fill with pride.

“besides” Alex continued tapping her watch to show it was already past midnight “you're already intruding on my Halloweve" Spreading her arms wildly Alex chuckled spinning; the street which they currently resided on was relatively empty as she drew further from the other women.

"Who celebrates the day before Halloween anyway!" Casey called after the blonde’s fading form.

"Cabot’s do!" Alex called back, lifting up on her toes as she hailed a taxi from the curb.

"You Alexandra Cabot, will be the death of me" The redhead called out walking backwards from the scene towards her car. Her chest light and happy at the sound of the blonde laughing.

"Here's hoping" Alex smirked, holding out her crossed fingers, before disappearing into the back of the vehicle. The shadow of Casey soon sinking into the sea of busy Manhattan, as the car pulled away. Only to roll back up beside her.

The redhead smirked, leaning down to tap the taxi glass gently till it rolled down, “Can I help you?” She turned to find her familiar blonde resting against the frame, looking up at her.

“Say goodbye properly first.” Alex pouted, puckering her lips to the other woman. Casey gladly swooped down to seal their mouths together. Alex was grinning by the time they finished, leaning back into the cab to red the meter. She turned back towards the open window. “Beat me home and maybe I’ll let you in.” She winked before the car raced off. Leaving Casey stood to fumble for her keys and beat her girlfriend back to the city.

[strawberrystepmom]

shifting sands and the fingers they fall through | one

cw: non-graphic discussion of an injury reader has. trafalgar law x fisherman f!reader. | word count: 1.7k, reading time: approx. 6 min.

note: this is the first part of a series. each post will contain warnings that pertain to that particular chapter. | part: two, three, four; five, six

The late morning sun beats hot overhead but you remain cool enough tucked beneath your fishmongering stall, humming to yourself while pouring more ice into the chests behind you that contain everything you caught last night and this morning.

So far everything has gone the same way it does, well, every day. You wake up, you fish, you clean, you put them on ice, you sell what you can. This is the rhythm of your life, never up or down or out of tune, just the way you think you like it. It has been this way for at least a decade so there’s no sense in complaining about it now, even while you notice the tune your humming feels off key. It must be the lingering heat.

It’s technically autumn although you’d never know it. Island life is perpetually sundrenched, the waters that provide your shelter and food thanks to their contents never cooling quite enough to keep you from doing the job. There’s always demand regardless, whether it be from small fleets that dock near your sleepy seaside hometown or your fellow inhabitants. The work is never quite all the way done.

You go back to humming, fixing your pitch, only to be interrupted by footsteps approaching the front of your stall.

“Good morning, flounder is the catch of the day. The fish comes cleaned and I’ll even throw in deboning for free if you’d like.”

Your spiel goes unanswered which is rare. It’s usually recited back to you by any one of your regular buyers, a smile on their face mirroring your own. This draws you to turn around and face whoever is standing in front of the stall, one of the few in town run by a woman.

The man standing there is a stranger.

Every person on this island knows one another, the various small fishing villages dotting the coastline deeply interconnected. You were an outsider once too. Granted, you tried a lot harder to fit in than this man standing in front of you, his clothes vastly different from the breezy linen and cotton worn by everyone else. His face is firm, mouth set in a line with dark hair that brushes the tops of his eyebrows and narrowed golden eyes.

At least he’s a handsome stranger, you reason. You smile and roll your shoulders forward slightly and he remains as you found him. Unmoved.

“The flounder is fine and so are the bones.”

In an instant, your expression turns from pleasant to puzzled. He doesn’t react, simply keeping his hands folded over his chest wordlessly and expressionless. Clearly this guy isn’t interested in small talk and that’s fine, you get to work and pull a piece of parchment from beneath the counter and open the ice chest behind you to pull out your largest catch.

A fruit of the sea, caught and processed lovingly by your hands. Sometimes you catch yourself softly smiling down at the faces of all the fish you catch, perhaps as a means to honor them or at least say you’re sorry. Today though, you keep the subtle smile to yourself and get to work.

“It’ll be 350 Belly,” you mutter while plopping the flounder down on the paper, folding the edge of the paper over the tail. This mysterious man says nothing but his gaze is heavy and is clearly pinned to your movements, your left arm specifically.

“Your stitches look like shit.”

A loud exhalation followed by a humorless laugh is your initial response, pausing your work and then resuming it for a moment to avoid saying something snarky to a man who is about to pay you. You pause again, tilting your head to the side to look up at this stranger who apparently believes insults are appropriate.

“Thanks, I did them myself,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes, proud of your ability to do so covertly enough he won’t even be able to tell.

He absolutely notices it, alongside the range of emotion you’ve let show all over your face in such a short span of time, and shifts his weight from foot to foot while folding his arms over his chest. Law isn’t trying to be an asshole. If you insist on taking his concern that way, it makes no difference to him. The bottom line is that he can see clear as the sky overhead that this wound was not properly tended to.

“You need to see a doctor about that.”

Still narrowed eyes dart down to inspect the jagged wound that will undoubtedly leave a scar if it doesn’t get infected and kill you first. You shake your head and shrug, back to work wrapping his fish. The wound aches if you’re honest. Thankfully you’ve been able to stay busy enough to ignore it although it’s an angry, screaming red and makes itself impossible to completely tune out.

Sighing again, you finish wrapping the fish and slide it across the countertop to the man still appraising your arm from afar. You have work to do and this conversation is preventing it from getting done. Why is he wasting your time with a lecture?

“When you find one, let me know. We don’t have one on the island.”

Hopefully your tone is dismissive enough that he gets the picture. You still feel him looking at you, which is frustrating. Law raises his brows, eyes finally shifting from your arm back to your face.

“Today must be your lucky day because there’s one right in front of you.”

You laugh again. It’s a bit more genuine sounding than the first, a confused smile spreading across your face. This man, the one with the ominously tattooed knuckles, is a doctor?

“What?” He asks, face as impassive as it has remained since the moment he arrived at your little stall.

What is he doing here to begin with? Fishing islands are no strangers to a range of visitors, some more nefarious than others, but it’s a surprise that anyone shows up here. Maybe he’s just like you and he’s running to find himself. Or hiding, that’s always a possibility.

Either way, your sleepy little life could be about to get more interesting. Thrusting your arm outward in his direction and raising your eyebrows expectantly, you see how he’ll react. If he’s going to brag about it, you may as well put him to work after all.

“I wasn’t offering to look at it for you,” he clarifies while reaching out to wrap his hand around your wrist.

He finds it slightly annoying that instinct kicked in before he could stop it, his earnest desire to help people buried deep enough he can ignore it most of the time. The touch makes you a little skittish, defying your boldness in offering the opportunity to begin with.

“I told you we don’t have a doctor here. Where else am I gonna find one?”

Sighing, he tugs you gently toward him. You bend at the waist, leaning over the counter, wincing when his thumb brushes against the sorest part of the wound - the skin directly on the edges of it. It’s hot to the touch, eliciting an annoyed glance in your direction. The wound is bad but you did your best with what was on hand which was nothing but a huge needle and durable thread meant for mending sails.

“It’s going to get infected if it isn’t already.”

This should scare you more than it does but you shrug flippantly, preparing to pull your arm back before being stopped with a firm but strangely gentle thumb on the outside of it. The doctor, as you know him now, leans in closer and really glances at the damage done, shaking his head so quickly you’d miss it if you blinked.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle under his gaze. This is far more attention than you’re used to even for being a somewhat attractive, single woman on an island mostly populated by men. Most of them are old and settled into their lives with wives or kids or partners or their own unconventionally formed families. Everyone just kind of sees you as friendly but odd, a reputation you’ve grown to appreciate.

So this, this attention, this heavy, searing pair of eyes belonging to not only a handsome stranger but a doctor no matter how bad his attitude may be, makes your face heat. You are ready to send him and his fish on their way, a stranger departing on the wind that brought him in.

“I’ll pop and re-do the stitches myself when I get home,” you assure him, even if it’s likely untrue. By the time you wrap up at the stall you will be too tired to do anything but drag yourself home, throw your dress over your head, and crash into bed to be up early enough to do it all in the morning.

Raising his eyebrows, he glowers down at you. “Make sure you clean it first.”

Nodding to indicate that you understand, you wait for his thumb to drop from your arm and pull it back as soon as he does. The wound aches even strongly now that it’s all you can focus on, painful enough that sweat prickles at your palms. All you want right now is for him to just go as quickly as he appeared so you can move on with your day.

“You got it, doc.”

Getting back to work, you quickly fold and wrap the fish up. Twine is tied into a bow to secure the parcel and it’s passed across the counter, your wide eyes gazing up at him. The way he meets them makes you shiver despite the warm, humid air of your home. Digging in his pocket he produces a few coins and places them down on the counter wordlessly, taking his bundle and turning his back to walk away.

“Hey,” you call, and he looks over his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

That never changing expression remains but his voice, deep as it is, sounds quite nearly amused.

“Law.”

Law, Law, Law. You commit it to memory, notoriously bad with names as you are. Then you start to attempt to recall if you’ve ever heard it before, maybe having heard it muttered amongst the fisherman who help you at night during flounder season.

Nothing rings a bell. By the time you are no longer lost in your own reverie, Law has long gone and you look down at the counter where shiny gold coins sit.

He left you 500 Belly, more than he had to.

[hyperactively-me]

king!ghost x reader -- attack

warnings: physical violence, blood, stitches, torture tactics

The village bustled with activity as you and King Simon strolled through its narrow cobblestone streets. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the local bakery, and the vibrant colors of market stalls caught your eye. It was a very rare occasion for the both of you to venture into the heart of the village, usually both preoccupied with matters within the palace. It was even more rare that you two were out in the village without an entourage of knights. No, it just you and Simon, Simon and you.

Every so often, you had ventured into the village, but you were always accompanied by Soap and another lower-rank knight, usually one that was in training. You never really minded their company, but every so often you had a quiet yearning to be able to go out into the village by yourself. A queen can dream. 

“Are you sure about this, love?” Simon asked, a protective instinct flickering in his eyes. “I usually have a knight accompany you for a reason.”

You grinned, wrapping your arm around Simon’s. “Oh, stop worrying. I just want to be here like any other person. No need for all the fanfare today. Besides, I have you by my side.”

Simon chuckled, his concern easing as he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. You were right, after all. He was perfectly capable of protecting you. 

As you and Simon continued your leisurely walk through the village, the atmosphere felt light, and the people, recognizing you both, greeted you warmly. As you wandered deeper into the village, absorbing its sights and sounds, the simplicity of the day felt refreshing. 

As you and Simon continue your leisurely walk through the village, you both come across a path leading into a more secluded area of the village. 

“Never been this way before,” you hum before dragging him down the street.

Intrigued by the path less traveled, you decided to explore the more secluded corners of the village. The sounds of the bustling market gradually faded away, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hum of villagers going about their daily chores.

The path meandered through quaint cottages adorned with colorful flowers. It was a picturesque scene, and you couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of it. Simon, too, seemed to enjoy the view, humming with pleasure at the landscape.

However, just as you were immersed in the tranquil surroundings, the peace dissipated. From the shadows emerged a figure, their face obscured by a hood. In a flash, the hooded figure unsheathed a sword, charging toward you and Simon with alarming speed.

Simon’s eyes narrowed, his instincts kicking in. He swiftly stepped in front of you and pushed you back, drawing his sword. The villagers, noticing the danger, scattered in a panicked frenzy. 

But before Simon could fully react, driven by an instinctual need to protect, you pushed him aside, placing yourself directly between him and the charging assailant. The sword struck you on your lower right side, the pain instantaneous and sharp.

Your breath catches in your throat as the pain erupts across your abdomen. You let out a cry, collapsing to the ground. The world around you blurred, and the anguished yell of Simon pierced through the haze.

The hooded assailant, realizing their attack had been foiled by you jumping in front of Simon, attempted to flee. However, some good samaritans rushed over and tackled the attacker to the ground, apprehending the spy before they could escape.

Without second thought, Simon dropped to the ground, kneeling beside you, his hands stained with your blood as he moved to flip you on your back. Panic surges through his whole being, his face growing pale.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a million pounds. 

His hands tremble as he applies pressure to your wound, the blood seeping through the rip in your dress. 

“Simon, it hurts,” you mutter, your voice hoarse, pain flooding your senses like never before. 

Simon’s eyes filled with terror as he desperately tried to assess the extent of your injury. 

“I know, I know,” he mutters.  

The villagers, now realizing the gravity of the situation, called for a doctor. Simon’s usually composed demeanor cracked, and his voice wavered with fear.

“Stay with me, keep your eyes open,” he pleaded, his hands frantically working to stop the bleeding. His hands trembled as he applied pressure to your wound in an attempt to stop blood loss. 

“We need help here!” he yells over his shoulder, voice angry and desperate. 

“Simon,” you slur, trying your best to keep your eyes open for him. Your head is pounding. “I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” 

Simon's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

Within moments, a village doctor rushed to your side, their expression grave as they took in the scene. The villagers who had detained the assailant handed them off to a few palace guards who had been called to the scene. 

“Your majesty, I’m a doctor!” they clarified. 

Simon's anger simmered beneath the surface as the doctor took over, their skilled hands quickly assessing the wound. The villagers, sensing the tension, gave the king a wide berth as he struggled to contain his emotions. 

“Do what you have to do,” he pleaded, now moving to grab onto your hand. He was trying his best to not look at your blood on his hands. It made his stomach lurch with disgust. 

Once the doctor looked over your wound, they looked up and spoke.

“It’s not fatal, your majesty. It is a deep wound, though.”

Simon didn’t budge the moment the doctor began to examine you, watching them extremely carefully as they pulled out some bandages. A ragged gasp escapes your throat as the doctor starts to apply some of the bandages to the wound.

“Careful,” Simon’s voice dropped in warning. The doctor froze for a moment, then gulped. 

“Your majesty, I don’t have adequate supplies with me to fully dress the wound, but it will hold for now. She needs stitches. Your best course of action would be taking her back to the palace,” the doctor said steadily as they wrapped makeshift bandages around your lower abdomen. 

Simon squeezes your hand tighter. His gaze never left you. His heart pounded in his chest, hearing your whimpers and small cries.

“It hurts,” you sniffle, your cloudy vision not helping you to stay calm. 

Simon’s grip on your hand tightened even more, his jaw clenched in frustration. The helplessness gnawed at him as he watched you endure the pain. He nodded at the doctor, determination etched on his face.

“We're going back to the palace, now,” he declared, his voice a low growl. 

Simon carefully lifted you into his arms, cradling you protectively against his chest. The pain shot through your body, and you winced, clutching onto him. 

"I've got you," he whispered, his tone a mix of reassurance and worry.

Another gaggle of palace guards, followed by Soap, came bursting through the clearing. 

Simon looked up, his eyes meeting Soap’s with a silent understanding. There was no need for words—the urgency of the situation was evident.

“Soap, you know what to do.” 

Soap nods, and starts ordering guards to secure the perimeter of the village. 

“We're heading back to the palace. Clear the way,” Simon ordered, his voice cutting through the air. The guards swiftly formed a protective perimeter, ensuring a safe path through the village.

The journey back to the palace was a blur of agony and urgency. Simon navigated the streets with swift determination, his eyes always bouncing back down to your form to make sure you were comfortable, or as comfortable as you could be. 

Upon reaching the palace, you were rushed into the infirmary, where the palace doctors and a team of medical staff awaited. The infirmary was a hive of activity as they readied themselves for you. Simon, with a steely resolve, carried you through the palace corridors, his eyes fixed on making it to the infirmary.

The medical team quickly took over, gently transferring you to a comfortable bed. Simon was reluctant to let go, but he knew it would be better for you if the medical professionals handled it. 

“Tell me she'll be alright.” The doctor turned to him, a solemn expression on their face. 

“Yes, her majesty will.” 

The palace doctor, with a calm and steady demeanor, began assessing the extent of your injuries. Simon, his gaze unwavering, stood by your side, refusing to step away for even a moment. 

Soap, having followed closely behind, approached Simon, concern etched on his face. “We’ve secured the village and increased patrols. The assailant is being interrogated. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Simon nodded, his attention still focused on you. “Make sure every corner of Kastron is searched for any potential threats. I want answers.”

Soap saluted and swiftly left to carry out the orders. 

The palace doctor turned to Simon, their expression grave. “Your majesty, we need to perform a more thorough examination and proceed with additional treatment. If you could give us some space…”

Simon hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to stay by your side and the need to trust the medical professionals. Eventually, he reluctantly stepped back, his eyes never leaving you. The doctor and their team worked diligently to address your injuries. The process of stitching was refined, additional measures were taken to ensure your comfort, and Simon paced the room anxiously, his mind filled with a storm of emotions.

After what seemed like an eternity, the medical team stepped back, signaling that the immediate crisis had passed. The palace doctor approached Simon, her expression softer now.

“She's stable. She'll need time to recover, but with proper care, she should regain her strength.”

Simon let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. His gaze softened as he looked at you, still vulnerable in the bed.

“I'll be here,” he stated, his promise echoing in the quiet infirmary.

. . .

A few hours later, Soap had returned back to the infirmary. You were now peacefully asleep, breathing even and steady. 

“Ghost, we’re ready whenever you are.” 

Simon nods solemnly, then presses a soft kiss on your cheek before standing up. 

“Let’s go.” 

. . . 

Ghost followed Soap through the winding corridors of the palace towards the dungeons. The air grew colder with each step, mirroring the steel in Ghost’s gaze. As they reached the secure chambers, guards acknowledged the king and granted them passage.

The dungeon was a damp, dimly lit maze of cells. The captured assailant, hood removed, sat in a corner, their eyes defiant. Ghost’s arrival cast a shadow across the dank space, his frame blocking out the light of the torches. His expression is cold and hard; unwavering, and unrelenting. 

“Who sent you?” Ghost’s voice cut through the oppressive silence.

The assailant remained silent, a thin smile playing on their lips. Ghost’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. He glanced at Soap, who nodded in encouragement.

Ghost stepped closer. 

“I asked you a question. Who sent you?” 

The assailant's gaze remained fixed on the stone floor, an infuriating smirk playing on their lips. Ghost’s fists clenched at his sides, his patience strained.

Soap, standing beside Ghost, spoke up. “We've got ways to make you talk, one way or another. It’s your choice whether you want this to be easy or hard.”

The assailant finally spoke, their voice a low, mocking tone, “You can't stop what's coming. Kastron will crumble, and there's nothing you can do.”

Ghost’s nostrils flared with barely contained fury, but he took a steadying breath. “Tell me who is behind this. What is their motive?”

The assailant chuckled. “You'll find out soon enough. You and your precious kingdom are in for a reckoning.”

Another bout of anger flared up in Ghost’s chest. “Who. Fuckin’. Sent. You?” 

The assailant was silent. 

Ghost’s patience disappeared. 

He marches forward and uppercuts the assailant. Ghost’s knuckles cracked against the assailant's jaw, the blow echoing through the damp dungeon. The assailant's head snapped back, and a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of their mouth. Ghost glared down at them.

“I will not tolerate threats against my home,” Ghost seethed, his voice low and dangerous.

The assailant, despite the blood on their lip, maintained their defiant smile. Ghost’s frustration surged. He leaned down, gripping the assailant's collar, his eyes ablaze with intensity.

“You're playin’ a dangerous game. I suggest you start talking before you find out just how dangerous it can get.”

The assailant's gaze flickered for a moment, yet, they remained tight-lipped.

Ghost straightened, releasing his grip. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.”

Ghost motioned to the guards, who approached with shackles in hand. The assailant was restrained and pulled to their feet, but still, they didn't speak. The guards exchanged knowing glances. The assailant was dragged out of the cell and into a room containing a singular barrel full of ice cold water. The assailant’s knees were kicked out from behind them, causing them to drop in front of the barrel. 

“Talk.” Ghost says simply, a dangerous air to his voice. He sounded calm. Too calm.

“You nearly killed my wife, you invaded my land, so talk.” 

“She- she was never the target. You were! That girl ruined the plan!” 

Ghost’s eyes narrowed at the revelation. The assailant's words hung in the air, a chilling revelation. Simon gripped the back of the assailant’s head, pushing them closer to the water. 

“Explain,” Ghost demanded, his voice low and commanding.

The assailant, seemingly satisfied with the chaos they caused, smirked. “The real target was always you, Ghost. The chaos, the fear—it's all a means to an end.”

Ghost’s fists clenched. “Who is behind this? Why target me?”

The assailant chuckled, a sound that grated on Simon's nerves. “You're not as untouchable as you think. There are forces at play beyond your knowledge.”

Ghost shot a glance at Soap, who shared his confusion and frustration.

“You’re from the southern kingdom.” Ghost states plainly. 

The assailant is silent. 

“No one gets away clean after hurting my wife.” 

And with that, Ghost dunks their head in the barrel. 

. . . 

Back in the infirmary, you began to stir. The pain, though dulled by the medication, was still present. You opened your eyes to find the soft glow of candles and the concerned gaze of a nurse attending to you.

“Easy now,” the nurse said, their voice soothing. “You're in the infirmary. The king is tending to other matters currently.”

You nod your head, settling back into the plush pillows propping you up. All you want is Simon.

As the nurse finished their tasks, you asked, “How bad is it?”

The nurse offered a reassuring smile. “The wound is deep, but the doctors took care of you. You’ll need some time to heal.”

You nodded, grateful for the hands that had tended to you. Still, the weight of the recent events pressed on your mind.

"How long has he been gone?" you asked, a hint of urgency in your voice. You knew he would be here with you any moment he could. 

The nurse sighed gently. “His majesty is busy right now. But I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can.”

Restlessness settled over you. You couldn't shake the feeling that something much larger than the wound on your side was at play. The nurse, sensing your unease, offered a small comfort.

“The palace guards are on high alert. Whatever threat there was, they won't let it near you. Focus on getting better, and the king will be here when he can.”

Their words did little to ease your worry, but you acknowledged the truth in them. Simon was a more than capable ruler, and he would do everything in his power to protect Kastron. The nurse left the room, leaving you to the quietness of the infirmary. Time passed slowly as you lay there, your thoughts a whirlwind. Eventually, the door opened, and Simon entered, his face bearing the weight of the recent events. His eyes softened when they met yours, and he hurried to your side.

You tried to sit up, a smile breaking through the pain. “Simon…”

He gently pressed you back into the pillows. “Easy, love. How are you feelin’?”

“I'm okay,” you assured him, though the concern in his eyes mirrored your own. You watched intently as he sat down in the chair next to your bed. 

“I'm sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he said, his voice filled with regret.

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Simon takes a breath. “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

Your gaze met his, determination and concern in your eyes. “I couldn't let anything happen to you,” you whispered.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightened. “I don’t want you fighting my battles.”

“We're a team, Simon. Your battles are mine, just as much as mine are yours.”

Simon’s eyes softened at your words, gratitude and concern still lingering in his gaze. “I can't bear the thought of losing you,” he admitted, his voice a raw whisper.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, his forehead leaning against yours. “I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you too,” you replied, feeling the weight of the words practically echo in the quietness of the infirmary.

You sit in silence for a bit, just basking in each other’s presence. After a moment, Simon stands from his chair. Wordlessly, he ever so gently moves you to the side. You let him. You’d let him do anything. After he makes sure you’re still comfortable, he slots himself next to you in the bed. 

“What happened to them?” you ask as you lean your head on his shoulder. 

“It doesn’t matter. You're safe now,” he whispered, his voice a gentle reassurance. You don’t need to know about the violence he inflicted on them. And you were smart, you could pull the pieces together. 

The infirmary remained quiet, the only sounds being the soft rustle of curtains and the distant murmur of activity from the palace. Simon held you close, his arm wrapped protectively around you, as if shielding you from the world outside.

Your question lingered in the air, the unspoken understanding that some details were better left untouched. Simon’s jaw tightened briefly, a fleeting sign of his struggle beneath his composed exterior. His fingers traced absent-minded patterns on your arm as he spoke.

“I won't let anything happen to you or Kastron.” 

You nodded, knowing that Simon’s dedication is unwavering. As the night progressed, the infirmary dimmed, and Simon’s gaze drifted to the window. A soft glow from the moon illuminated the room, casting a tranquil ambiance, a stark contrast to how the next few months would pan out. The events of the day had taken a toll, but in this moment, there was peace.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

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