#the chase has begun

[echosofmortality]

Well, well... Boss really came for heartthrob energy mixed with classic refresh. My summer just got coated in sugar cubes shaped like hyena paws.

Shall we take a look at Morts mind palace?

I watched him go, the light of the outside world shining in at a harsh angle that captured his departure. That weight of losing something but gaining more was at war in my chest. The weights of balance once more falling out of sync in the master lock that was my existence. Exhausting to keep up with but necessary to stay alive. I couldn't misstep with a shadow following me with fingers that left bruises.

I melted into the red lounge sofa, lingering in the quiet. Ruggie wasn't like the other men I had known in my life. He wasn't a monster.

I nursed my mule, the tang licking my tongue as I rub my lips together, the red paint I had chosen chipping away against the cold copper glass.

Had I done well? Had my mask held as his did? Had I played the game to satisfaction? Was he pleased?The heat creeps up my neck at the recall of what had transpired plays back on a loop.

He'd been a gentleman with some spice interlaced, poking around for what my angle was. My romantic heart purred while I laugh at the memory of how fast he'd finished his drink, chewing on everything like I was gonna eat him. Poor hyena. A rum and coke as his chosen poison hm? Simple, honest, straightforward, and a classic everyone loves. I did say one can tell much about someone from their drink...

Asking to follow me home with my history? Is he sure he wants all those things that live in the dark? I have a spot if he wants it, though I'm not sure he'll be impressed with me all that much. I don't have much to offer in the ways of physical romance. Everything I knew was books and articles, talks with my pink intern from her many, many escapades. I wasn't equipped to handle a man's desires by choice.

My heart skipped and I took another drink trying to quiet the disturbance in my chest. The fluttery bird that had sat caged for so long. Ruggie wasn't The King, he was better, a gem, a precious one that many overlooked. I didn't want to overlook him anymore. I wanted him to burn me, cause they way he looked at me was how I wanted to be seen for the rest of my life.

How could I assure him further though?

Those azure eyes, tempid and sure one moment then questioning the next, but never cruel or demeaning. Sevens he wore every mask like a scarf and not like armor. Easy to change out in a flash. He matched me word for word, step for step, truth for truth and I was ...falling for him.

I clutched at my chest realizing that I was indeed a romantic, and while he had confessed to getting his heart broken often enough. I had kissed my fair share of frogs too. We were beautifully broken but looking at each other with hope.

Hope for something that wasn't teeth and pain and regret. Playing a game but also eager to fall... At least I was... Was he? Or was this just another moment to him?

I set my mug down frowning as the sour taste became bitter.

Country side handyman? Did he think I'd miss that? Now I'm wondering just how he got involved in the big city life. Or met The King for that matter. They don't seem like a pair that naturally just decides to cohabitate. I'm only seeing one side of the scenario though, Ruggie does seem the adaptable type so I suppose he collects us hard to love people. I am falling for him. Talk about a hypocrite.

I sigh head tipping back to stare at the ceiling that caused a soft ambient lighting instead of the harsh florescent madness that the world ran with.

That accent. He is trying to give me cardiac arrest. As he should with that nickname he poured from his lips akin to sweet agave nectar. The tone, the way it rolled from his tongue and how he held my gaze, brow cocked, like it was meant just for me.

Habibi.

Gosh, if he meant that in a friendly endearment way my bike may need new breaks by the time I'm done driving around trying to jar my heart back into my chest from its home in my throat. Cause he had about stolen it.

Shame a certain mangy lion had to interrupt our time together. Guess I should start making every moment count.

Now that I found someone I like I won't let you get away so easily.

And boy did I plan to chase him down. Hope he was ready for it.

𝘊𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦?

You entered the lounge all dolled up on your prettiest dress. The dim lights hid your nervous blush very well — you were about to meet your favorite after all, who could blame you? 

The head waiter with their polite smile approached you and asked:

“You wish to be seated with Hitman correct?”

As you nodded they gently led you to your assigned table, him waiting for you while sipping a glass of his favourite alcoholic beverage.

Ready to start the night?

The moment you sat down you could feel the surprise lighting up Ruggie’s azure eyes, almost like he didn’t expect to meet you at all that summer. You gave him a pleased smile and he started to nervously stir his Cuba Libre, making the ice clink against the glass, like he was unsure what to do now that you were in front of him — like he hadn’t thought that far.

“What’s the matter, Mr.Hitman? You seem oddly surprised to see me.” you said, voice laced with honey and a faint jab.

“Honestly? I kinda am.” he replied, cocking his head with still that expression painted on his face, as if his facial muscles were stuck that way.

“Oh? You are? I hope you didn’t think of running away and hiding under a rock, not after all the cute and sweet words you said to me during our last interview.” you said while deliberately sipping from your glass of refreshing Moscow Mule, making your lips pop as you sighed, delighted by the alcohol burning the right way down your throat — truth be told: you were teasing him, just a little, acting like a perfect femme fatale, like the ones in those spy movies, so far away from your usual behavior. 

In response to that gesture Ruggie started chewing on the lime slice of his drink, as if ruminating on the citrus could somehow prevent himself from saying things he shouldn’t. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, pursing your lips in a sweet yet devilish smile, “Why so shy now? You seemed pretty confident with your words not too long ago.”

Ruggie gulped down the lime slice, peel and all, in one go, throat constricting but never once he coughed. He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening like he understood your whole plan at that moment.

“Are you teasin’ me? Fo’ real?” he said, his accent slipping through the sentence without him even noticing (or maybe that was on purpose). 

“You said it yourself "When the flirting doesn’t land you gotta be more assertive". Those are your words from less than a month ago, if I’m not mistaken.” you replied, sitting with your spine straight like in a business meeting.

“Clever girl…” Ruggie muttered, taking a gulp of his drink without ever blinking his eyes away from you, like you could pull something if he averted his gaze. “Gotta be frank: I thought you didn’t take me seriously. At all. Thought you’d preferred someone that gave you more…mental gymnastics than your countryside handyman over here. Caught me a bit off guard, habibi.”

You didn’t miss the saccharine tone to which he spelled the last word, the way his thin brows arched in a subtle teasing expression, even though you didn’t know what it meant.

“Oh, but you did give me quite the brainiac workout. Trying to figure out when you were flirting with me the whole time I asked you questions was quite the feat, if I dare say so myself.”

“And just how long did it take?” he quipped back at you, lips curving into that grin you learned to love during the interviews, together with his sharp sense of humor. “Is it just me or the brave and headstrong reporter is a bit too dense when people try to catch her interest?”

“So you do admit you were being serious with all your flirting?”

“You realized it just now? I suggest you don't decide to open a column on love advice then, you wouldn't be very competent in that field, I'm afraid.”

You kicked his shin underneath the table in response.

“Ouch! Hey, I was just joking!” he screamed, jumping on his chair like it had hot lava lapilli on it.

“I thought you needed a reminder to not turn out like your boss. Unlike you he’s not pleasant to deal with.” you said, not wasting an opportunity to trash talk Leona whether he was present or not. 

“You think I would be itching to be like him? Habibi you offend me this way, I still like living and not have a gun pointed at my head whenever I enter a room. Fat chance.” he said, smirking, not giving a single damn if the one he was insulting, ever so subtly, was his own boss.

You couldn’t help but giggle.

You also couldn’t help but notice just how much chemistry the two of you had — and you barely started a normal conversation!

“Tell you what: I was nervous the moment I saw you in the waiting line. Thought you were here in the reporter’s clothes and was just going to ask me more juicy details...and to turn me down, spite but politely. Now, I wish I could break the rules an’ follow you home just to keep chatting…and maybe do something else too.”

You felt the heat rising up to your neck at what his words meant but stayed calm and composed, almost like a poker match you needed to show as little bashful, maiden-like embarrassment as possible. 

“Someone’s needy, uh?” you replied, lips arching in a cheeky expression you didn’t know you could make. Ruggie shrugged, his expression mimicking yours. “Gotta make sure ya’ ain’t playing with me. I’ve got a sensitive heart, ya’ know? You’d be surprised how many ladies broke this bad boy’s heart.”

“Can’t say I understand them. Unlike your boss you’re such a gem, it’d be a waste for the whole world if you were taken. Oh well, you know how the saying goes: their loss is my gain.” 

Ruggie stared at you, stupor written all over those baby blue eyes of his. As he opened his mouth to speak, the ringtone of a cell phone beat him to hit. He took one look at the display to know who was bothering him and his face immediately turned sour. “Speak of the devil…guess with all the times I’ve said his name tonight I kinda jinxed myself.” he muttered, annoyance laced with sarcasm. 

You didn’t need to ask who it was to know just exactly who was the one that called Ruggie. 

God fucking damnit, curse you and your inappropriate timing Leona Kinscholar!

“Sorry to cut our night short, Habibi, but I gotta skedaddle. Work is calling…an’ I have to answer.” he said while getting up from his chair, throwing his black jacket back on his shoulders in one swift movement.

The two of you looked at each other’s eyes, an unspoken question popping in your minds like you had the power to read the other’s thoughts.

“You’ll see me again. — you said, resolute — Now that I found someone I like I’m not letting you get away that easily. But don’t expect me to not roast you during the interviews, I still gotta do my job as a reporter.”

“Say that again…please.” he muttered, so low you were afraid the words slipped from you, his cheeks an adorable pink even under the warm red lights of the lounge.

“What? The part where I say I’ll roast you at our next interview?”

“No, no. The other thing you said.”

You stayed silent for a split second, rewinding what you said in the heat of the moment. 

“I said: now that I found someone I like I’m not letting you get away that easily.”

Ruggie smiled, a small smile of recognition that made your heart skip a beat without you even noticing. 

“I’ll count on those words, then.” and he exited the lounge, phone placed between shoulder and ear, listening to his boss’ yapping, while adjusting the sleeves of his suit.

You allowed yourself to relax, almost melting on the copper red sofas. In your mind you replayed the conversation over and over, blushing up to your ears with every word you said.

Flirting was really too much for you.

✠ Would you like a table? ✠ Bullettin board

Thank you very much @echosofmortality for requesting. We apologize for the long wait and hope you enjoyed yourself. I'll await your next patronage.

Signed - Boss

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 244

Danny sighs in exhaustion, rubbing at his eyes with a too-long sleeve. He was honestly getting really tired of getting de-aged. It was annoying, and even if he did stuff differently there was still a lot of stuff the same. Not to mention that being partially alive (and unkillable) meant that it couldn’t be reversed, he just had to wait for his body to grow back up. Urgh. 

At least his babysitter- even if he doesn’t need one- is pretty nice, if a bit quiet. They’re not too busy, especially for being a reaper, and honestly it’s always nice to meet another of Clockwork’s kids. Which if someone had told him that CW had a habit of adopting anomalies to the timelines, he probably wouldn’t have believed them. 

But hey, he guesses Mr Speedforce-Death is his big brother anyway. And it’s not too boring, kind of nice to just chillax. Oh- the cowl-thing is going on and he’s getting an offer of a shoulder ride. Guess it’s someones time to die- hey, maybe he’ll be able to befriend their ghost! 

[you-know-cchio]

wow two nickels!

[ljubimaya]

small heads up, the last chapter from run from me will be much longer than the ones posted before

[askpercyandsally]

Who are you people?

And why are you asking me things?

[satorusweetheart]

gojo satoru is a dry humper sorry not sorry

gojo is a tease; he loves getting you close while also keeping you so far away. he wants to see how you loose your mind with just some simple friction.

so when he strips you down to nothing but your bra and panties, he knows you’re going to get desperate. he drapes himself on the couch, pulling you into his lap, using your shoulders to press down harder on the growing bulge under his sweatpants. he can feel your heart beating through your pussy, and how you’re ready to start squirming.

your hips start to roll forward, your slit perfectly lined up with his clothed cock and slowly you start to unravel: you’re clawing at his chest, mewling gojo’s name, arching your back, chasing some kind of relief.

you’re a sight for sore eyes, and gojo can’t help but dig his nails into your waist, dragging you around on his crotch, fucking up into you, making you see stars. your panting, eyes fluttered shut, a mess of drool and moans. you can’t help but rut into him the closer and closer you get to cumming.

the fun has just begun and you’re already on your first orgasm, ruining not just your panties but leaving a damp spot on his grey sweatpants.

this makes gojo smirk, taking a handful of your ass and giving it a squeeze, rocking you through your release. he only spreads your wetness more, decorating his pants with your slick.

“look at the mess you made, baby,” he taunts, “now are you gonna help me clean it up, or should we make an even bigger mess?”

[hello-sweetheart]

Party guy!Eddie who goes clubbing and to house parties on the weekends, sometimes to perform with his bands, who regularly makes his way home around 4am looking like a hot mess.

Eddie constantly crossing paths with Runner!Steve who goes out to run at the same time looking like the complete juxtaposition of Eddie, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed at ass o’clock in the morning.

Eddie with rumpled clothes, post-sex hair, smeared liner, and visible hickies showing above the stretched neckline of his shirt bumping into Steve (“that one annoyingly hot fitness freak”) who is wearing bright fucking reflective spandex and a runners vest, already glossy and red cheeked like he’s entering mile 3 when the sun hasn’t even begun to rise.

Eddie fucking hates him. Like ‘oh wow look at you all put together and diligent like some fucking psycho, seriously, are you for real??’

This happens so often that it would awkwardly not to acknowledge each others existence, so Steve smiles and offers as he passes: “hey! Wanna join my run?”

To which Eddie always responds “fuck off, golden boy!”

Every single time. It’s tradition.

Until one day, Eddie has partied a little too close to the sun. He’s still really fucking drunk when he encounters Steve (which Steve finds absolutely delightful because he’s never actually seen Eddie as the energetic drunk that he is, rather, than the exhausted rat man that emerges like a cryptid just looking for a hole to crawl into and die in).

Steve offers (like always), “hey! Wanna join my run?”

And this time Eddie, full of alcohol and artificially enhanced bravado, says, “you’re on pretty boy!” And startles Steve by taking off like he’s being CHASED by the police for a solid 10 minutes before collapsing by a nearby bush to expel his guys out.

By the time Steve catches up (left in the dust cuz wtf?) Eddie is out cold, his phone is locked and apparently does not have Face ID on, and Steve has no choice but fireman carry Eddie back to his apartment.

Eddie wakes up with his mouth tasting absolutely rancid, his head is pounding, he doesn’t know where he is, and for some god damn reason his legs are on fire.

“What the fuck”

“Thank god, I was half convinced you had just up and died on my couch. Dude it’s been like 11 hours. I’ve gone to work and came back. Robin thought I was gonna come home to my house cleaned out of all my valuable—not that I have any, but the tv is brand new so thanks for not like, robbing me. I got you Advil by the way.”

Which is way too many words for a hungover guy to process, apparently, because just leans over and throws up into a conveniently placed plastic popcorn bowl on the floor.

“Oh Dude, ew.”

[tea-biscuits-books]

last christmas

conrad x f!reader

angst • swearing • it’s like snow on the beach, weird but fucking beautiful • s3 spoilers

a/n : based on the christmas scene from s3! eek i’m team conrad. also ik it’s not december but christmas in july yk

summary : one lonely christmas you’re met with surprising company…

w/c : 1.6k

song : snow on the beach - taylor swift ft lana del rey

It’s a Friday morning when you make the hasty decision to drive down to Cousins. What did it matter? Belly was off skiing with Jeremiah, Conrad, and their father. Your mum was away on a work trip. Steven was in New York chasing some internship dream. Which left you—alone, restless, and with Steven’s car keys sitting on the kitchen counter like a silent dare.

The road to Cousins feels both familiar and foreign now, like something sacred you’re trespassing on. Your fingers tap against the steering wheel as you hum softly to the old playlist Conrad made for that one road trip two summers ago. The songs hit different now. Sharper. Each note tugging at a thread you thought you’d stitched back together.

The scenery rushes past you, green blurs and golden light through the windshield, but your mind lingers on every memory like it’s caught on rewind. The ferris wheel near the pier—where he leaned over and whispered something so dumb it made you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. The arcade where the two of you played laser tag and he let you win, only to spend the next hour complaining about it. The boardwalk where he kissed you under a sunset that looked too perfect to be real. You remember how his hands had trembled slightly on your waist, and how he pulled back only to smile that quiet smile of his—the one that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

You pass the farmers market next, and your stomach twists with longing. The scent of saltwater and strawberries hits you like a wave. You remember the lazy Sundays spent wandering between the stalls, stealing bites of ice cream from his cone, swatting his arm when he pretended not to notice you doing it.

Then there’s Britt’s. You slow down without meaning to. The faded blue sign, the chipped counter stools, the smell of cinnamon sugar and hot dough that lingers like muscle memory. That was your place. Muffin runs at dawn, hair still wet from the ocean, oversized hoodies and sleepy smiles. He always paid in cash. Always gave you the top half of his muffin because you liked the crunchy lid the best.

And then, the ocean.

Your heart clenches as you glimpse the water stretching out in the distance, shimmering beneath the pale winter sun. That’s where you surfed your first wave. You can still feel his hand wrapped around yours, steadying you, anchoring you. You’d been terrified. He’d said, “I won’t let go,” and he hadn’t. Not that day. But there’s something magical about the town as you pull into the town, something that ignites a small smile within your heart. Because Cousins doesn’t look the same anymore. Everything is covered in a soft, quiet layer of snow, like someone pressed pause on the whole world. The ocean is still there, wild and dark in the distance, but the sky above it is pale and heavy with clouds. The boardwalk creaks under the weight of frost. The steps to the arcade are dusted in white. Even the ferris wheel stands still, its spokes rimmed with ice, abandoned for the season. A hush has settled over everything—the kind of hush that only winter brings. You park on the side of the road, stepping out into the cold, and your boots crunch against the slush that’s begun to turn grey along the curb.

It’s strange seeing it like this. You’re used to Cousins in technicolor—sunlight dripping through the trees, sea spray in the air, laughter carried on the breeze. But now, the town feels like a memory that’s been frozen in time. Snow clings to rooftops and buries the wildflowers that once lined the fences. Britt’s still has its sign up, though the windows are fogged, and there’s a CLOSED sign hanging crookedly against the glass. You pause in front of it anyway, peering in, half-expecting to see your past selves sitting there. Him leaning back against the booth, you with your knees curled up, hands wrapped around a paper cup of cocoa you didn’t even like—but ordered it anyway just to warm your fingers. You shiver, before driving past, and slotting yourself in front of the beach house that welcomes you with soft whispers. You creak the door open, the cold air greeting your face and the lack of noise seemed to startle you. You’d never been in Cousins when it was so…quiet. It lacked the life and luster that it seemed to sing in the summer. You pause, stopping at a small framed photo of Susannah on the wall. And there she is, smiling, joyous, free. You let your thumb touch over her cheek, a tear stinging your eye. You sigh softly, before triumphing up the stairs, and putting your bags down.

The movie flickers faintly across your laptop screen, casting shifting shadows along the walls of the Cousins living room. You’re bundled on the couch, surrounded by silence and the soft hum of the heater, barely paying attention to the film as your eyelids grow heavier with each scene. Then — A car door slams outside. You jolt upright. Your breath stills in your throat. No one was supposed to be here. A crunch of gravel. You slam your laptop shut in a panic, plunging the room into darkness. Heart pounding, you stumble off the couch and grab the fireplace poker, hands clammy with adrenaline. The front door creaks. You raise the poker above your head with trembling arms.

“I swear, I’ll stab you!” you yell, your voice cracking slightly. A familiar voice answers.

“Woah—Y/N?! It’s me!” You freeze.

“Conrad?” He steps into the entryway, duffel slung over one shoulder, curls slightly damp with melting snow, brows raised.

“Why are you about to murder me with a fire poker?” You exhale loudly and drop the iron weapon back where it belongs, embarrassment flooding your face.

“I thought you were— I don’t know. A burglar. Or worse. You can’t just show up like that, I almost took your eye out!” He holds up his hands in surrender, smiling faintly.

“Noted. Next time I’ll knock.” Still flustered, you wipe your palms on your hoodie.

“What… are you doing here? Aren’t you meant to be skiing with Belly and your brother and stuff?”

“Flight got delayed cause of the weather,” he says simply, shifting his bag off his shoulder. “I didn’t want to sleep on a plastic chair at the airport, so I figured I’d crash here. Is that okay?” You nod, a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I’m going to go up…I’m pretty tired.”

“Mhm.”

“Cool,” he says softly. Then, a pause.

“Night, Y/N.”

“Night.” He disappears down the hall without another word. You stay frozen for a moment, staring after him before finally crawling back under your blanket — heart still hammering, but for a much different reason now.

You wake up late. Too late. The snow outside is blinding through the windows, and you scramble out of bed, thinking Conrad’s already gone — that you missed your chance to say goodbye. You tear down the hallway, feet slipping against the hardwood floor— Then crash hard into the bottom step.

“Shit—ow, fuck-” you groan, curling onto your side. You hear rushed footsteps and then hands on your shoulders.

“Y/N?” You blink up — dazed, wind knocked out of you — into Conrad’s face. He’s crouched beside you, concern all over his features. His hand gently brushes your hair back, checking for injuries.

“You okay? You just wiped out,” he says, half-laughing now that he knows you’re not dying.

“I thought you left,” you mumble, dazed and a little breathless. He chuckles.

“No, I was just grabbing a coffee in the kitchen.” You huff, letting out a sarcastic laugh, before whimpering and crawling into yourself, cradling your head. Conrad steadies you with both hands, eyes narrowing.

“Okay, you're definitely not okay.” You don’t argue. Mostly because you're still sprawled dramatically at the bottom of the stairs, one sock half-off, the other foot freezing, head spinning slightly. He gently hooks an arm under your knees and the other behind your back.

“Woah-am I flying?!” You giggle.

“You might’ve concussed yourself, Y/N. Just let me help.” You blink up at him as he lifts you like it’s nothing, carrying you across the living room.

“You smell like winter,” you murmur. “Like cold and pine and that stupid soap you use.”

“Thanks, I think?” He sets you gently down on the couch, grabbing the nearest throw blanket and tucking it around you like he's done it a hundred times before. You keep babbling, eyes half-lidded.

“Your hair's all messy. And wet. Like a sad golden retriever. I like it.” You reach out and flick a damp curl off his forehead, completely unfiltered.

“Your eyes are insane, too. They're like… angry ocean. But in a hot way.” His eyebrows shoot up.

“Okay, you're either concussed or drunk.”

“I’m just…” you trail off, giggling, cheeks flushed. “Snow drunk. That's a thing, right?” He kneels next to the couch, smiling despite himself.

“Snow drunk. Sure. We'll go with that.” Your smile fades just a little as your gaze softens, locking onto his. “You’re really pretty, you know.” Conrad breathes out softly, face faltering as your proximity lessens.

“Y/N…” But before he can say anything else — before you can second-guess yourself — you lean in and kiss him. It’s slow. Clumsy at first, your cold fingers brushing his jaw, but he doesn’t pull away. His lips are warm, surprised but still, like he’s been waiting. Like he doesn’t quite believe it’s happening. When you part, your forehead rests against his.

“Merry Christmas Y/N.” He whispers, breath hot on your lips.

“Merry Christmas Conrad.” And you kiss him once more.

[lylian333]

~YANDERE LUKA X READER~

(this story may have changes soooo yeah but in the future I'll edit it to make it as perfect if I can )This is also before wiege

WARNING: yandere, toxic relationship, read at your own risk, sexual assault,I need to touch grass and prey to god after this, noncon, weird siblings love(Luka isn't obsessed with hyuna in this story), if there other that I didn't contain please let me know

The first thing you ever see and remember is luka , he's always been there whenever you sad or happy he's always been there. Thankfully you both are taken in by an alien that wants you both to start calling him father , but to you as long as luka is there you'll feel safe.

Since the start you have always seen him as your brother he even knows about that, but perhaps he saw in a different way . you can even say he took advantage of you for being dumb and naive

Both of you are artificially bred but the end result came out quite differently especially health problems are the complete you are considered healthy perhaps even have a stronger immune system than others, while your brother is the opposite since he has asthma, and chronic migraines already.

before you both were send to Anakt Garden you both gown up with robots trying to teach and take care of both of you but the ways of it are scary and it is too much of a business that they would even care on how you smile and how you laugh .

But there are quite a few similarities between you both hate paparazzi like you guys like eating, sucking, and biting on things to satisfy you both hunger you both gown up with huge appetites as well and cause your father to worry about it and he starts giving us less food which to this day you curious that how you habits have begun.

Sometimes you both wanted to pass the time faster you both would cuddle but just cuddling tho there would be biting and touching at least your body wasn't comfortable with it but luka told you to just brush it off and you'll get used to it. this would only happened in private not waiting father or even anybody to find out about this just between you too. slowly the cuddle went from biting to kissing to even touching at weird spots but like luka said" just blush it off you'll get used to it after all you don't to make me upset do you ,dear ?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After that, you both were then sent to Anakt Garden father said it's the first step of your career you both are scared at first but at least you both got each other right? well luka health is kinda slowly getting worse there , and the other children's there kinda treat luka poorly because of his health but you always protect him by chasing the others away.

Not only that father give both of you guys top professionals to keep us well educated and healthy.

Time goes by in a blur, and with every passing day, you can feel the pressure of the competition looming over you both.The training is intensive and harsh, involving physical and mental conditioning to create the perfect idols. But they did have a playtime even so the daily routine consists of rigorous practice and training .

one day,while watching the other kids playing on the other side you and luka were playing with cube and seeing who can do it faster.two person came up to you both when you both look up they smile back and introduced themself" hello my name is hyuna and my younger brother is hyun woo do you guys want to be our friends and play?"

you look at luka waiting for him to make a decision he nod and your really happy about it cause you rarely see siblings and plus their very friendly not only that turns out that hyun woo is the same age as you while hyuna is the second oldest and luka the oldest.

After that day you guys would often hang out together you even started quit seeing them as part as your siblings because of how caring, kindful, and protective they are.

And slowly you start gaining feelings for hyun woo not just any feelings but a really special one even more special than luka and you.Hyun woo would often make a bouquet of flowers or flower head crowns just for you , he would also care for you talk to you a lot, and entertain you which you really enjoy. he would even help you to practice your vocals so that you wouldn't mess up in case and just overall a happy ball full of fun. and perhaps you can even say that you enjoy hyun woo accompany more then luka ones but maybe luka have caught on to you and hyun woo relationships.

About a year later of this at one day, after playing around you guys have gotten tried and decide to rest well hyuna go get some water you and hyun woo decide to lay down together perhaps even call it as a cuddle? Slowly you dive into sleep.

The next thing you knew when you woke up was you hear fighting??? you git confuse and rub your eyes and got up seeing what's going on.turn out it was luka and hyun fighting they rarelt fight even if they did it's usually luka who wanted to find trouble or he just didn't know about it but this fight is not like others it not playful it's like luka actually trying to hit hyun woo before you can fully process what to do luka use all his might and push hyun woo on the group causing him to accidently hit a rock.

Seeing that you instantly push luka causing him to fall on the ground when you turn around to check if hyun woo is okay but you notice his head is b-bleeee-bleeding , him not moving at all not even an inch

Hyuna came into the scene as well screaming" What's going on here and-...Hyun woo-"she stood there speed looking dumbfounded then robots and alien staff came in while hyuna was trying to leave his brother alone you turned around to your brother about to scream at him for what he did but you notice that he's hand is c-changing color-? it's was supposed to be- no not never purple you kneel against him confused picking up his finger and touching it not understanding what's going on why is so many things happening at once

You finally spoken out "luka why...?"

Hyuna kicked and screamed at all her might to put down her brother but the robots just pushed her away and the alien staff held her back she was madly crying. you wanted to go comfort her but when you were about to move luka held you tight "Don't leave me yet I'm not feeling well, sister" he said as he hold you tightly.

Ever since that day, hyuna has grown to have a negative sentiment to luka but even you can't blame her for what she has to be.

One peaceful night well sleeping, you got woken up by hyuna shacking your body trying to silently wake you up"(y/n) Follow me now" she whispered into your ear

'"Where are we going?"

"We're going to escape from this place from our owners and from this living hell, now come on we don't have much time left"

She then pulls your hand out of bed and starts running. You have so many questions in your head but before you can ask any question hyuna pulls you down onto the ground hiding from cameras and security "(y/n) , you may be confused right now but I'll explain to you when we both get out of here please escape with me you're the only person I trusted even after the incident. But please wake up there are many dark secret about this place and the future career all you have to do is just follow me and run across the field climb up a gate and get out"

Part of you wanted to listen to hyuna and escape this living hell and owners of a place but half of you wanted to stay with your older brother and is afraid that luka would be weak and may be left out .....

In the end you choose to escape for your own good for your own freedom and rights. You nod to hyuna who's smile at you and nod back understanding

You both slowly craw out of your hiding spot till one of you got caught by the camera and robots . you both run you tried keeping up to her speed . the alarms were to on alarming the others that the children's are escaping .

Some robots even try shooting you guys down but it can't . Hyuna begin to climb the gate to escape while screaming"(y/n) you can do this just trust me!"

Half way there you feel a strong pull at your leg and caused you to slip down and hit your head on the gate and the ground before you pass out from the pain you ever last encountered with her just looking down at you from the top with her sad and hopeless expression before she keeps going

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you woke up you woke up your realized that you were not in the Anakt Garden bed you were in your home bed with luka on the side hugging you. You were curious and confused and eve scared that father would punish you. When trying to move you feel a sharp pain causing you to moan uncomfortable causing luka to wake up"Finally you woke up dear after a few days without you feel horrible but it's fine our owner has taken us back to home"

Hearing that makes you remember what happened you feel like you are disappointed in yourself you feel horrible for letting yourself down why are you so stupid there is nothing you can do but shed tears hugging your brother.

~Timeskip many years later~

You were sitting on the bed waiting for Luka to return from round 5 you both may be singers but never in the same stage or competition for both of your sake. Your competition was over with you winning and nothing surprising from what has happened multiple times in the past. But how do they manage to hold different competitions and different members at once.

Then you hear the door open, luka enters with his face injury and black eyes it's not your first time seeing this but every time you do it reminds you of the past...

Luka sat on the couch waiting for you to grab equipment to help with his injury. when you did he pulled you to sit on his lap "You're the only thing I want your life is mine and need I miss spending time with you like in the old days....why don't we cuddle again like how we used to maybe more intense now since you gown up right now a baby anymore..." he chuckles cupping your cheek

there hasn't been an ending yet sooon I came up with my own for now and maybe in the future I'll edit it better bc I only have one week left before my fucking important ass exam(please pray for me) .But I just fell into the fandom bc of the edit it's so good man and I'll also try understanding the concept alright I know this is really mess up but still...anyways thanks for reading

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a lifetime is lived in a year, but remembered forever

part two - part three

wc - 20.2k (all three parts)

You first see her on a Tuesday. Early spring. The Dallas heat hasn’t kicked in yet, and the air carries that kind of quiet stillness that only comes when the morning rush has passed and the lunch crowd hasn't yet begun. The restaurant is quiet—just the way you like it.

Your place is small, intimate. You didn’t open it to impress critics or chase stars. You opened it because food felt like the one thing you could always count on to make people stop and feel something. It’s tucked into the edge of a quiet neighborhood just outside downtown—equal parts cozy and stubborn. The kind of spot you have to find on purpose.

The door opens with a chime. You glance up from your prep station behind the counter, expecting another regular or maybe someone picking up takeout.

Instead, you see her.

Tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back into a low bun, a baseball cap tugged low over her brows. She wears an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame, sleeves tucked over her hands. And she looks… lost. Not in a dramatic, “I don’t know where I am” kind of way. More like the kind of lost that comes with new cities, long days, and aching homesickness.

You wipe your hands on a towel and step forward.

“Seat yourself,” you say, voice even but not unfriendly.

She hesitates for a second before sliding into the seat at the end of the counter—the one closest to the kitchen, where she can watch the food being made. You clock it. That choice. Curious eyes. Maybe a little shy.

You nod toward her cap. “You hiding from someone or just avoiding eye contact?”

She huffs a breath. You can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “Both.”

There’s something familiar about her face, but you can’t quite place it. She's beautiful, in that quietly commanding way. Soft around the eyes, but not someone to underestimate. Still, you’re not one to pry. Instead, you hand her a menu.

“It’s not long,” you tell her. “We don’t do pages of choices here.”

“That’s okay,” she says, voice low but steady. “Makes it easier.”

You wait while she scans it, her fingers tapping lightly on the wood countertop.

“What’s your favorite thing on here?” she finally asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Depends what kind of day you’re having.”

She glances up at you, just for a moment. Her eyes are sharp blue, thoughtful. “Let’s say...a tired one. Homesick. A little lonely.”

You tilt your head. “Comfort food it is.”

You walk back behind the counter and begin moving without asking more questions. You don’t need to. This is the kind of meal you’ve made a hundred times before—one of your own staples, something warm and heavy with memory, your take on garlic-butter chicken and creamy parmesan rice, served with charred broccolini and lemon zest. A plate you’ve cooked when you were sad, when you were in love, when you needed something to feel like home.

You plate it carefully. Slide it in front of her without ceremony.

She blinks down at it. Then looks up at you, slow smile creeping in. “You’re good at this.”

“I know,” you say, smirking.

She eats in silence for the first few bites. Then, without looking up, “I just got drafted.”

“WNBA?”

She nods.

“Which team?”

“Wings.”

You lean your elbows against the counter. “So, you're new in town.”

“Very.”

You don’t say anything. Let her eat in peace. But after a few more bites, she glances up again.

“You’re not gonna ask who I am?”

You shrug. “I figure you’ll tell me if you want me to know.”

Her smile twitches again—this time real, full of something that feels like relief.

“I’m Paige.”

You offer your name in return, nodding slightly. “Welcome to Dallas, Paige.”

Something shifts between you then—not dramatic or loud, just…quieter. Easier. You slide her a glass of hibiscus lemonade without asking. She thanks you. You ask how she’s liking the city. She admits she hasn’t seen much of it yet.

“I’ve mostly been in practice and meetings. Everything feels like it’s happening fast.”

“Let me guess. You haven’t found your ‘spot’ yet.”

“My spot?”

“Everyone needs one. That one place that feels like yours. Somewhere you can breathe.”

She glances around the restaurant. Small wooden tables. Mismatched chairs. A vinyl player softly humming old jazz near the window. The smell of rosemary and lemon hanging in the air.

“Maybe this’ll be mine.”

You don’t reply. Just offer a small smile and return to your chopping board. But later, as she finishes and slides her plate back with a quiet, “That was amazing,” you meet her gaze and say, “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll make something different.”

She tilts her head. “That an invitation?”

“That’s a promise.”

She stands to leave, tugging her hoodie tighter around herself. At the door, she glances back.

“Thanks for not...making it a thing.”

“Making what a thing?”

“My name. Who I am.”

You just shrug. “You’re a girl who needed a good meal. That’s all that mattered today.”

She leaves with that soft smile still on her lips.

The next day, she’s back.

Same hoodie. Different hat. This time, no hesitation as she slips into the same stool by the kitchen counter, elbows on the wood like she’s always belonged there.

You glance up from prepping onions and say, “Guess the food wasn’t that bad.”

She grins. “I considered eating somewhere else. Then I remembered how boring other places are.”

“You remember that halfway through the drive or halfway through the menu?”

“Halfway through a protein bar in my car.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Alright, homesick rookie. I promised something different.”

She leans forward. “Surprise me.”

You do. This time, it’s a coconut milk curry with roasted chickpeas and chili oil, something you only make for people you think might actually appreciate it.

You slide the bowl across the counter. “Careful, it bites back.”

“I like heat,” she says, grabbing a spoon.

You raise your brows. “Careful with statements like that around chefs. We’ll test it.”

She takes one bite, pauses, and then exhales slowly, eyes widening.

You watch her face, amused. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, mouth still half full. “It’s incredible. I just wasn’t ready for the flavor. That’s...layers.”

You smirk. “Compliments from Paige Bueckers. Gonna frame that.”

She freezes. “So you do know who I am.”

“I didn’t yesterday. I looked it up.”

She laughs, a little sheepish. “Had to check if I was famous?”

“No,” you say. “Had to check if I was about to be responsible for poisoning a professional athlete.”

She lets her forehead fall to the counter with a muffled groan.

“You’re brutal.”

You grin. “You’re in my restaurant. Comes with the territory.”

Over the next week, she keeps coming.

Always alone. Always to the counter seat.

Sometimes she shows up with a hoodie pulled over her head and stays quiet, watching you slice herbs or prep sauces, saying barely a word beyond “Hey” and “Thanks.” Other times, she’s talkative—telling you about practice drills that nearly killed her, about team bonding events where no one wanted to sing karaoke first, about how weird it is to have fans recognize her at gas stations.

You listen, mostly. Occasionally ask questions that pull her out of herself a little more. She starts lingering after meals. Finishing her food slower. Helping you clean up a few dishes without being asked.

“Is this your dream?” she asks you one evening after closing, as you’re wiping down the counter and she’s nursing a ginger beer.

You glance over your shoulder. “The restaurant?”

She nods.

You think about it. “Not exactly. But it’s something I built. And that makes it mine.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” she says, quietly. “I’ve always had people building things around me. For me. I never really built something on my own.”

You dry your hands on a towel and lean against the counter beside her.

“Well,” you say, “if you ever decide to build something...I know a good spot to start. Great lighting. Strong coffee. Kitchen staff’s kind of a hardass, though.”

She bumps her shoulder into yours and grins. “I’ll take my chances.”

A few days later, she brings a book. Doesn’t say anything about it—just places it on the counter next to her plate while you cook. You catch the title: A Man Called Ove.

“Didn’t peg you for a reader,” you say.

“You’re saying that like it’s a dig.”

“It’s not. I just imagined you watching game tape or playing 2K on your off days.”

She shrugs, flipping the book open. “I do both. But sometimes… this is easier. Reading someone else’s mess instead of sorting through your own.”

You pause mid-stir, something about her tone catching you. Not sad, exactly. But faraway.

“Want dessert?” you offer.

She perks up instantly. “What kind?”

“You’ll see.”

You bring out a slice of brown butter banana bread—still warm—and watch her face as she takes the first bite.

Her eyes roll back. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Making everything feel like a hug I wasn’t expecting.”

You laugh, quiet. “Is that a complaint?”

She shakes her head slowly, chewing. “Not even a little.”

One night, she stays past closing. You're both lingering—neither of you admitting it. You're seated on the floor behind the counter, back against the fridge, nursing a bottle of Topo Chico. She's on a stool above you, swinging her legs like a kid, talking about Connecticut winters and the way snow used to silence everything.

It’s comfortable. Strangely so.

“Do you ever get lonely here?” she asks, all of a sudden.

You pause. “Sometimes. But loneliness and being alone aren’t always the same thing.”

She hums. “That’s a good line.”

“You can use it if you pretend it was yours first.”

She laughs, gaze soft.

For the first time, you wonder what it would feel like to lean into her shoulder. To rest there.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

She becomes a part of the restaurant before either of you admit it.

It’s in the way her stool never gets taken, even when it’s busy. In the way you plate her food just a little differently—garnish with an extra sprig, a touch more drizzle. In the way her jacket ends up on the coat hook behind the counter without question. In the way she hums softly along to whatever record you’re playing that day, like the soundtrack was made just for her.

She always shows up right before the dinner crowd rolls in, when the light through the windows is golden and the kitchen is calm enough to talk.

“Long day?” you ask one Thursday, as she walks in with her shoulders heavy and hoodie unzipped.

She slumps into her seat like she’s collapsing into the only place she trusts to hold her. “I got elbowed in the face.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You start it?”

“Didn’t even touch her,” she says, defensively. “She just… had too much energy.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re not exactly low-energy, Paige.”

“I’m controlled energy,” she counters, tapping her fingers on the countertop. “There’s a difference.”

You nod sagely, wiping your hands on your apron. “I'll make you a bowl of something comforting. And cooling.”

“Not the curry again,” she pleads.

“No promises,” you tease, and she groans.

You end up making her something light—cold soba noodles with sesame, cucumber, and a bit of lime. She slurps it down like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“This might be your best one yet,” she says, mouth full.

You lean on the counter, hand resting near her bowl. “You say that every time.”

“Because it keeps being true,” she says. Then, quieter, “I don’t think I’ve felt full since I moved here. Not like this.”

You try to smile, but it hits somewhere deeper than expected. The vulnerability. The truth. She says things sometimes that cut through you without trying to.

“You know,” she adds, picking up her chopsticks again, “people talk about how important it is to ‘find your people.’ I think that’s overrated.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s more important to find your place. A person can leave. A place stays.”

You consider that for a long moment, then glance toward the stove. “That explains why you’re always here.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just chews thoughtfully, then murmurs, “I like how quiet it is here. Not quiet like...empty. Just…settled.”

“Like the restaurant isn’t trying to be anything?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Kind of like you.”

You feel your stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with her attention. The way she notices. Pays attention to the pieces of you even you don’t name.

You change the subject before it can settle too long. “I made banana bread again.”

She perks up. “Do I get the edge piece this time?”

“Maybe.”

She grins. “You like me.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. “I tolerate you.”

She leans forward on her elbows, eyes teasing. “You like me.”

You place the banana bread slice in front of her—the corner piece, golden and crisped to perfection. You say nothing. She knows.

That weekend, a family comes in with two screaming toddlers. One throws a spoon, and it hits the back of Paige’s chair. You rush over, but before you can say anything, she turns to the kid and gives him a high-five.

The mother looks horrified. You expect Paige to be annoyed. But she just laughs and says, “Good arm, little man.”

After they leave, you hand her a warm cookie on the house.

“What’s this for?” she asks, biting into it.

“Not every customer would’ve handled that so well.”

She shrugs. “I was a walking tantrum for most of fifth grade. I get it.”

You lean your chin in your hand, watching her. “You’re different than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. More... guarded, I guess. More closed-off.”

She lifts a brow. “You’re saying I’m easy?”

You smirk. “Emotionally.”

She grins. “Still feels like a compliment.”

One night, you're closing up later than usual. Paige is still there, legs tucked under her, sipping tea you made just for her—jasmine and honey.

Outside, rain taps gently on the windows.

Neither of you says much. The silence feels sacred.

“Can I ask you something?” she says after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

You look over. “Of course.”

“Why a restaurant?”

The question surprises you, even though it shouldn’t. You've talked about your past in passing, but not much about the why.

You rest your hand on the counter, fingers tracing a water ring.

“I think… because food is one of the only things that makes people stop. No matter what kind of day they’re having, what they’re going through—when they eat something good, they’re here. Right now. In it.”

Paige is quiet for a beat. “That’s how I feel when I play.”

You nod. “Same drug. Different medium.”

She smiles, soft and slow, like she’s storing that phrase away.

When she leaves, it’s almost midnight. You walk her to the door like you always do. She pauses with her hand on the knob.

“I like talking to you,” she says, without looking at you.

“I like feeding you.”

She glances over her shoulder then, and there’s something in her eyes you haven’t seen before.

The door opens. 

Then closes.

She’s gone again.

But for the first time, you catch yourself wondering when she’ll come back—not if.

The first time Paige sees you outside the restaurant, it’s by accident.

It’s a Sunday morning, early, and you’re at the farmer’s market near White Rock Lake, sleeves pushed up, tote bag over your shoulder, two kinds of basil in one hand and a half-drunk coffee in the other. You’re reading a produce sign when you hear—

“Well, well.”

You turn. Paige is standing there in joggers and a hoodie, sunglasses perched on her head, a grin tugging at her lips.

You blink. “You… go to farmer’s markets?”

She shrugs. “I jogged here. I wanted a juice. But now I feel like I’ve caught a celebrity in the wild.”

You snort. “I don’t jog. I chase tomatoes.”

She falls in step beside you without being asked.

You don’t stop her.

You walk through the stalls together.

She asks questions about vegetables she doesn’t recognize. You explain the difference between French radishes and watermelon radishes, between heirloom tomatoes and the sad ones in grocery stores. She listens with that soft focus you’ve come to recognize—the kind she wears in games, you imagine, when she’s about to make the smartest pass on the court.

“You’re different here,” she says at one point, as you sample plum slices from a vendor.

“Different how?”

She thinks. “Quieter. Less sharp. Like you’re… off-duty.”

You consider that. “The restaurant is where I perform. This is where I breathe.”

She nods. “I get that.”

You end up sitting on the edge of a fountain eating warm cheese pastries. You don’t say much. She taps her fingers against the stone. You brush crumbs from your shirt. It’s easy.

It’s so easy, it scares you a little.

Later that week, you close the restaurant early—rare, but necessary.

Your landlord left a voicemail about a pipe leaking in the apartment above yours. Something about potential damage, something about needing to assess it immediately. You go home annoyed, tired, and not in the mood to talk to anyone.

So of course, your phone buzzes the second you step inside.

Paige: No dinner tonight?

You sigh. A pause.

You: Had to close early. Apartment trouble.

Paige: Want company?

You stare at the message for a minute.

No one’s ever asked that. Not like that. Not someone who doesn’t expect something in return.

You hesitate.

You: Sure. Door’s open.

She shows up twenty minutes later, holding a paper bag.

“I panicked and grabbed Thai,” she says, stepping inside.

Your place is small—bare bones, minimalist. Cookbooks stacked on windowsills. Plants on every available surface. The scent of herbs lingers in the air like it’s soaked into the walls.

She kicks off her shoes. “This is exactly what I imagined.”

You raise a brow. “Barely decorated and perpetually under renovation?”

“No,” she says. “Warm. Lived in. Like your food.”

You blink at that.

She shrugs and sets the bag on the table. “Too much?”

You shake your head, voice quieter than you expect. “No. Just… haven’t had anyone describe it like that before.”

You eat together on the couch. Feet up. Movie on in the background—Chef, fittingly. You both laugh at the same scenes.

At one point, you glance over and catch her looking around your space again. Not snooping—just noticing.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, echoing what she’d asked you once before.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you talk about your family?”

You pause. Not defensive. Just… pulled back.

“They’re far,” you say eventually. “Emotionally and geographically.”

She nods. Doesn’t push.

You appreciate that more than she knows.

“You?” you ask.

Paige smiles faintly. “Tight-knit. My mom and I are really close. My brothers, too. It’s… loud when I go home.”

You try to imagine her in a house full of chaos and warmth. It fits. But then again, so does this version—the one who falls into your quiet like she’s meant to be there.

“Thank you,” you say, without knowing why.

She glances over. “For what?”

“For showing up. And for not… poking too hard.”

She bumps your knee with hers. “You do the same for me.”

After she leaves, the apartment feels different.

Not empty. Just… touched.

Like she left something behind that’s still hanging in the air.

You don’t mind it.

Not at all.

It’s raining again.

Late Friday night, and most of Dallas is tucked away indoors. But the restaurant is softly lit, warm against the thunder rumbling outside. Jazz hums low on the vinyl player, the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary still clinging to the air.

You’re cleaning up after a slow dinner service—only a few regulars tonight. It’s the kind of night you half-expect Paige to miss. She had a game earlier, an away one, and you assume she’s wiped.

But just as you’re wiping down the espresso machine, the door chimes.

You glance up.

There she is—hood soaked, hair a mess, shoes squeaking slightly on the tile.

You blink. “You’re drenched.”

She pushes back the hood, rain dripping from her lashes. “I left my car three blocks away. It was the only spot I could find.”

“You walked here? In this?”

“I missed dinner.”

You freeze.

Something about how she says it. Quiet. Like it was never really about the food.

You grab a towel from behind the counter and toss it toward her. She catches it, rubs at her hair half-heartedly.

“I can make something quick,” you offer, already moving toward the fridge.

She doesn’t answer.

You glance back. She’s standing there, towel in hand, staring at the counter. Her stool. Her place.

“Paige?”

She looks up.

And that’s when you notice it.

She’s not just tired. She’s unraveling.

The eyes that always meet yours with dry humor and spark now look...frayed.

You walk over slowly, meeting her where she stands.

“What happened?” you ask, softer now.

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Then sits.

She doesn't look at you when she says it.

“I played like shit tonight.”

You wait.

“And it wasn’t just that. I could feel everyone watching me. Like I wasn’t allowed to mess up. Like the second I did, they’d start thinking maybe I wasn’t worth the hype.”

You sit across from her, elbows resting on the counter. “You’re allowed to have a bad night.”

She shakes her head. “Not when you’re me. Not when people expect greatness. Every minute. Every play.”

There’s something jagged in her voice. You’ve never heard it like this—never heard her let herself crack.

You don’t say anything for a moment.

“You want something warm or something cold?”

She blinks. “That’s your response?”

You nod. “Because I can’t fix the noise in your head, but I can fix your blood sugar and maybe calm your nervous system with the right bowl of food.”

A small laugh breaks out of her. She scrubs a hand over her face. “You’re so weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She looks up at you.

And for a heartbeat too long, neither of you look away.

You end up making her lemon ginger soup with rice noodles and sautéed mushrooms. It’s light, calming. The kind of food that says you can breathe again.

She takes one bite and exhales like her body forgot it needed to.

You sit across from her in the dimmed light, both of you listening to the rain drum against the windows.

She eats slowly.

“I didn’t mean to come here looking like a drowned opossum,” she mutters eventually.

You smile. “Opossum’s a little harsh. Raccoon, maybe.”

That earns a snort.

“I just…” she trails off, then pushes her spoon around the bowl. “I needed to be somewhere that doesn’t expect anything from me.”

You nod. “This place doesn’t. I don’t.”

“I know,” she says. And then, voice low, “that’s why I came.”

You reach for a napkin and slide it across the counter without a word.

She takes it. Doesn’t use it. Just holds it like something grounding.

“I think I’m scared,” she admits.

You look up. “Of what?”

“Letting people in,” she says. “Because then they can leave. Or worse, they can stay and watch you fall apart.”

You lean your forearms on the counter, eyes steady on hers.

“I’m not here to watch you fall apart,” you say.

Her throat works as she swallows. “Then why are you here?”

And the air between you stills.

Because you don’t have a clever answer this time.

You don’t say it’s just the food. Or that you like the company. You don’t say anything for a second too long.

“Maybe I just like the way you are here. Not out there.”

She breathes out slowly, like that answer both hurts and heals.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You’re not,” you say. “Neither am I.”

Silence settles again. But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s… hopeful.

Before she leaves, you hand her a paper bag.

“What’s this?”

“Banana bread,” you say. “You didn’t ask for it, but I knew you’d want it.”

She stares at you for a moment.

Then she says, voice uneven, “I think this place is my favorite thing about Dallas.”

You meet her eyes. “You’re welcome here. Always.”

And when she leaves, you realize the air still smells like her laughter and rain.

You’re standing in the cereal aisle of a nearly empty grocery store when your phone buzzes.

Paige: You off today?

You stare at the screen. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz a little too loud. Your hair’s up in a messy knot, sleeves rolled to your elbows, and your cart contains exactly one bottle of oat milk, a box of strawberries, and frozen dumplings you have every intention of eating straight from the pan.

You: Yeah. What’s up?

The dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Paige: I’m outside.

You freeze. Look down at your hoodie, your old sneakers, the stain of flour still faint on your jeans. You glance toward the automatic doors. She’s there, through the glass, standing beside her car, hands in her pockets like she’s nervous.

You push the cart toward her.

The doors slide open with a whisper.

“Do I need to file a restraining order?” you ask dryly, stopping a few feet away.

She smiles—small, sheepish, almost unsure. “I just… I didn’t know where else I wanted to go today.”

You pause. “You knew I wasn’t at the restaurant.”

“I was hoping you’d still let me see you.”

Your chest tightens. Not painfully. Just enough to remind you that this—whatever this is—isn’t casual anymore. If it ever was.

You gesture toward her car. “Well, I’ve got frozen dumplings and no real plans. Wanna commit to bad decisions together?”

Her smile grows. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You end up back at your apartment, bags of groceries on the counter, the TV humming something in the background. You’re both barefoot now—Paige curled up on the couch with her legs under her, watching you move around the kitchen with quiet awe.

“Do you ever stop?” she asks.

You glance over. “Stop what?”

“Moving. Doing. Feeding. Fixing.”

You rest your hands on the counter. “I do when I’m with people who let me.”

She tilts her head. “Do I let you?”

You meet her eyes. “You’re trying to.”

She doesn’t look away. “I want to.”

There’s a pause that doesn’t feel awkward. Just… honest.

Then she looks down at her lap and murmurs, “I think I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for weeks.”

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

You keep your voice even. “And?”

“And this isn’t me asking.” She looks up. “Not yet. I don’t want to ask you until I’m sure I can be what you deserve.”

The air thins.

You could say a dozen things. You could deflect. You could joke.

But instead, you say, “I’m not looking for perfect, Paige. I’m just looking for real.”

She takes that in like it’s a promise.

And maybe it is.

You end up on your fire escape that night, sharing a blanket and a bowl of slightly overcooked dumplings. The city stretches out in front of you, golden and humming and alive.

She’s quiet beside you. But not in a distant way. In the way that feels full.

You ask, eventually, “Why today?”

She turns to you, blinking slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Why show up now?”

She hesitates. “Because last night, after I left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you wiping down that counter and telling me I wasn’t falling apart alone.”

You stare at the skyline. Your hands itch to hold hers, but they stay in your lap.

“I guess,” she says, voice softer, “I just wanted to be where you were. Not where people want me to be. Not where I’m expected.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You wanted to be with me.”

She doesn’t answer with words.

She just leans her head against your shoulder.

And stays there.

For a long, long time.

It’s midweek, late afternoon, and you’ve just pulled the last tray of brown butter cookies from the oven when the door chimes.

You’re closed.

You know you’re closed. There’s a sign on the door, chairs flipped, lights low. But somehow, you’re not surprised when you look up and see her—standing just inside, rain-damp again, her shoes squeaking faintly on the tile like a bad habit.

You blink. “You’re getting good at breaking in.”

Paige lifts her hoodie hood off, rain-speckled strands of hair falling around her face. “It wasn’t locked.”

“Still feels like trespassing.”

“I brought flowers,” she says, stepping forward and holding out a crumpled paper-wrapped bundle. It’s not roses or anything traditional. It’s herbs—fresh mint and lavender and thyme. The kind of thing a chef might keep in a vase instead of water.

You take them, fingers brushing hers. “These are oddly specific.”

“You’re oddly specific.”

You smile despite yourself.

“You hungry?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

She nods. “Always.”

You gesture to the stool, the one that’s unofficially hers. She sits without hesitation.

You plate two cookies and pour her a glass of oat milk because she made a face at regular milk last time and said it tasted “suspicious.”

She picks up a cookie. Takes one bite. And groans.

“If you ever wanted to trap someone forever, this would be the bait.”

“I’ll add it to my seduction plan.”

She snorts, nearly choking.

You both laugh.

And then, without warning, it fades.

Not awkwardly. Not abruptly.

Just… slows.

The laughter lingers, but her eyes hold something else. Something like a thought she hasn’t dared to say out loud.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

She looks down at the counter. Traces a ring of moisture left by her glass.

“I had a weird day,” she says.

“What kind of weird?”

“The kind where everything feels fine on the outside, but inside you’re just… off.”

You nod. “Those are the worst.”

“Practice went okay. Press wasn’t bad. But I kept looking around and wondering if this—” she gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the world, “—was going to be it. Just game after game, city after city, until one day it’s over and I don’t even remember who I was outside of it.”

You lean forward on your elbows. “You do know who you are.”

She meets your gaze. “I feel like I do… when I’m here.”

The air shifts again.

She doesn’t say it like a line. Doesn’t say it like she wants something.

She says it like a confession.

You wipe your hands on your apron and take a slow breath.

“Do you know why I like it when you show up?” you ask.

She shakes her head.

“Because you don’t ask for anything. Not really. You just are. You come in, sit down, exist in this space with me like it’s normal. Like you don’t need me to perform.”

She watches you. Eyes open. Honest. So, so blue.

“Maybe I don’t know what this is yet,” she says quietly, “but I think I’m starting to know what I want it to be.”

Your pulse stutters.

You should say something.

Instead, you look away. “That scares me.”

She leans closer, voice even softer. “It scares me too.”

And there it is.

That nearly.

The almost.

The invisible thread pulling tight between you.

Neither of you cross it.

Not yet.

But she doesn’t leave for a long time.

And when she finally does, her hand grazes your arm on the way out.

A touch that says, I’m here.

Paige: You awake?

It’s nearly midnight. You’re on the couch in sweatpants, flipping through a book you’re not reading and sipping wine you’re not tasting. The day was long. The restaurant was busy. You haven’t spoken to her since she left two nights ago, and the silence has been louder than you expected.

You: Yeah. You okay?

Paige: Can I see you?

You meet her twenty minutes later.

She’s waiting outside your building in a hoodie and joggers, hair down, hands stuffed into her pockets. No car. Just Paige, standing under a flickering streetlamp like she doesn’t know where else to be.

“You walked here?” you ask, stepping outside and closing the door behind you.

She shrugs. “Didn’t want to think. Just wanted to move.”

The street is quiet. A soft breeze curls around your ankles. You tug your own hoodie tighter and fall into step beside her.

You don’t ask where you’re going.

You just walk.

Block after block. Your arms never quite brush, but you’re aware of every inch of space between you.

Paige breaks the silence first.

“I used to go on walks all the time back in Connecticut. Especially in the winter. When the air hurt and your nose went numb.”

You smile. “That sounds… miserable.”

“It was,” she says, chuckling. “But it made everything else feel warmer after. Like you earned it.”

You walk a little further before she says, “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t opened the restaurant?”

You consider it. “Maybe I’d have a food truck. Or I’d be working in someone else’s kitchen. But I think…” You trail off. “I think I still would’ve found a way to feed people. It’s just part of me.”

She hums. “That’s how I feel about basketball. I don’t know how not to be in it.”

You stop at a crosswalk and look over at her. “Is that a good thing?”

Her breath catches. “Sometimes.”

The light changes. You both cross.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. “Why did you come tonight?”

She stops walking.

You do too.

“I was sitting in my apartment,” she says, eyes flicking up to yours, “and I kept thinking about that night we sat on your fire escape. And I realized that I didn’t want to be anywhere else but with you. Not talking. Not even doing anything. Just… you.”

Your throat tightens. Not with surprise—but with the way it makes you feel seen. Like she reached right inside you and found something you hadn’t offered out loud.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says, voice softer now. “I know I keep saying that. But it’s not because I’m unsure of you. I just… I don’t want to mess this up by naming it too soon.”

You step a little closer. She doesn't move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Her voice is just as quiet. “Promise?”

You nod. “As long as you don’t run.”

“I’m not good at slow,” she admits.

“You’re doing fine.”

And maybe it’s because it’s late. Or quiet. Or because the streetlamp above casts just enough light to make the world feel smaller.

But her fingers find yours.

And she doesn’t let go.

You walk the rest of the way like that. Side by side. Hands clasped. A silence full of everything unspoken.

And in that moment, it doesn’t need a name.

It’s already real.

There’s a knock on your door.

No text. No warning.

It’s late—just past nine—and you’re barefoot, a dish towel over your shoulder, a pan warming on the stove. There’s music playing low, something acoustic and aching. You’re halfway through chopping shallots when the knock comes again.

You wipe your hands and open the door.

Paige stands there holding a paper bag, biting her lip like she’s not sure if this was a mistake.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says quickly. “You didn’t answer my text earlier and I just— I brought pasta?”

You blink. “I didn’t get a text.”

She pauses. Pulls out her phone, glances down, then groans. “I never hit send.”

You smile. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

She exhales, relieved. “Good.”

The two of you end up in the kitchen.

It’s not a big space—barely room for two. But Paige moves through it like she’s memorized the layout from watching you so many times at the restaurant. She doesn’t ask where the pans are. She just grabs one. She doesn’t ask which knife to use. She takes the second-sharpest one without hesitation.

You boil the water. She preps garlic.

At some point, you switch places—her taking over the sauce while you slice bread, the two of you moving around each other like music, never once bumping elbows.

“I like this,” she says quietly, stirring butter into a pan.

“What part?”

“This. Us. Together. Not at the restaurant. Just… here.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You’ve been here before.”

“Yeah, but that was dumplings and sad jazz. This feels… closer.”

She doesn’t mean physically.

You feel it too.

You set the bread aside and walk to where she’s standing.

She doesn’t flinch when you reach for the spoon in her hand. Doesn’t move when your fingers brush hers.

“Let me taste,” you murmur.

She watches you try the sauce—like she’s waiting for approval, not just on the food.

You nod. “Perfect.”

She grins, but it’s a soft one. “High praise coming from you.”

You bump her shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head, Bueckers.”

“I won’t,” she says, then adds—so quiet you almost miss it—“Unless you want me to.”

You look at her.

Really look.

There’s a moment where neither of you move. Where the steam from the stove curls up between you and the air is thick with could and want.

But you don’t kiss her.

And she doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, you turn off the heat and say, “We should eat before this goes cold.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Yeah. Good idea.”

You sit on the floor with plates balanced on your knees, her legs stretched out across your rug, her socked feet nudging yours every few minutes like a secret only she knows she’s telling.

After dinner, you clean up together. No questions asked.

You hand her a towel. She dries.

At the end of it, she leans against the counter, staring at your kitchen like it’s suddenly something sacred.

“This,” she starts. “This is what I want more of.”

You don’t answer.

Because you want it too.

And you’re scared of how much.

It’s the morning after the night you cooked together.

You wake to a text.

Paige: Are you working today?

You: Always.

Paige: Not tonight.

You pause.

You: What’s going on?

Paige: I want to take you somewhere.

She picks you up at seven sharp.

Not in her usual hoodie and joggers, but in black jeans and a pale denim jacket over a soft white tee. She’s wearing sneakers and nervous energy. You lock the restaurant door behind you and meet her at the curb.

“You okay?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat.

“I think I might throw up,” she admits.

You glance over. “We’re going somewhere that bad?”

She laughs—shaky but real. “No. Just... something I’ve been thinking about for a while. Don’t want to mess it up.”

You reach across the console and tap her hand gently. “Then don’t.”

She drives you to a park on the edge of the city—one neither of you have been to before. The sun’s just setting, the sky streaked in watercolor pinks and soft indigo. There’s no one else around.

“I didn’t want an audience,” she says as she kills the engine.

“For what?”

She looks at you. “Come on.”

You follow her up a grassy path, then out to a little overlook where the city sparkles in the distance like a held breath. She turns to face you, backlit by fading gold.

“Okay,” she says, exhaling. “Here goes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not proposing, are you?”

She laughs. “Shut up.”

Then she’s quiet.

Her hands fidget in her jacket pockets. She rocks on her heels. “I know we’ve been… something. More than friends. Less than official. Floating somewhere in the middle.”

You say nothing. You want her to finish.

“I’ve tried not to rush it. Because I know you’ve built walls. Because I know I have too. But I don’t want to wonder anymore.”

She steps closer.

“I want this. I want us. I don’t care how long it takes or how slow we go, but I need to know I’m not the only one standing on the edge.”

Your throat tightens.

She swallows hard.

“So,” she finishes, voice soft, “will you go on a real date with me? Like... a non-kitchen, outside-the-apron, you-and-me-without-an-excuse kind of date?”

You take a step closer.

You don't answer with words.

You reach for her hand.

She lets you take it.

Fingers laced. Easy. Natural.

“Yes,” you whisper.

She beams.

And then—only then—she leans forward and presses her forehead to yours.

No kiss yet.

Not quite.

But almost.

Almost, again.

Only this time, you both know it’s not the last almost.

Because now you’re moving forward.

Together.

You don’t dress up.

Neither does she.

It’s one of those rare Dallas nights where the heat finally breaks, the air soft and cool like early fall. Paige picks you up just after sunset, hair pulled back, black hoodie layered under a jacket you’ve never seen her wear before. Her smile is calm this time—no nerves. Just something like...peace.

“You ready?” she asks.

“I’ve been ready.”

She takes you to a place near the lake—not a restaurant, not a venue, just a little dock she found by accident one day while trying to get lost. She brought a picnic. Real plates. Two mason jars filled with sparkling lemonade. A playlist she made on her phone, soft and jazzy, just for this.

“I didn’t want the first one to feel like a performance,” she says as you sit down on the blanket. “I wanted it to feel like us.”

You look around—trees silhouetted in the twilight, the lake shimmering like glass, the quiet hum of crickets in the distance.

“It does,” you say. “This feels like us.”

She beams.

She made most of the food herself.

Roasted veggie wraps. Sliced fruit. Store-bought dessert, which she apologizes for profusely.

“I panicked,” she says. “I knew I couldn’t cook for you.”

You laugh. “You could’ve brought me microwave mac and cheese and I’d still think it was sweet.”

“You say that, but—”

“I mean it.”

You lean back on your hands. She does too. The stars slowly blink into view overhead.

“I like the quiet with you,” she says.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You glance over. “You don’t get a lot of quiet, do you?”

She shakes her head. “Not the good kind. Not the kind that feels like stillness instead of… emptiness.”

You hum softly. “This isn’t empty.”

She turns her head. “No. This is full.”

After you eat, you sit side by side at the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the water.

She tells you about her first high school game—how she threw up twice before tipoff, then scored thirty. You tell her about the night your oven caught fire during dinner rush and you had to serve cold salads to a packed house.

She laughs until she leans into you, her shoulder bumping yours.

You don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“You always can.”

She exhales. “What made you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

“The way you never asked for more than I was ready to give.”

She’s quiet.

So are you.

But you’re both here.

And then—so gently it barely feels real—her fingers find yours.

She doesn’t look at you when she says, “Can I kiss you?”

You look at her.

She’s already smiling.

You don’t say anything.

You just kiss her.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

The kind of kiss that says, We’re starting now.

And when you pull back, breath tangled with hers, she whispers, “One more kiss.”

And you give it to her.

Because after this?

There’s always one more.

You don’t talk about labels.

You don’t need to.

After that night on the dock, something shifts. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just enough that her hand finds yours more easily now. That she starts texting good morning without fail, and always follows up with what are we eating tonight?

The first week of dating doesn’t feel different. It feels deeper. Like something that was already true finally got to exhale.

Date two is spontaneous.

She shows up after practice with a bag of takeout and a sheepish grin. “Can we eat this at your place and pretend we went somewhere fancy?”

You light two candles. She makes a paper crown out of a napkin and insists you wear it.

“I don’t remember saying yes to royalty,” you tease.

“I crossed someone up today. I earned it.”

After dinner, you both sit on the floor listening to a soft vinyl while sharing a pint of ice cream straight from the container.

At some point, your head ends up on her shoulder.

At another, her lips find your forehead.

Date three is grocery shopping.

It’s not meant to be a date. But she walks every aisle with you, asking questions about sauces and cheeses, throwing cereal into the cart without permission. You catch her humming next to you at the register.

In the car, she says, “That was kind of hot.”

You blink. “The frozen foods section?”

“No. Watching you debate between three brands of olive oil like it was a matter of national security.”

You laugh. She grins.

You hold hands at a red light and don’t let go when it turns green.

Date four is a drive-in movie.

She picks you up with a blanket, a thermos of tea, and a giant bag of popcorn she admits she stole from the Wings training facility.

You lean against her chest in the backseat, her fingers tracing soft circles on your arm.

She doesn’t even look at the screen half the time.

Just you.

There are other moments.

Not dates, exactly. Just... shared life.

She starts showing up at the restaurant just to sit with you during your break.

You leave extra banana bread on her car windshield after hard games.

She starts calling you baby when she thinks you’re not listening.

You catch her humming a melody you made up while cooking.

One night, she falls asleep on your couch, head in your lap, and when you reach for the blanket, she murmurs, half-dreaming, “don’t leave.”

You don’t.

You never even think about it.

It’s not perfect.

She still disappears into her head sometimes.

You still shut down when things get too close too fast.

But neither of you run anymore.

And every day, it gets easier to stay.

It happens on a Saturday.

You’re wiping down tables after the lunch rush when your phone buzzes.

Paige: Wanna come to the game tonight?

You pause mid-swipe.

She’s never asked before. Not because she doesn’t want you there, but because you’ve both been quietly protective of the little world you’ve built—apart from cameras, headlines, speculation.

You: Are you sure?

Paige: I’m very sure.

You: Okay. Where should I sit?

The reply comes quick.

Paige: With me. Before. In the tunnel.

She meets you at the loading dock hours later, hair braided back, Wings warm-up on, smile already soft when she sees you.

“You look good,” you say.

“I’m trying not to sweat through this shirt before warm-ups.”

“You look nervous.”

She shrugs. “I am.”

“About the game?”

“No.” Her eyes hold yours. “About letting you in.”

You don’t say anything. You just step closer and rest your hand against her chest, right over her heart.

“It’s safe with me,” you whisper.

She brings you through the tunnel, fingers brushing yours every few steps. Staff nods. Players glance. A few know who you are already—Paige doesn’t hide you, not really. But this is different.

This is with her.

She brings you to the locker room door, pauses, then says, “Come here.”

You step in.

She tugs you just to the side, where a taped piece of paper with her name hangs above a locker. Inside, her jersey. Her shoes. A single polaroid photo taped to the back wall.

You.

Laughing in the kitchen, a flour smudge on your cheek. Taken on one of those quiet mornings you didn’t think she was watching.

You blink at it. Then at her.

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It helps.”

You reach for her hand. Squeeze it.

She exhales.

“Wait here?”

You nod. “Go warm up, Bueckers.”

You sit court side that night.

Not in the VIP seats. Not up in a box.

Right at the edge, where she can see you.

She glances over just before tipoff. Winks.

You feel it in your knees.

She plays like she’s on fire. No hesitation. No fear.

When she hits a fadeaway three in the second quarter, she turns, finds you through the crowd, and mouths, That one’s yours.

You don’t stop smiling the rest of the game.

Afterward, she pulls you into the tunnel before the press can flood in.

She’s sweaty, glowing, breathing hard. You don’t care.

You pull her into your arms anyway.

“You were unreal,” you murmur into her neck.

“I had a reason to be,” she breathes.

You pull back slightly.

She’s watching you like she’s memorizing your face.

And then she says it.

Three words.

Eight Letters.

Soft. Certain. No build-up.

“I love you.”

You don’t freeze.

You don’t flinch.

You just smile.

“I know.” And finally, “I love you too.”

She kisses you before the press can catch up.

And this time, neither of you hide.

It’s her idea.

She shows up at the restaurant on your day off, two coffees in hand, a duffel bag over her shoulder, and a smile you don’t know how to say no to.

“We’re going away for the weekend,” she says, setting the cups down. “No phones. No games. No responsibilities.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

She shrugs. “Somewhere with stars. Somewhere you don’t have to wear an apron and I don’t have to lace up sneakers.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

“Pack a bag,” she says. “Something soft. Something warm.”

It’s a cabin two hours north.

Wooden, tucked into the trees, perched near a lake that shimmers like melted silver under the late afternoon sun. There’s no WiFi. No TV. Just the hum of cicadas and the low whisper of wind in pine needles.

You step out of the car and breathe.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed this,” you say.

“I did,” she answers.

The first night, you cook barefoot in the cabin kitchen while she sets the table like a kid playing house. Everything is smaller here—tighter, cozier. The air smells like wood smoke and rosemary. The wine you brought is too warm but you drink it anyway, legs tangled on the couch, her head in your lap as you read aloud from an old book you found on the shelf.

“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” she murmurs.

You shrug. “Only the kind that hurts a little.”

She smiles. “That tracks.”

Later, you fall asleep in the same bed for the first time. No sex. No rush. Just tangled limbs and whispered laughter. Her arm around your waist. Your face buried in her collarbone. A warmth that settles deeper than skin.

The next morning, she wakes you with pancakes.

Terrible pancakes.

Burnt on one side, half-raw in the center, but she grins like she’s handing you gold.

“I tried,” she says, sliding the plate across the table.

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Then grin.

“This is disgusting.”

She throws a napkin at you. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I do. Even when you insult my cooking.”

You lean over the table and kiss her, tasting sugar and smoke.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For showing up. For knowing what I need before I do.”

Her expression softens. “You do the same for me.”

That night, you sit on the dock in silence, watching the sky unravel into stars. The lake reflects them like a mirror. Your feet dangle just above the water. Paige’s hand rests on your thigh, thumb drawing soft circles.

“I could stay like this forever,” she says.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you want to.

You want forever.

You want more.

But something inside you flickers—a strange fatigue, a dull ache in your ribs you’ve ignored all day.

You bury it.

Later.

You’ll deal with it later.

Right now, you have this.

Her. Here. With you.

You rest your head on her shoulder and close your eyes.

And for one perfect night, forever feels close enough to touch.

You don’t have plans.

No dinners, no reservations, no getaways.

Just a lazy Sunday in bed, sun pouring through the windows, the world moving somewhere far beyond the four walls of your apartment.

You wake before her.

She’s a mess of tangled limbs and soft breathing, her face buried in your pillow, one arm thrown across your waist like she’s been guarding you in her sleep. You watch her for a while. Not in the creepy way. In the I can’t believe she’s mine way.

You shift slightly, brushing hair out of her eyes.

She stirs, blinking into the morning.

“Staring is rude,” she mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“You snore,” you counter.

She snorts. “Do not.”

“You do.”

“Lies.”

“You sound like a tiny, very angry baby bear.”

She opens one eye. “You’re just saying that because you drool.”

You gasp, scandalized. “I do not.”

“I have receipts.”

You swat her with the blanket. She grabs you. Tickles your side. You laugh until you're breathless, tangled under the sheets, limbs entwined.

It’s the kind of morning you used to think only existed in movies.

Now it’s yours.

You don’t get out of bed until noon.

And even then, only because Paige insists on making breakfast.

You sit on the counter, legs swinging, watching as she burns one egg and undercooks another.

“Why am I the athlete and still the least coordinated one in this kitchen?” she groans.

You steal a piece of toast. “Because talent can only carry you so far.”

She squints. “Someday I’ll cook something decent, and you’ll cry from how good it is.”

You grin. “I’ll cry because I survived it.”

She throws a dishtowel at your head.

Later, you walk to the bookstore downtown.

She holds your hand the whole way, swinging it slightly like a kid, occasionally tugging you to stop and look at a dog or a flower or a sticker on a light pole that makes her laugh.

Inside, you lose her for a while.

You find her curled up in the poetry section, cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a collection with her brows furrowed in focus.

She looks up and smiles when she sees you.

You sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and she reads aloud—soft, unsteady, stumbling over the rhythm but still beautiful.

The poem ends, and she whispers, “That felt like you.”

And something inside you breaks gently open.

That evening, you cook together again.

No distractions. No music.

Just the soft sound of a knife on a cutting board, water boiling, her humming under her breath.

You light candles. Not for mood. Just because it feels right.

You eat at the kitchen island, knees brushing, sharing bites and smiles and stories you haven’t told anyone else.

After, you slow dance barefoot in the living room, no music, no rhythm. Just swaying.

Just her chin resting on your shoulder. Her hand on your back.

You hold her like she’s already a memory.

But you don’t know why.

Not yet.

That night, in bed, she presses her forehead to yours.

“I want a thousand more days like this,” she whispers.

You nod.

So do you.

So badly it hurts.

But all you say is, “Me too.”

And you fall asleep wrapped in everything soft, not knowing it will be the last day before the ache begins.

[meanderingwistera]

Satosugu both have different ways of cheering you up when things get hard.

Suguru knows how bad things can get. He has dealt with his own depression and mental health for years so he understands you better than Satoru at times. Suguru knows when you are starting to spiral, he can recognize the dullness of your normally bright eyes. So when you don’t get out of bed until noon or don’t really talk, he knows.

Suguru will crawl into bed with you. His arms wrapping around you and pulling you into his chest. Satoru takes care of anything that may need to be taken care of before climbing in on your other side.

He will hold you as long as you need

Satoru’s heart breaks when you can’t get out of bed. He won’t ever tell you that because that would only make it worse but he can’t stand not being able to fix what is wrong. He can’t chase away your depression or fully understand what you are going through. But that doesn’t stop him from doing things for you. He cleans the house, he makes dinner and holds you when you need his touch.

Satoru lets you tell him what is wrong when you are ready. Suguru is always there with him, helping him help you. Even if you can’t he has begun to understand without you even telling him. His heart is always open to your struggles.

He will always listen and reassure you.

[muletia]

Starscream would particularly be a pathetic mess when he experiences human pussy/dick for the first time. He sits on his high horse claiming that humans are nothing more than inferior beings who don’t deserve to be acknowledged, then poof, you show up and put him in his place by making him cry and beg for relief as you use him for your own pleasure.

By the end, Starscream is panting like a dog, his legs shaking uncontrollably while you sit beside him smoking a cigarette (picturing that certain meme lol) and praises him for being such a good mech for them. Starscream is obsessed and whipped for reader from then on.

DON’T TELL MEGATRON FOR HIS AND YOUR SAKE‼️

𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥

[tfp] obsessed!starscream x human!reader 18+ content / valveplug

summary: behind megatron's back, many things are happening, all of which share one common trait: starscream is the source. this time, the decepticon SIC decided to strike his master's most vulnerable point: you.

cw: valveplug, dom!top!reader, sub!bottom!starscream, starscream rides you, multiple orgasms, praise kink, overstimulation, cheating? (is it really cheating if you are not in an established relationship?) yandere themes, obsession, possessiveness, toxic relationship, emotional manipulation

word count: 1130

'angel' by massive attack was played on repeat while writing. i thought the title kind of fit the content

It was supposed to be just another ploy. A move to get under Megatron’s skin. To finally prove who was better, more cunning; who deserved to rule.

The plan was simple. Use you: make you fall in love, spark emotions, make you care for him more than any other bot on that ship. Spread rotten roots throughout your entire body to ignite a desire within you. Enter your primitive brain and leave a piece of himself there—a piece that, in theory, would take control of you. Make you dependent on him, abandon Megatron, humiliating him. And then seize the moment of shock, disposing of both you and him. Take the throne that belonged to him.

But somewhere along the way, he stumbled.

Starscream had to be cunning, and think two steps ahead if he wanted to survive another day as a Decepticon. Scheming was an art of survival, and he had become its master. Or so he thought. For there was someone even more calculating, someone who deceived even him. Someone who broke into his processor, conquered it mercilessly and claimed it entirely.

“Oh, how beautiful you are, how lovely,” he hears beneath him.

He feels soft, warm hands trailing across the armor on his chassis. Stroking, caressing—the action itself a form of praise. They are delicate, gentle, incomprehensible because no one had ever been gentle with him before. Subtlety was unattainable for someone like Starscream. Illusory. A luxury he had long stopped hoping for.

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

But you did it so easily, effortlessly. Without forcing, without intimidation. Praising him came naturally to you, as though you genuinely believed what you said. He knew he was magnificent, that he deserved more than he had. All the other bots, all the beings on that miserable planet couldn’t compare to him. But hearing it in real time made his ego feel real. He genuinely felt like he was the best.

Your hands wander higher. They leave his chassis, move to his shoulders, then to his neck. For a moment, he has the impression you’re about to choke him, the familiar, almost friendly sensation once again enveloping his neck. But you don’t hurt him. You don’t inflict pain. You just keep caressing him, sharing your warmth, even though he had long since begun to overheat.

His hips move quickly as he rises and falls over you, chasing pleasure. It’s lust. Hunger that only you can satisfy.

“More,” he moans. Half-lidded crimson optics look at you, and in their depths plays something far more dangerous than Megatron’s fury. “Say more. Compliment me, adore me. Love me.”

Finally, you reach his faceplate, forcing him to focus his gaze solely on you, and then you smile triumphantly. You’ve won, wrapping the very SIC of the Decepticons around your little finger. Now at your mercy, dependent on your whims and needs.

“You’re amazing, Star. So good, and just for me. You don’t even know what an honor this is for me.”

The pleasant tingling in his valve disrupts his focus. He wants to drink in your praise, to encode it deep into his processor and repeat it like a mantra when you are not at his disposal. But he’s so close to release… He feels his legs start to tremble, claws carving ravines into the berth.

He nuzzles his cheek deeper into your hand, seeking contact, reveling in the ecstasy you give him. Even while being passive, doing absolutely nothing but lying there and looking beautiful beneath him, you give him more than you could ever imagine. He does all the work, riding you, holding full control over when to stop and start, yet it’s you holding the leash. It’s your word that determines whether he’ll be granted the privilege of pleasure.

“You’re doing so wonderfully today, darling. Tell me, would you like to come? Would you like to be good for me?”

The tingling transforms into fire. His valve clamps around you, begging for release.

“Yes! Please!” he whines. “I want to be, hmm, the best… for you.”

“Then please, show me how much you adore me.”

He arches his back and sinks as deeply as he can. Pants heavily, legs still trembling. Optics remain open, locked onto you. Onto the human who managed to break him.

He leans low over you and kisses you, finalizing his overload. You can’t keep up with him as he ravages your mouth, constantly begging for more, for scraps of passion that temporarily soothe his frantic processor. One kiss lasts longer, almost romantic, but Starscream breaks it quickly, leaving five more hungry, greedy ones.

Finally, he leaves your lips and moves lower, to your neck. He hears you take a deep breath, and for a second, he feels guilty—until desire takes control again.

“Starscream,” you chide him gently. You saw right through him.

He wants to mark you, show everyone who you belong to, who you cheat on Megatron with. But he also wants to calm himself, to stop pretending in front of everyone that nothing connects you two, that you’re indifferent to him. To stop the madness tearing him apart after every separation, when both his body and spark craves you. Not just the feral interfacing but also the tenderness it carried.

Once more, he starts moving his hips, chasing another overload, though the remnants of the previous climax still cling to him. He’s already grown hungry again, longing for praise, which, as it turned out, was more satisfying than the desire to overthrow Megatron. His battered valve lazily takes you in, releases, and then swallows you whole again.

“Just a little mark,” he tries to bargain. He needs it. Needs to possess your body and soul the way you possessed his.

“No, I’m sorry,” you reply, stroking his cheek. “You know he’ll kill you if you do.”

He growls and pulls away because he knows you’re absolutely right. If your meetings were discovered, it wouldn’t just be him who’d pay. And he didn’t want to see you hurt. Not anymore.

He speeds up, forcing his processor to focus solely on you and the pleasure you provided him. He had to make the most of this meeting, to ravage himself until he had no strength left to move a digit. Not just so you’d care for him afterward and coo praise at him. The date of your next encounter was unknown, and he didn’t know if he would lose his sanity entirely and last scraps of self-control by then.

“What a good mech,” you murmur, drawing a moan from him. “Five overloads, and you still have the strength, huh?”

“There’ll be at least ten… ah! Or twe-twenty. But you—you’re not going anywhere.”

“As you wish, Star.”

He scratches with his claws so hard that sparks fly next to your head.

[nerdygirlramblings]

They've got me in a chokehold

Elder Stigr walks off, and you watch his long, angry strides quickly close the distance between him and the rest of your village, leaving you and your gods standing with the shrines. From the corner of your eye you watch his Jon walks over to his shrine placing his hand on the curved blade of the altar. "This is beautifully rendered," he says, voice low and full of tenderness.

You know you cannot stare at the ground but it feels too dangerous to meet anyone's eyes. You flick your gaze to Jon briefly before looking out across the village. "I did my best to ensure the altars and shrines looked as they had."

A rustle of cloth and warm breath on your neck reminds you to keep better track of where each of these men are. Your people do not know who they truly are, but you cannot let yourself forget that these are gods in human form.

There's a lilt to the cadence of the voice in your ear. "Your offerings woke us, and we wanted to come thank you." Light touches on your lower back and you can't resist the shover that accompanies them. Jon is still at his altar and Si to one side. You think it's Tav behind you, hand resting possessively.

Your suspicion is confirmed moments later when Gaz steps into your line of sight and lifts one hand tenderly in his. Placing a kiss along your knuckles, he murmurs quietly, "Your daily prayers and the prayers and offerings of your people have restored our strength." It's echoes of words that chased you from dreams of them. Somehow hearing it outside your dreams is both threat and promise.

As he speaks Jon turns to you, hand still resting on his altar. "What I said at last night's feast is true. Word of your work and the miracle it brought to your people is spreading. Other villages have begun to worship us again in their own ways." He runs a hand gently over the curved blades again and looks at the other alters. "None has established shrines quite as nice as these, but that may be yet to come."

Your gaze glances between them, unsure where to look until a rough hand gently grabs your chin, tilts you to face Si. "We've come to repay what you've done and claim the life you've promised."

You inhale sharply, hand to your chest. It feels as though all the air in your lungs is gone. The sounds of chatter, of the birds, the trees, animals in the field have all ceased. The sunlight, which moments ago was causing beads of sweat to roll down your skin, feels dimmer. Cooler. As though something has pulled the life from where you stand.

Jon clears his throat and looks at Si. "Yes. But in due time. And not as you may think." He looks over at you. "There used to be 141 of us. Your ancient pantheons had deities far and wide. Because of you, we four remain, but there are others whose restoration would prove just as beneficial for your people."

John explains how your next step as seer needs to be to help revive some more of these ancient gods. Apparently the tome where you found the original ritual was only one of a larger set. Like these ancient gods, those additional tones have been lost. But Jon describes these other gods: the twinned goddesses Las and Wel, who protect women and children; Fra, who guards hearth and home; Lex, who carries messages; and paired gods Ale and Rudi, who protect travelers.

Jon explains what you need to ask the elders for, how to construct the shrines, what to offer and when. "Ask for a little at a time. Push too fast and your people will lose faith. If you can wake the others, I promise your people will flourish."

Tav's hand has stayed a heavy weight on your back this whole time. As Jon makes his proclamation, Tav's grip tightens and his voice is gruff when he says, "As you restore them, as the 141 return, we can reclaim our palace on Fjall Gothar."

"And that palace will need its queen," Gaz says warmly.

more

series masterlist | main masterlist

[neowonderland]

Problem || l.jn, n.jm

Summary: Jaemin has a bit of a problem: he's obsessed with seeing helpless bunny hybrids be fucked by larger wolf hybrids Pairings: Nomin x bunny hybrid reader (mainly wolf hybird Jeno x reader) Warnings: 18+, smut, noncon, choking, rough sex, knotting, creampies, wolf hybrid Jeno, hybrid owner Jaemin, bunny hybrid reader Wc: 1.9k

Dark Content, Minors please DNI

Disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. I do not condone the actions of any characters in this story and the actions do not reflect the idols in any way.

Jaemin has a bit of a problem.

It’s apparent as Jaemin sits staring, illuminated by the blue hues of his computer screen night after night. All his sleepless nights spent watching videos of cute bunny hybrid being fucked by bigger, much stronger wolf hybrids. The sound of skin slapping, squelching, screams, and moans tearing through the silent room and echoing throughout Jeno and Jaemin's shared room. 

Jaemin has a favorite type. He loves it when the larger wolf hybrids are especially rough, when they pin the small bunny down and fuck them. He loves it when the wolf pounds into them without a care for the bunny’s pleasure, the wolf only focused on chasing their release. He loves it when the bunny’s cry, their voices becoming shaky, their eyes becoming red as they drip tears. Oh, but his absolute favorite is when the wolf shoves their knot into the bunny hybrid, while the bunny pleads for them not to. He loves seeing the bunny squirm as they feel the wolf’s cum fill them up, locked on the knot and bred forcefully. 

Jeno knows about his owner’s problem, sleepless nights spent listening to the moans from Jaemin’s computer. But Jeno’s such a good boy, loyal, affectionate, sweet, and obedient to Jaemin. So, he never questions his owner or lets anything slip when Jaemin arrives back home one day, a leash in his hand attached to you, Jaemin’s very own bunny hybrid. 

Jeno’s sweet, accommodating towards you. He’s very understanding, giving you the space you need. For the first couple months, he even sleeps outside on the couch while you and Jaemin sleep on the bed. Jeno even tries to strike up conversations when Jaemin’s away, always making sure you have everything you need. 

And when Jaemin’s home, he spoils you rotten. He dresses you in the prettiest clothes, all pastel colors and full of frills and lace. He’s even gotten you a pink custom engraved collar, one declaring you as his property with his contact information on it in case you had ever gotten lost. Jaemin cooks for you, Jeno cleans for you. You don’t have to lift a finger to do anything and Jaemin doesn’t want you to, always becoming worried when you try to help them with anything. You vaguely remember Jaemin's reaction to you trying to cook, eyebrows furrowed, quickly snatching away your knife, and scolding you for even having the thought of cooking.

You’re content in your new home, preferring this environment to your previous one. You have everything you need: 3 meals a day, a comfortable bed, a loving owner and accommodating roommate. Sure, you can’t leave the home like how Jeno can, can’t dress yourself like how Jeno can, can’t even shower by yourself like how Jeno can, but it’s a small price to pay for a cushy life. 

And Jaemin has always been an affectionate person, peppering your face with kisses, pinching your cheeks, kneading your flesh with his hands and cooing about how adorable you are into your ears, but lately his hands have begun to wander. 

It makes your skin crawl at night when Jaemin worms his hands underneath your clothing and starts kneading at the flesh of your thighs, making his way up and rubbing your sensitive bits. Jaemin always keeps a tight hold on your body, his back flush against yours and his hands digging into your skin as he gropes at you. 

At first, you squirm, not used to the way Jaemin touches you. You tell him that you don’t like it, that it feels weird and that you want him to stop. Jaemin just ends up shushing you, telling you it'll feel good soon. 

But it never does. 

Especially when Jaemin progresses to touching you in front of Jeno. 

You three are watching a movie on Jaemin’s bed while Jaemin keeps you in his lap, playing with your cute floppy bunny ears. It’s a slasher movie, with the final girl being the only one left. You and Jeno stare at the glowing screen, leaning in, transfixed by the slasher slowly approaching the final girl in the dark. 

That’s when Jaemin starts, hands slipping under your frilly white skirt and cute pink blouse, one rubbing your sensitive bits and the other tweaking your nipples, while his mouth peppers kisses on your neck. You jolt in his hold, not expecting him to start now, especially not in front of Jeno. You sink your teeth into your lip, trying to ground yourself and hold still, hoping Jaemin will stop. Jaemin doesn’t stop, instead doubling down, putting his fingers into his mouth before slipping them into your hole. 

You let out a gasp as you feel Jaemin’s fingers slip into you. Frantically breaking yourself from his grasp and turning to face him, gesturing at Jeno and whispering to him to please stop. Jaemin just smiles before crawling forward and pushing you down onto the bed, taking your wrists into his hand and sitting close to your head. You crane your head to try to look at Jeno, checking for any reaction. But Jeno sits on the bed, staring at the now dark screen. 

“Jeno, come here!” Jaemin says, beckoning Jeno with the curl of his finger. 

Jeno lets out a sigh before moving towards the two of you, his collar jingling. He settles close to your legs, staring at Jaemin, waiting for another order. 

“Don’t be shy Jen, open our bunny’s legs. Don’t you want a taste of our sweet bunny?” Jaemin coos, tightening his grip on your wrists. 

Jeno hooks your underwear and drags it down, and pushes up your skirt. He forcibly folds you in half, seemingly uncaring at the burn in your legs, your knees bent and touching your shoulders, presenting your hole to him. You can feel the rough drag of his hands against your legs as his hands move underneath your ass, propping you up before his mouth descends on your hole.

The way Jeno eats you out is sloppy and almost hesitant. He teases around your hole first, poking and prodding at the sensitive area, seemingly stalling until he dives in. His tongue stretches you out and it feels so strange, a new foreign sensation different from the fingers Jaemin has stuffed in your before. Jenos is so sloppy, drool pooling down and onto the bed sheets as your squirm. 

You’re in shock right now, brain in shambles as you try to process what’s happening. Between Jaemin holding your wrists, cooing as the foreign sensation turns into sweet pleasure and seemingly hesitant Jeno pleasuring you with his tongue. And it doesn’t help when the dam breaks and you finally cum from Jeno’s mouth, desperately trying to pull away Jaemin and Jeno’s hold as your body shakes from the orgasm until you finally slump in their hold. 

“Our bunny made such a mess and only from your tongue, Jeno! Do you think they can even take your knot?” Jaemin asks, releasing your limp wrists from his grasp and instead running his fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe and ground you. 

Oh right. Jeno was a wolf hybrid, of course he has a knot. But Jaemin expects you to take it?

You let out a whimper and try to shake your head, despite your lightheadedness. “It’s okay bunny, you’ll enjoy it. You don’t really have a choice,” Jaemin says in response. 

Jaemin glances at Jeno and Jeno nods his head. You look away as Jeno undresses, trying to ignore the man violating you.

“Are you sure they can take it, Jaem?” Jeno asks, looking unsure as his hands sink into the back of thighs, folding you in half once again. 

“It doesn’t matter, you’ll make them take it. Eyes on Jeno now.” Jaemin responds, patting your cheek. 

You force your eyes on Jeno. Jeno resembles a greek sculpture, body toned with inches of hard muscle, his biceps rippling, all sculpted from his days spent at the gym– a place Jaemin forbade you from going to. But what’s scariest is his length, long and so thick, with angry veins running along the shaft, packed together with a huge knot, which was almost the size of a grapefruit. 

Jeno makes a show of putting his flushed, drooling length on your belly. His length lands past your belly button, and he lets out a groan at the sight. Jeno presses down on the area, almost as if he was marking just how far he would go before pulling back and aligning himself with your entrance. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” Jeno groans, pushing into your unwilling, twitching hole. You can feel Jeno’s eyes locked onto the place where you two connect at, your hole stretched around his length, offering resistance as he tries to shove in another inch you weren’t created to take. You feel unprepared for the intrusion, only having been prepped with Jeno tongue this time. And God it hurts, the burn of being stretched out from Jeno’s massive length, with Jeno being both long and thick. 

Jeno’s strong, forcing you to take wolf cock that you weren’t built to take, and your poor hole feels stretched and sore by the time the beginnings of Jeno’s knot sits flush against your skin. 

“Come on, Jeno. You’re being too gentle, you should know how I like it,” Jaemin chimes in. 

Tears spill from your eyes and you scream as Jeno shifts his body weight on you, crushing you under him as he pounds in and out of you. It’s too much and you hadn’t even adjusted to the intrusion, his thrusts only serving to intensify the pain from the initial stretch. You can feel him pounding away at your inside, drooling length beginning to paint your insides white. 

You can feel Jaemin’s hands on the sides of your head, tilting your head and forcing you to look at him with your teary eyes as Jeno destroys you. 

“God you’re so pretty, bunny. Ever since I saw you, I knew I had to have you like this,” Jaemin murmurs, breathlessly. “Turn them over, I want to see you choke them.” 

Jeno grunts and flips you over, pinning you down once again with his body weight. His right arm snaking around your neck, wrapping your neck between his forearm and bicep, and flexing, squeezing your neck and cutting off your air in the process. Jeno’s thrusts seem to become more calculated, still hard and fast, but more deeper. You realize he’s going to try to knot you soon. 

You try to bury your head into Jeno’s forearm in defiance, your tears and snot flowing onto Jeno’s arm and bite down on Jeno’s forearm. 

“Fucking bitch!” Jeno says, applying more pressure on your throat. You feel yourself become more lightheaded, the corners of your vision beginning to go black, before black splotches start darkening your central vision, overtaking the areas where you can see. The sound of skin against skin from Jeno fucking you and the wet squelches from your hole begin to sound distant. 

The last thing you feel is Jeno’s knot popping into your hole fully, and Jeno’s hot, creamy cum filling you up to the brim, before everything goes black.

[cowboylikemac]

hii, omg love your work xx 😚 could you write a frenemies to lovers fic with Remus Lupin something along the lines of him taking the teasing too far and she cries and avoids him and he has to grovel after please x

FRENEMIES || R.L

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: you navigate being frenemies with a certain Remus Lupin. After a teasing incident in Potions you are pushed to your limit

warnings: none

word count: 2k

a/n: i love requests they always encourage me to write so thank you for this! <3

The Gryffindor common room was alive with the crackling fire and the low hum of laughter, a typical Saturday night in late autumn. You sat sprawled across an armchair, your legs dangling over the side, a quill twirling lazily between your fingers as you half-listened to James and Sirius bicker about Quidditch tactics. Peter was hunched over a chessboard, muttering to himself, while Remus—that infuriating boy—lounged on the couch with a book, his amber eyes flickering up every so often to catch you in his line of sight.

You’d known the Marauders since first year, their chaotic energy weaving into your life like an unbreakable spell. James was the brother you never had, Sirius the mischievous uncle, Peter the quiet confidant—and Remus? Well, Remus was the thorn in your side, the one who could turn a perfectly good day into a battle of wits with a single smirk.

“Oi, Y/N,” Sirius called, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You’re spacing out again. Planning your next hex on Moony, are you?”

You shot him a glare, but your lips twitched into a grin. “Only if he deserves it, Black. Which, let’s be honest, is about ninety percent of the time.”

Remus didn’t look up from his book, but you caught the faintest curl of his lips. “Ninety percent? I’m flattered you think I’m that interesting, Y/L/N.”

There it was—the teasing edge to his voice that always set your nerves alight. It had been like this for years: a push-and-pull of sarcastic remarks and sly glances, a game neither of you would admit to playing. Frenemies, James called it, though lately, the line between friend and something more felt dangerously thin.

—

The trouble started a week later, during Potions. Slughorn had paired you with Remus, a decision you protested loudly until Sirius cackled and said, “Better you than me, love.” Remus had smirked, rolling up his sleeves as if he were about to duel instead of brew, and the class had begun.

It was going fine—well, as fine as it could with Remus muttering corrections under his breath—until he decided to take it too far. You’d been chopping moonstone with a bit more force than necessary, muttering about his “know-it-all” attitude, when he leaned over, his breath warm against your ear.

“Careful, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You’ll turn the potion into a disaster—and then where will your pride be?”

You froze, the knife slipping slightly in your hand. The classroom seemed to shrink, the air thick with the scent of lavender and his stupidly close proximity. Before you could snap back, he reached over to adjust your grip, his fingers brushing yours, and something in you snapped.

“Sod off it, Lupin!” you hissed, yanking your hand away. The moonstone scattered across the table, and the potion bubbled ominously. Slughorn’s voice boomed from the front, but you didn’t care. Your cheeks burned as you stormed out, ignoring Remus’s stunned expression and the snickers from Sirius.

—

For the next few days, you avoided him. It wasn’t hard—Hogwarts was big enough to hide in if you tried. You skipped meals in the Great Hall, buried yourself in the library, and even endured Lily’s concerned looks without explanation. But the hurt lingered, a sharp ache in your chest you couldn’t shake. His teasing had always been a game, but this time, it felt personal. Like he’d seen too much of you and decided to twist the knife.

You didn’t expect him to notice. Remus was quiet, observant, but he rarely chased after anyone—least of all you. So when you heard the soft knock on your dormitory door late that Friday night, you assumed it was Lily or Marlene. Instead, there he stood, his hair mussed, his tie loosened, looking like he’d run all the way from the common room.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Can we talk?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Depends. Are you here to mock me again?”

He winced, and for once, there was no trace of that smug smirk. “No. I… I came to apologize.”

The words hung between you, heavy and unfamiliar. You stared at him, searching his face for the catch, but all you found was a flicker of guilt in those warm brown eyes. Against your better judgment, you stepped aside, letting him in.

—

The room was dimly lit by the flicker of a single candle, the air thick with unspoken tension. Remus sat on the edge of your bed, his hands clasped tightly together, while you perched on the windowsill, the cool glass pressing against your back.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he started, his voice low. “The teasing—it’s just… it’s how we’ve always been. I didn’t realize it’d gone too far.”

You looked away, out at the starry sky, your throat tight. “It wasn’t just the teasing, Remus. It felt like you were laughing at me. Like I’m some joke to you.”

He was silent for a moment, and when you glanced back, his expression was raw, unguarded. “You’re not a joke,” he said softly. “You’re… you’re everything to this group. To me. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”

Your heart stuttered, a warmth spreading through you despite the lingering hurt. “Then why didn’t you stop? Why keep pushing?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’d noticed over the years. “Because it’s easier to tease you than to admit I’ve been half in love with you since fourth year.”

The confession hit you like a Bludger to the chest. You blinked, your mouth opening and closing as you struggled to process. Remus Lupin—scarred, quiet, brilliant Remus—was in love with you? The boy who’d spent years trading barbs with you, who’d made you laugh and cry in equal measure?

“Say something,” he pleaded, his voice breaking the silence. “Please.”

You slid off the windowsill, crossing the room until you stood in front of him. His eyes followed you, wide and hopeful, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability beneath his calm exterior. “You’re an idiot, Lupin,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. “A complete and utter idiot.”

He let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over his features. “I know. I’ll grovel if I have to.”

—

And grovel he did. Over the next few weeks, Remus was a changed man—or at least, a man trying to be. He brought you tea during study sessions, left little notes in your books with scribbled apologies, and even endured Sirius’s relentless teasing about his “lovestruck puppy” act. The Marauders watched with amusement, James clapping Remus on the back while Sirius made exaggerated gagging noises.

But it was the small moments that unraveled you—the way he’d brush his hand against yours in the corridor, the soft smiles he’d give you when he thought you weren’t looking. The slow burn of your friendship turned into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in the best way.

One night, after a particularly grueling Transfiguration lesson, you found yourselves alone in the common room again. The fire had died down to embers, casting a soft glow over his face as he sat beside you, closer than usual.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his knee brushing yours. “About loving you. I don’t expect you to feel the same, but—”

“I do,” you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think I have for a while, too. I just didn’t know how to stop fighting with you long enough to figure it out.”

His smile was soft, almost disbelieving, as he reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and for the first time, the teasing fell away, replaced by something real.

“Friends, then?” he teased lightly, though his eyes held a promise.

“More than that,” you replied, leaning in until your foreheads touched. You stayed like that for a moment before leaning in. Your lips meeting his in a soft and chaste kiss and in that moment, with the world outside forgotten, you knew the game was over—and you’d both won.

—

The next morning, the Marauders found you curled up together on the couch, Remus’s arm draped protectively around you as you slept. Sirius let out a dramatic gasp, while James grinned like a proud parent.

“About bloody time,” Peter muttered, and the room erupted into laughter.

And as Remus stirred, pressing a sleepy kiss to your temple, you knew this was only the beginning.

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[lunarxcity]

Be Careful What you Wish for - part i

Azriel x Inner Circle!Reader

When you begin to grow tired of constantly being surrounded by so many happy couples and dealing with a one-sided affection from the shadowsinger, you catch a suriel and it insinuates that Rhys is your mate. In light of this information you make a wish that completely flips your world(quite literally). Will you go back home or is this new world everything you dreamed of?

Wc: 7,803 ao3

-

There are many ways to catch a suriel. There are a slew of traps, enchantments, and magical objects on the market that all claim the ability to ensnare the elusive creature for what is more powerful than truth?

While many have tried, very few succeed and those who have paradoxically did not have too sacrifice such strenuous efforts for their moment alone with the magical creature for it is said a suriel catches you as much as you catch them.

From this finding, rumours had begun to spread that a Suriel is only caught when it wants to be for their is nothing more dangerous than the truth. They are more powerful than high lords and oracles because if there is one thing in this world that has power it would be information and the Suriel is a never ending fountain of it.

You remind yourself of this as you trudge deeper into the evergreen forests on the outskirts of the Night Court in pursuit of the mythical being.

For you needed answers and unlike those who have come to these woods, weapons pointed and ready to strike their bloodthirst bordering insanity, you believe that your intentions were pure and the Suriel would see that.

You have been working at the Night Court for hundreds of years since you escaped the Court of Nightmares with your childhood best friend Mor.

You adored each member of the Inner Circle profoundly, but you had always been closest to Mor. After all you have gone through the bests and worsts with one another and that's a bond that once forged cannot easily be broken.

Second to Mor is the shadowsinger. You two were unnaturally quick friends, which had surprised everyone, including yourself. While Azriel's tall walls and prickly nature made him accustomed to the adverse initial reactions he's used to receiving, you had showed him a compassion and care that he had not been used to.

You enjoyed each other's presence which then led to you guys actually talking, which is something Azriel doesn't sincerly do much. You discover that beneath the mask of the shadowsinger, Azriel does possess emotions like a normal person.

A rustle in the leaves snaps you out of your thoughts. You whip your head around.

There.

You dart towards the fleeting figure, whispy shadows and tedrils of black cloak emanate off it's figure. You feel it in your gut.

It's a real life Suriel.

You run towards it, leaving reason and your senses behind, driven by a desperation for truth. For answers. For this was a matter of life and death and you had become rather tired of losing people.

So you run, continuing to chase the figure into the depths of the forest. That's until you trip over a stray branch.

You feel the blood soaking your pants before you register the sharp pain in your knee. You don't have to look to know that there's a gash there now.

You're on the ground in what looks like to be a clearing in the forest. The trees form an unobstructed circle around a wall of shimmering crystal.

The sun shone down on this wall, amplifying the iridescent sheen of the purple and ivory coloured crystal.

You feel it before you see it. The hairs on the back of your neck prick up and the air suddenly feels heavier.

Suddenly, a voice as powerful as the cosmos and as ancient as the very dust of this world speaks to you.

"For what reason do you disturb me? I thought we made our disdain for your kind clear as day."

You feel a whoosh of air as the Suriel hovers over so it's directly in front of you. All bones and a malicious kind of magic, the Suriel is a legend of it's known. While the truth may not be evil in nature, it has the potential to unravel the very threads of all that we know.

"I had a vision. I need clarity if you are willing to offer it. We can discuss payment if needed, you will find I am very well connected."

Your mind floats back to the dark room. The feelings of despair and helplessness. A lingering suspicion that you already met your mate and hadn't known it.

"You are the first being I have seen in a long time that has not pointed a weapon at me." The Suriel comes closer, but this time you don't fear it.

"Daughter of Night, I will oblige your request. I only ask that after all is revealed that you may return to me so we may discuss your payment for you have nothing to offer me now."

You look up at the Suriel and nod your head.

"I oblige to your conditions."

The Suriel grins at your response and worry blooms in your chest. What does the Suriel know that you don't to be so glad with this deal?

You get ready to divulge in the dream you had. The feelings of restlessness in your chest. The bleeding of dreams and feelings that weren't yours.

"So I hear you have been having visions of your mate."

You go still. This bastard-

"Ah yes your mate, a lord of Night and commander of the darkness. One of the fiercest in the Night Court your life will not be easy as his mate, but it will be rewarding. He's nearer than you think, but there is a major obstacle in your way."

You begin to go over the Suriel's words. Lord of Night? No it can't be. Rhysand is already mated... but that would be a major obstacle.

A sinking feeling is suddenly present in your stomach. You think you're going to be sick.

"Your high lord is aware of your mating bond."

You feel the world slow to a stop. After all these years? Rhys? Who you thought of as a brother. Rhys? Who had been your close friend and confidant? Who knew of the mating bond and hadn't told you.

You begin to wonder, when Feyre turned into fae did it alter the mating bond that was supposed to be yours? Is she living the life you are meant to have?

"I know the look very well. Everyone always wants the truth until they learn that reality is not as kind as their hopes and wishes." The Suriel responds.

"Speaking of wishes..." You could almost hear the Suriel grinning underneath it's large black cloak.

Suriel's are trickster spirits, it's in their nature to yearn for chaos. They don't do it out of maliciousness, but rather for their own sense of entertainment.

They are deeply philosophical and love to make you jump through hoops to get the true conclusion.

You try to keep this in mind as you hang on to this Suriel's every word.

"It is said that the magical properties of the Crystal behind me can sometimes have the power to grant wishes. It's made of the same magic that keeps a Suriel's life force going as long as it does and your wish can only be granted if a Suriel allows it."

Suddenly a tendril of shadow snakes around your knee which is still gushing blood. You hear the beats of wings.

"It seems your mate is coming for you. I will see you sooner than you think."

Suddenly the Suriel is off, disappearing into the wind.

You hear rustling in the bushes behind you and see a flash of blue siphons fly overhead going into the direction of the Suriel.

You turn around to the rustling and see none other than Rhys emerging from the bushes.

"Hey, you're alright. I'm going to tell Az and Cas that I found you."

Your mate. Your bastard of a mate who had betrayed you. Who still knows about the reality of your mating bond.

"We should get you to Madja. Can you get up?"

The cut is a lot deeper than you initially thought. It would definitely need stitches.

Before you could respond to Rhys your hit with a gust of air from the landing of both Azriel and Cassian.

Cassian looks to Rhys and informs him, "The perimeter is secure no sight of the Suriel."

Azriel's eyes are on you, betraying his neutral face with the slight worry you can see shining in the hazel, "Are you alright?"

He immediately kneels down next to you and does a complete scan of your body for any other injuries. His shadow assists him swirling up and down your body and then going directly to his ear to whisper something to him.

He then does something that shocks you. He rips off the cuff on his bicep that houses one of his siphons, and underneath is a strip of cloth. A shadowsinger always has to be one step ahead of death for it will always try to find him when he is least expecting it.

He wraps does to wrap the cloth against your knee. He stops and looks up at you, his eyes asking for your permission. You give him a nod and he begins to wrap it around your wounded knee.

"I'm going to winnow her to Madja through my shadows, the magic is weird in this part of the forest it's the quickest way."

Rhys and Cassian nod.

Rhys looks to you, "Update me on how you are feeling and when you're feeling better, we can discuss later why you were in a forest that's known for its danger."

You're immediately swept into Azriel's arms and enveloped in a swarm of shadows.

As the shadows begun to block out the outside world you turn your head to where the Suriel had stood, backed by the crystaline wall, only to see that it was no longer there. Where the wall had been was just more forest.

The world goes dark and you become one with the shadows as Azriel sweeps you away.

-

Madja quickly works on getting you patched up and this was not the first time by any means she had to stitch you back together. She threads the needle through your skin while muttering to herself about the carelessness of the Inner Circle and how one day she would pack her bags and leave you all for the Day Court.

You couldn't blamer the head healer of the Night Court has seen a lot of things in her time. If she wanted to go and leave Rhys for Helion and you might ask her to take you with her.

Madja gives you a smile like she could read your thoughts. It wasn't a normal Madja smile, but rather a mischievous fox like smile you would have never expected to see the older lady bear.

She looks and you and then looks to Azriel who had been silently sitting in the chair next to you the entire time.

"Shadowsinger sitting there and brooding isn't going to help anyone. If you want to provide her company, maybe try holding her hand?"

She was no better than a petulant child making fun of their friend for having a crush, but you and Azriel weren't children and there was no crush to be found here.

You scoff. "He doesn't need to do that. I can handle it I've gotten stitches before."

You turn to look at Azriel expecting him to back you up but you're met with an outstretched hand.

He shrugs. "Doctors orders."

"Seriously?" You reply, confused by his behaviour.

"Physical contact is known to reduce pain."

Why was Azriel entertaining Madja's antics? You sigh and put your hand into his much larger one.

Scars lined his skin, you had always wondered what had caused them but never had the courage to ask. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable or reopen old wounds.

His grip was firm, but gentle in a way a reliable constant in the way you knew him to be. There is something about Azriel that calms the storm in you. His presence is a comfort that you can never get enough of.

You look at your intertwined hands, and one of the shadows, likely finding this whole ordeal amusing. Azriel gives his shadow a death glare but it only encourages it and the little shadow starts swirling excitedly around your hands.

"And done." Madja says while snipping the remaining thread.

You look down to your leg and see that your wound had been fully stitched together. How didn't you feel the needle go in?

You look back to Azriel, confusion written across your features and he gives you a smug look that's clearly saying I told you so.

The moment is interrupted by Rhys barging into the room. His quick footsteps striding towards you.

"Goody, now that you're feeling better, you can tell me why you were trying to catch a Suriel." He clasps his hands together in anticipation.

The man who was meant to be your mate. A good friend of yours whom you were supposed to spend eternity with. You had almost forgotten about that little revelation earlier.

"I had questions that needed to be answered." Your response is dry but adequate.

"If they were questions about this court you should have just come to me."

"They were... personal questions." You hope this would make him give up, but it's Rhys.

"What kind of personal questions? Surely not so personal you wouldn't tell your family."

This is the side of Rhys you never liked. When he would switch from your friend to your boss.

"The kind that I don't need to share with you. It isn't anything to do with the Courts or any matters of security so what's the big deal? Feyre went and trapped the Suriel twice and no one said anything of it."

You're annoyance is apparent to the spymaster who is now on edge eyes darting back and forth between the two of you.

"Feyre was a hunter she could fend for herself but you-"

"But I what? I also caught a Suriel on my own. Just because you don't believe in me doesn't mean I'm not accomplished. I don't need your approval about what I can or can't do with my life."

You storm off from the med bay, slamming the door behind you leaving the high lord in your wake. Leaving your mate behind.

You were done with everyone and everything. You blew up at your mate who was already mated to someone else, tripped on a branch, and offended a being that's likely as old as the bones of this world.

You winnowed to your room only to see Azriel sitting there waiting for you.

Why is it when you were always at your worst, Azriel was right there.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.

"If you're here for Rhys, I don't want to hear it." You tiredly trudge over to your bed and lie down.

He comes over and lies down right next to you. "No I'm here for you. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

You sigh and let out a defeated laugh. "Do I look alright?"

He turns his head to look at you, "You've looked...better?"

You burst out laughing. Everyone thinks that Cassian is the comedian, but Azriel had that dry humor that was effortlessly funny.

"I'm sorry, I was always told to refrain from saying anything bad about a woman's appearance, but I didn't want to lie to you." He quickly says, trying to take it back.

"Oh Azriel ever the gentleman." You say sarcastically while holding his hand in faux comfort.

His eyes immediately darted from your face to your now joined hands back to your face.

"Unlike the other heathens in this court I do try to be one."

You are almost crying of laughter at this point. "Heathens? Who says that. By the mother Azriel we need to get you to talk to some women."

Those words left a sour taste in your mouth and you didn't know why. Azriel deserves to be happy with someone, but you just couldn't picture the shadowsinger with anyone. You didn't even want to try, the idea of it left a pit in your stomach.

"I prefer to stay where I am." Azriel calmly responds.

"In the shadows? Does it ever get lonely there all by yourself?" You try to let your curiosity be an anchor to keep you awake, but lying down on your bed with Azriel's thumb stroking your hand was beckoning you into the realm of sleep.

He pauses for a moment. Trying to think of a proper answer to your question.

"The shadows are not cold and brash, like most think, they are soft and comforting and make for good companions. I'm not by myself as long as you're around with me."

He takes a long, drawn-out breath. "That reminds me, I have something to tell you-"

He's cut short by the sound of your deep breathing and by the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest you are fast asleep.

"Every time." He mutters.

At the sound of his voice, you turn around in your sleep and bury yourself into his arm.

He looks up and asks the Mother to help him. She smiles down at him, a silent promise that one day she would grant his wish.

He tries to outrun sleep for as long as he can, not knowing if he will ever be in this position with you again.

Sleep finally catches him when he starts listening to your heartbeat, wondering if would ever beat for him the way his heart does for you.

-

You wake up cold and alone. Azriel must have left before you had fallen asleep.

You finally had time to process everything, in your first moments alone, everything had hit you all at once. The realisation of finding and losing your mate all at the same time.

You don't even know why you were devastated you don't even have feelings for Rhys, but the feeling of having something that was meant to be yours taken away from you without you even knowing it was devastating.

For you had always struggled with feelings of worthlessness. You had watched all of those around you fall in love and get married, do whatever their hearts had desires, all while you had been alone tethered to the same job for centuries.

While Azriel's affections had been one-sided for Mor, at least he had the opportunity to feel something. All you have known is nothingness and it seems like that will be all you would ever know. For the cauldron decided that there would be no one for you in this lifetime.

You have yearned before, but it was not the yearning of lovers but rather the yearning of the dreamers. The ones who dream of a love so great that it will fulfill all the stories they have read and justify the abstinence of openness for so long.

In the soft light of daybreak you realise you have been played for a fool this entire time for what was a mate, if not a scam? Why should a force other than yourself tether you to another being for all eternity?

You don't want to deal with this. You can't for you deserve better than some half assed mating bond.

You were desperate and in your distress you did the only thing your addled mind could think of in the moment.

You winnowed back to the forest. Wherever that wall was, you would find it and wish for a new mate.

-

You land in the forest with a thud and look up to see the Suriel looking at you expectantly. It had been waiting for your return.

"It took you long enough, oh, young one." In that same ancient voice that sends shivers down your spine.

You take a breath. "So you know why I am back then?"

The Suriel gives you a smile that is anything but warm. "Any wish your heart desires if you decide to pay the price."

Fae were not generous creatures, especially trickster spirits; magic like this always has a hefty price.

"It's not much, dear, for I was young and misguided once. I've made my mistakes and I see myself in you, so I will take pity on you." You try not to believe a word that comes out the Suriel's mouth.

"One night of your life. I get your assistance with anything I would like for one night and you cannot refuse me."

You're about to interject worried for your future safety.

"I vow that it will not cause you harm or be cruel in nature." Both of those statements are extremely subjective, but this is about the best you will get from a Suriel.

"Deal." The Suriel begins to grin and raises it's hands, the ground rumbles in response and the Crystal begins to glow. The pristine lilac is suddenly marred by a giant crack that splits down the middle of the wall to the ground.

The crystal crumbles, and in its wake is what looks like a doorway. Although the crystal is glowing the doorway is pitch black, no light is coming inside of it and no light is escaping.

Whatever this led to must be otherworldly.

"Okay, now you are going to say your wish and go through the doorway. Your wish will come true on the other side."

You hesitate. "But everything will b the same right? My family will still be there?"

The Suriel shakes it's head. "Yes, your family will still be there on the other side."

"And you? WIll you be coming along?" You curiously look at the strange creature who you are placing your life with.

"I will need a bit to recoup from such a large use of my magic, but I will see you on the other side."

You're a bit more on board now, but there's still a blaring horn in the back of your head telling you to turn back now and just go home.

You wonder if Azriel was awake and what he would think of this story.

You're snapped out of your thoughts by a rustling in the bushes, someone was coming.

"Now or never dear, just say your wish and go through the gate or turn around now and never return." The Suriel hurriedly told you.

You nod your head. Oh gods you didn't exactly plan out the semantics of your wish, but you could hear footsteps approaching meaning you had to hurry.

"I wish I had a different mate." There you go, you'll have a do-over and leave it up to fate for another chance.

The Suriel's hands begin to glow with a wispy white magic you have never seen before.

"Your wish is my command. See you on the other side oh little one."

You run to the doorway, straight into the darkness and immediately realise that you are no longer in the same world. This darkness was not the darkness you knew, the comforting blanket of Azriel's shadows, it was dark and powerful and so ancient that it settled on your skin like a later of dust rather than a blanket.

You look over your shoulder and see nothing but abyss behind you and decide to keep going. You take a step and are blinded by the light.

-

Azriel knew something was wrong the moment he was yanked from his sleep, senses on alert. He is a very light sleeper, he has to be, for sleep is vulnerability and Azriel and vulnerability are not well acquainted.

His shadows wail your name and he already knows that you had left. He checks the bond and the feelings that had once been so vibrant were now muted and strained.

He checked on the bond, went down the pathway that connects you two and he realised that your end spans out far. He can't see you anymore. Wherever you had gone it was not in this world and he prays to whatever gods will hear him for your safe return to him.

-

The air was warm, and the sun was out. Those were the first signs that something had gone terribly wrong. The chill of winter was nowhere to be found and neither was any of the surroundings you were accustomed to in the Night Court.

There were no towering snowcapped mountains, no evergreen trees, and no beats of Illyrian wings coming for you. Azriel had a sixth sense for finding you whenever you were in peril, he would have been here by now.

You take a breath and the smell of the air catches you off guard. Cinammon and Maple, why were you in Autumn? You looked at the trees and saw the golden and orange hues of maple trees in the distance.

You hear a rustling behind you coming from the wall. You quickly turn around, only to see that the wall was no longer there and in it's place stood Eris Vanserra.

While he is technically no longer an enemy of the Night Court, he was still on shakey ground so why did he look so elated to see you.

You don't think you had ever seen Eris smile the way he was smiling at you right now. No mischief or bite, Eris Vanserra had actually looked happy for once.

"Next time you run off my love, please at least tell me where you're going off to."

My love? Oh this is not happening and definitely not with Eris of all people?

He walks up to you, cups you face with his hands, and places a kiss on your forehead. His hands aren't smooth the way you would expect a nobles to be, but they felt nothing like the hands you had fallen asleep holding which sent a wave of disappointment down your chest.

"I can feel you're distraught. Did something happen?"

The weight of everything became much too heavy to bear and the interworld travelling had taken such a heavy toll on your body.

You fell to the ground before you could answer and Eris caught you and yelled for his guards.

-

You had the weirdest dream while out that Eris was your mate and you were in a strange new world. You turn over to tell Azriel about your brain's antics when you're greeted with the sight of Eris doing paperwork.

You look down. Red and white sheets with the emblem of the Autumn Court. It was real. You were here in Eris' bed, in Eris' court, and you were his mate.

You rustled with the blanket, and Eris suddenly turned around. He comes over and hands you a mug with a steaming hot liquid that smelled suspiciously like tea.

"Are you alright? Should I postpone the meeting with the Night Court tonight until you are feeling better?"

Night Court? You could see your family and go home? All you had to do was tell Azriel and he would get you out of this like he always does.

"No!" You say suspiciously quick and then try to backtrack.

"We can't cancel on our guests because of such a minor inconvenience." You try to brush it off, hoping he takes the bait.

"The health of my mate is anything but a minor inconvenience, but you know your body and if you say you will be fine I won't postpone then." He grabs one of your hands in his.

"I will give you a few hours to rest and I will see you right before we greet our guests tonight. Have a good rest my lady." He kisses your knuckles and gently sets them down on the bed and goes through the door that likely leads to his office.

Wow. So this was a side of Eris you never thought anyone would ever see. You can't say you hate it, maybe you guys were put as mates for a reason.

This doesn't feel right without your family though. Without Azriel. Hopefully when you see him tonight you could talk to this Azriel and figure out what is going on and where you fit into this world.

Right now your body needs to recover, you let sleep find you. You dream of large wings and snowball fights.

-

You were awoken by two hand maidens lightly shaking you awake.

"My lady. Your guests will be here within the hour." They open the blinds which didn't do much since the sun had already began to set. The soft glow of dawn was a comfort that had only beckoned you back to sleep.

"We are running a bit behind my lady. Eris told us he would have our heads if we didn't let you rest for as long as possible." The smaller one of the two says as she zips around your room, grabbing an assortment of jewellery, hairpins, and clothes to speed run your getting ready.

You get up groggily, eyes bleary and hair in knots - a hallmark of a good sleep. You are hurriedly dragged into a tub and dunked with water and scrubbed clean.

They were really rushing, you would commend them for their efforts but you were half-drowning as they poured a bucket of water over your head to wash out the shampoo in your hair.

You were quickly dried and dressed in your undergarments, it seems like picking a gown would be last.

You were sat down at the large oak vanity while one maid did your hair and the other your makeup. You now realised that you had no idea what kind of meeting you were stepping in to; You have no idea the current political climate between the Night Court and the Autumn Court let alone if Beron was still the high lord.

You had no clue what the norm was in this reality and you didn't know how to ask without being deemed insane.

"Remind me again, how is our relationship to the Night Court?" You tried to slyly ask the maids and the smaller zippier one who was doing your hair looked at you like you had lost your mind.

"Our relations have been generally good considering they helped us remove Beron from power." She eyes you up and down, stopping her movements to better assess your current state.

If Beron is removed from power, that makes Eris the high lord. Does this mean you're lady of the Autumn Court?

"Miss are you feeling alright. We can just tell the Night Court delegates that you are still suffering from exhaustion and you can skip this meeting to rest."

"Forgive me, it's just my sleep-addled brain. I will be alright, thank you for your concern." You say as nonchalantly as possible.

She nodded, going back to sewing jewels into your pinned up hair.

"Alright, my lady. Well then, we must decide what gown you are to wear."

You had no idea what your current closet housed; it wasn't what you were accustomed to in the Night Court so you did the easiest thing you could.

"I am too exhausted to decide you two may select whatever you wish for me to wear."

They both perked up at this statement. I guess in this reality, you had never let them choose your outfit for such an important event.

"Really? We won't let you down we swear it." She borderline runs out in joy, squealing when she reaches the hallway the calmer taller one right on her heels.

She comes back a moment later with a navy dress with silver sparkles that make's it look like the Night Sky.

"I know you're usually dressed in Autumn Colours, but this dress is magnificent and you have never had such an opportunity to wear it."

You nod your head, it is gorgeous. The flowing tulle skirts and a corseted top made it a dress worthy of a queen or high lady.

They adorned you in matching silver jewelery and with a wave of a hand, the jewells in your hair turned into dark sapphires and diamonds.

You looked positively regal, nothing like how you would normally look at these functions.

You were beyond impressed with the work of these two handmaidens.

"You both did a splendid job." They smiled in response.

"What are your names?" Their faces shifted to surprise.

"I'm Portia." The calmer of the two responded.

"And I'm Nara." The very energetic one said.

Before you could say anything else there was a knock on the door.

Eris came in, decked out in the regal finery you could only expect from a high lord. His entire outfit was jet black minus the golden adornments on his coat.

You could make out symbols of Autumn; leaves, foxes, and branches all adorned his jacket. His hair was swept back cleanly and he looked every bit the gentlemen that you knew he wasn't at least in your world.

"I should be disappointed that you decided on sporting the colours of your old court instead of the ones of the court you preside over, but I cannot say that when you look this beautiful."

He walks around you, admiring you and your cheeks flush.

"I'm not going to give up my home court." You were about to say that your family is there, but you don't even know if they know you any more.

"And that's what I love about you. You know yourself, and you wouldn't change yourself for anyone."

You just smiled in response. You didn't know what to say because how much did Eris actually know about you? The current you, not the you that he thinks that he knows.

He holds his arm out to you. "Ready to face the wolves my love."

You take a breath, both excitement and fear flooding your senses.

"Always."

He winnows you to a doorway and from the shadow peaking from under the doorway, you know exactly who is inside.

The double doors open to a large dining room with a large table right in the middle. The entire room was dark wood, almost reminding you of a lavish tree.

The table was an even darker wood with a large strip of royal blue piped with yellow on the table.

Your eyes immediately find Azriel's and you know that this isn't your Azriel. While you understood that yes this is a different reality and not everything would be the same, the look of indifference he is giving you now plunged a dagger right through your heart.

You look to Rhys and Cassian and it was the same. No friendly smiles or hugs just pure diplomacy. You were getting the mask of the high lord, the general, and the shadowsinger.

You were a stranger or worse, an enemy to your family. The realisation had you wishing you had just stayed in bed.

"High lord and lady of Autumn it is a pleasure to make your Acquantice." Rhys bows and Cassian and Azriel follow.

You really didn't like this. Eris returns the polite gestute with one of his own.

"And you as well Rhysand." Eris bows back and you follow.

You can feel Azriel's gaze bearing into your soul, but you're afraid to look, scared you will break the instant you guys make eye contact.

The moment is broken by the opening of the doors. Lucien rushes in, slightly frazzled and very light.

"Apologies. My travels took me longer than anticipated." He looks around, trying to survey the state of the room.

Eris clasps his hands together and says, "Well now that everyone is here lets eat!"

He waives his hand and all the trays of food on the table are open to reveal a lavish feast.

The table has two seats on each side and one at each head. Rhys took one and Eris the other. Eris pulled out the chair next to him for you and Lucien sat on the other side of Eris.

You really were hoping Cassian would sit next to you so you don't have to face such close proximity with this Azriel so soon, but it seems fate had another plan.

Azriel was sitting directly next to you. Okay no probem you can just ignore him, you focus on your food easy enough.

The food was divine, succulent meats mixed with fresh wild grain and the best seasonal produce Autumn had to offer. One small problem, you didn't like tomatoes and it was in half of the food.

You tried to eat around it as subtly as possible, but you really hoped that no one would notice.

You looked at Lucien to see that he was putting some veal with cherry tomatoes on his plate. Azriel would definetly like something like that. You reach over to grab it when Lucien is done and hand it to Azriel.

You immediately realise your mistake. Rhys, Eris, and Lucien were too engrossed with talks of diplomacy to catch the significance of what you had done, but Azriel was looking at you with pure bewilderment.

You knew he had been eyeing that dish that was being hogged by Cassian and Lucien's side of the table. You had specifically gotten it for him and at this point Azriel has probably picked up that you don't like it.

This is a gesture that is way too intimate for colleagues who allegedly don't know each other. Cassian looks to Azriel and raises a brow, and you know he suspects you.

"Where did you say you were from again?" Cassian asks you, probably trying not to look too suspicious.

"I'm from Night, actually. I only came here after well, you know." You say as you point your head towards Eris.

"Where about in Night?" Azriel looks to you.

"Hewn." That spoke for itself and Cassian goes quiet and Azriel gives you a nod of acknowledgement. You really needed this dinner to be over with.

You take a sip of your wine, plotting your escape when you're snapped out of your thoughts by the feeling of something on your wrist.

You knew it was Azriel's shadows, but these weren't the shadows you had become accustomed to. This shadow was sharper, it didn't flow the way your Azriel's shadow did it seemed that it was more used to striking.

It was circling your hand and wrist and you looked at Azriel in curiousity only to be met with a wall of indifference. You knew Azriel though and you could tell from the whites of his knuckles and the way his right hand was gripping the stem of his glass that he was having trouble reeling in his shadows.

You look to the tips of his ears and see a bit of red blooming there, barely visible unless you know what to look for. He was embarrassed by the lack of control of his shadows.

This may not have been your Azriel, but this was still Azriel, and you learned his language, you know his tells like the back of your hand.

"It's alright, you don't have to hold them back. Shadows aren't meant to hide, not be hidden." You give him a small smile, not wanting him to know that you want him to leave his shadows, that they were the only sense of comfort you had felt in this strange new world. \

Azriel refuses to look at you for the rest of the dinner but he leaves his shadows to wander. They stray to your hands and your hair and although they are different from the shadows you knew, they were still a comfort.

Dinner finished then dessert came. This must be a completely different world because Rhys and Eris are getting along so well.

You were getting so sleepy, you had such a long day and your body needed to recover. You've been pulled in so many different ways in the past 24 hours and you were so emotionally drained.

Dinner ends, and Eris invites Rhys to go to his study to discuss something about post-war court logistics. Cassian volunteers to join because as general he knows the most about the armies. Eris tells you to go rest and they all bid you goodnight.

This left you, Lucien, and Azriel standing in one of the large hallways.

The redhead lets out a large yawn. "Well I'm going to bed goodnight you two."

He saunters off down the large hallway, presumably to his room.

This leaves just you and Azriel. You had been hoping for a moment alone with him all evening and now that you got it you were speechless.

"It seems everyone has left us." You try to make conversation with this Azriel, but you already know that while his walls are up it's a futile effort.

Almost a minute passes in silence.

"That does appear to be the case." He actually responded to your surprise.

"Your shadows, they are very lovely why do you stifle them?" If it was something that your Azriel needed to hear then it was probably something this Azriel needed to.

He looks away. "Many are averted by the idea of shadows running around loose, especially with my... reputation."

"Well, they must be fools for people fear what they do not know." You see bits of a broken soul in those hazel eyes. Oh how you wish you could do more.

"You don't know me and you didn't fear me." He says gently.

You wanted to tell him that you do know him, more than he will ever know. That you had seen the good and bad parts of his soul and still believed in him.

Your cut off by a shadow darting forwards and wrapping itself around your wrist in a protective fashion. This was not the dark, cold shadows ready to strike. No, this shadow was all smooth movements and comfort.

It was Azriel's shadow. Your Azriel's shadow.

Azriel looks at you confused and inspects the shadow.

"This is not one of mine." Cauldron boil me the shadow is going to tell him.

"No it's not." Really? That's the best you could come up with right now?

His shadows come up the shadow slowly, like they were approaching a feral cat.

They started whispering in the language of the shadows, dancing around each other.

Azriel's shadow goes to his ear and begins whispering something to Azriel and his normally stoic face turns into one of pure shock.

"I think you will want to sit down for this, come with me." He looks at you questioningly, but obeys nonetheless.

You walk him into the library and onto two of the couches that are facing each other.

"Explain." He looks at you in the way of the spymaster, which would intimidate anyone, even though you know him so well right now he does not know you.

Right now you are more enemy than friend and you're backing him into a corner and if you know anything about Azriel you know that when he feels like he's being backed into a corner he bites.

You don't know how your Azriel's shadow followed you or why it left it's master. His shadows rarely leave his side, especially for long periods like this. Could the shadow travel between worlds?

You hadn't really thought of the magical capabilities of the shadow's, and why does this Azriel's shadows differ from the one you know.

You're snapped from your thoughts by your newly adopted shadow tugging you into the library.

It is a large library filled with colorful books and oaken bookshelves. Tree trunks and roots adorned the walls and it felt as if you were in the hollow of a tree itself.

The library was built in a circle with desks and chairs placed in the middle and couches on the furthest side, against the windows.

The shadow led you to the couches and Azriel followed.

You sat and he sat directly across from you pinning you down with an icy stare. It's really not fun being on this side of his interrogations, you'll make fun of him for it next time you seen him. If there ever is a next time.

"Okay so the shadow is my friend's. He is also a shadowsinger, it must have followed me home." You knew he probably wasn't going to believe your lie but there was no harm in trying.

"My shadows tell me that this shadow comes from another world and considering that you haven't left Autumn's territory in months, and the fact that there is no other known shadowsinger, I would say that you don't belong here either?"

Azriel was nothing if not good at his job.

"How did you?" You look at him wide-eyed in disbelief.

"I am a spymaster, it's my job. The shadowsinger is he your mate? I can't wrap my head around a shadow straggling off on its own..." He looks at you borderline uninterested. Only Azriel would find someone who has crossed worlds and would find not even a hint of amusement in it.

"Oh no, we're not like that, I mean it's not like I haven't thought about it, but we're just very good friends. I actually ended up here because I wished for a new mate after I found out that my mate already had a mate it's very confusing I don't even know how that happened it's not even possible and-"

You cut yourself off when you saw the look on Azriel's face, like he was contemplating flying away and never returning.

"Pardon my frankness, but do you always talk so much? Your friend, the shadowsinger. He has no complaints of the agitating nature of your voice." Okay this was definitely not your Azriel.

"He enjoys the sound of my voice, thank you very much. We would have such lovely conversations that went on for hours."

"Were you holding him hostage?" Azriel has always been unintentionally funny, which got on Cassian's nerves more than he would like to admit.

"Excuse me-" You huff.

"So what is your plan to get home?" Azriel abruptly asks, making it very apparent how much he wants to get rid of you.

"I have no clue, the Suriel-" He cuts you off.

"Wait pause. You got here by making a deal with a Suriel?" There's a slight flash of worry in his eyes and your heartbeat begins to pick up.

"Yes." You look at him half wary half questioning.

"By any chance did you come through a crystalline gate?" He was bracing himself for an answer and your heart dropped at the question.

"Yes, how did you know?" His head drops to his hands, the darkness dances with his shadows and with the large wings behind his back, he looks as if he could be a fallen angel.

"You may have just doomed us all."

-

note: This piece has been sitting in my drafts for a month and I finally decided to let her see the light of day, she is extremely unedited and this was honestly for fun(I saw Irish Wish and was hit with a bout of inspiration and disapointment for allowing myself to be inspired by such a movie). I'll write a part 2 if this gains enough traction, but like always until next time my darlings!

note note: did we really expect me to have any semblance of editing?