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blurryfictions · 2 days ago

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♡ MY PRETTY GIRL

♡ pairings: mira ✗ female!reader

♡ genre / mentions: fluff, emotional vulnerability, touchy!reader, touchstarved!mira, reader is a lovesick for mira, teasing, gentle!reader, i adore mira so much omfg — | w/c : 2k+ | ♬⋆

♡ a/n : first time writing for k-pop demon hunters! Just me being infatuated with mira and all her soft, stubborn, touch-starved glory. I hope you enjoy — more to come for each of the girls, probably. She’s not letting me go :3

“Can you like, not keep doing this?” Mira's voice was taut, pinched at the edges like a tightly drawn string, sarcasm threading into each syllable, yet not enough to contain the subtle tremor beneath it.

You disregarded it, you always did when it came to her because Mira — your Mira, frustrated and flustered into a result you have come to adore — was beneath you, back perched against your headboard in some rare stolen hour between rehearsals and attempts to complete their mission.

You were perched rather comfortably over Mira, legs entwined with hers, fingertips sweetly tracing the delicate path of her brows, sculpted, styled with intention and precision, the arches crisp like the high-hung moon over Seoul. Her features were aching to be touched by you.

You had a harmless theory that proximity might solve this; her beauty.

Entirely undone by her face; a striking geometry of sharp cheekbones, the cut of her chin like it was carved with perfection, sharp angled eyes framed by thick, ink-black lashes that curled even when she was glowering.

Mira was so… hard to gaze at directly. And not because she was harsh on the eyes — no, that would never be the case. She was so exquisitely composed while still looking like she was etched from rebellion and fight. Mira was the kind of pretty that bruised you on contact. So incapable of making any expression that made her look even a tinge bit hideous, and this hurt your chest.

Constricted your heart until it shriveled and let out a tight, “stop fucking doing this to me!” Worst of it all, you were free to touch. Free to look, and free to love.

“Seriously, you’re so annoying, stop.” Mira huffed, swatting at your hand half-heartedly, tone thickening around the consonants when she was annoyed — a little deeper, a little rougher — and that alone coursed something fluttering and unhinged through your chest.

But you discerned the corner of her lip twitching, so you continued charting the apples of her cheeks, knuckles stroking over the delicate slope of her nose — a nose that slightly scrunched every time you complimented her, like her body was physically rejecting the praise. Mira, K-pop idol slash demon hunter, certified world-class badass, crumpled under the weight of your affection like paper folding inward.

“You’re so pretty, Mira,” you breathed out just to provoke her. "the most pretty thing this world — or any world — has ever coughed up. Demon realms included.”

Her expression tightened, a microsecond flicker of defensiveness. She never knew what to do with that word. Pretty. Ugh. "Don't start."

“So prettyyyyyy,” you murmured with a head tilt, “Stop fighting me on this. I always win.”

She muttered something in her language, too low for you to catch, her eyes rolling. She was still trying to hold onto that cool-girl exterior she composed, forged in the shadows of an upbringing that expected perfection and obedience. Yet Mira had always chosen defiance over deference. And when it came to you, she mollified despite herself. Not all the way, not obviously. But you have learned to read her tells. And you loved that — you thrived for that.

“You’ve always said I’m fierce,” she weakly retorted, her voice softer now, delicacy in its unraveling. “Deadly. Intelligent. Badass.”

"Yeah, you're still all those things, we've been over your resume," you shifted downward to peck her cheek, "but it still doesn't change the fact that you're pretty."

Mira groaned, infuriated like it cost her in allowing this to happen. "you're being dramatic.”

“If being in love with you counts as dramatic, then yeah. I’m a whole walking k-drama.”

Still, she did not move even with her small chuckle, so you resumed your worship; the pads of your digits leisurely skimmed along her temple, then down to the line of her jaw, which ticked as she attempted to not to react.

Your thumb nudged a strand of hair away: that vibrant, lacquered cherry-blossom hue, rich with depth and dimension in that perfectly careless way only Mira could make deliberate. A shade that should clash with everything, but somehow looked like it was born to halo her like an afterthought from a dream, even in the low lighting of your bedroom.

Her skin was velvet-smooth, radiant with a fair hue kissed by cosmetics and light, always seeming to glow — as if she swallowed the stage lights whole.

The beginnings of her brows met into a crinkle, complimenting the ‘irritated’ pucker of her lips. Dusk brown irises disappeared beneath her eyelids, but even then you found wonder at the sight of her lashes — dense and long, kissing the skies above.

You knew her. You knew she was watching you behind them, cataloguing this moment for reasons she might never verbally reveal. Mira was observant like that — hyper-aware, always reading between gestures and breaths. She would likely dissect this entire moment into mathematical vectors and psychic readings if she could. But instead, she allowed you to touch her like this.

And you were far too gone to stop. Not when her hand coasted up your spine, splayed wide as if she was afraid you would float off without her. That quiet tiny ‘mine’ was always in her touch, never hidden or subtle.

The tip of her nose nudged yours as she expressed, “I can never say no to you.”

You grinned against her cheek, a little bashful, but full of certainty. You both knew the answer, Mira would go to fucking war with anyone, anything within this universe if you ever asked her to.

So with this in mind, you began to reward her with a string of kisses — purposefully, annoyingly — one dot at a time. Eyelids. Cheek. Chin. Bridge of her nose, until you finally trailed lower as she stayed completely still.

But her hands? They twitched like they were dying to tickle, to grip, to grab, to threaten war against your sides.

You felt her smile rise against your palms when she felt the gentle press of lips, and her fingers curled at your nape, where the roots grew wild and thick, soon threading into your hair like she was grounding herself in you.

You pulled away and almost immediately, she sulked, feline-like gaze sharp in betrayal. “Come back, now.” But when you leaned back in, dismissing her command to resume your affectionate torment, that frown only deepened.

Your forefinger traced the soft bow of her upper lip, observing how it twitched upward with her low beseech, and you dipped lower, tugging her bottom lip down with the lightest pressure. It sprang back into place, bare and perfect, and something about the bounce of it made your mind spiral into places far less innocent than your current pace suggested.

She parted her mouth slightly, and just what the actual fuck? The sight of her, beneath you like this, grace stitched into every line of her form — honed, angular, beautiful— sent your pulse soaring.

Your hands moved over the veiled muscle of her shoulders, kneading gently but with intention, thumbs working into the persistent tension knotted there. You knew where she held it — her neck, her traps, always tightened like she was bracing for the next conflict. And perhaps she was, but just not when she was in your presence.

Mira’s hands found a niche on your hips and pulled you deeper into her, a low hum reverberating in her as her lashes fluttered down.

“That feels good, baby… Don’t stop.”

Her voice oozed over your nerves like syruped wine — sweet, intoxicating, clinging. You made it your life purpose right then and there that you would not dare to stop.

You dug in, not to press but to mend, thumbs rubbing each tense line where she held herself too tightly, like her body was still fighting invisible battles. You longed to ease her, to earn this closeness with the nurture in your fingertips.

You longed to unmake every twist and smooth every edge, as if the longing inside you might finally subdue — the longing that throbbed, that begged to burrow into her chest and make a permanent home there.

It terrified you, how much you loved her. Sometimes the experience of loving her was so immense it felt like your ribcage might splinter under it. Too infinite for one human vessel to contain. Like she consumed every crevice and corner with the smallest glance, the hitch of a brow, the spasm of her smirk. And the worst part? She knew. Mira knew exactly what she did to you.

And she was damn smug about it. Which meant she deserved a little punishment — it served her right.

So you kissed her, anywhere and everywhere.

Harder this time, resistant, loving punctuation marks pushed against her every feature — every kiss a tiny war declaration of its own. No oxygen, no reprieve. Let her suffer the same surging emotions she dealt you daily.

“Okay—okay, wait—Y/N, stop—”

Helpless laughter tumbled out of her throat, assisted with the pathetic, adorable resistance of words that were no use against your pure assault. “No, you’re too gorgeous. It’s a problem.”

“Eeenouuuuuuugh—” She captured your face between firm, decisive hands, nails gently grazing into your cheeks before kissing you. Not slowly, never timidly, but not exactly perfect either.

It landed somewhere between hurried and trickling, sweet in a clumsy kind of way? Like she meant to keep it simple, but something in her tugged too hard. Like her body overruled the plan, and now her mouth was on yours, trembling just slightly with all the restraint she was not wielding.

You scrunched your nose against her lips, half-whining, half-laughing. “You enough with that.”

Mira only leaned back only a fraction to let her grin break wide — pearly whites gleaming, certain of herself in the way only she could be. Her lashes hung low, casting soft shadows on her cheeks, which harbored the faintest hue, like rosewater brushed delicately over skin.

She was breathtaking, not perfect nor untouchable. Just Mira who was soft and cocky and utterly undone by you.

She leaned in again, hot exhale breezing across your flesh, “Come here.”

Like you’ve ever been anywhere else?

“I wanna kiss you again.” Thumbs caressed your cheeks, every so often pushing into the softness. She seemed pleased at the sigh that left you, continuing the movement before moving on to the outline of your mouth.

Her knuckle feathered past the dip of your lower lip, eyes fixated on yours the entire time like she was perceiving how you dismantled. Then her fingers travelled up, along the ridge of your cheekbone, trailing to your hairline. She slips her hand into your hair, wrapped it with such sweetness before firmly tugging — just enough for your breath to stutter.

It was habitual, the way she fucking touched. No second-guesses. or reluctance, only ever knowing how to handle and love you.

“Only if you say it.” your palms made contact with the plush cotton of her oversized sweater — right over her heart. You felt it, Mira's heart thumping hard beneath your hands, contradicting how she scoffed.

"Nope." Her fingers were already moving with conviction, winding around your neck and giving a small squeeze. She felt your own heart stuttering at her actions, giving her a notion that you might just drop it.

Her eyes — an abyssal of dark browns, so clear and unreadable all at once — did not miss anything. She regarded your reaction like she was committing every flicker of muscle, every inhale, every caught breath to memory. Smiling, she brought her hand up to cradle the curve of your head, trying to pull you into her orbit again.

But you did not budge. You held your ground, giving her a look that was tender, maybe even mirthful. But she noticed the change of your expression — the stubborn set of your brow, the silent insistence behind your irises.

You lowered your octave, “Say it.”

Her mouth quirked, defiant even in surrender. “Hmmmmm, no.”

Your fingers bunched in the fabric at her waist, rumpling into that stupidly cute sweater with the pouty bear on the front. You yanked her closer — not enough for a kiss, but just enough for her to inhale your addicting fragrance. For her frown to transform into something nearly pouty.

And then, right near her mouth, you crooned, “Say it, and you can kiss me.”

Her eyes closed for half a second like the weight of the moment was too much. A soft, almost unwilling heave spilled from her chest, shoulders drooping before finally falling into it; anything to reach both of your desires.

“Fine,” she muttered, exasperated but downright flushed. “I'm pretty. I'm your pretty girl.”

The second she confirmed it, you smiled — sun-bright, toothy, no more teasing left. You dove forward without a protest, pressing your mouth to hers with renewed force. Your arms fastening under hers in a hold that made it clear; Mira was yours, and she was not getting away.

One hand kept her face in place, and Mira emitted the faintest moan, an involuntary act from her part, from the back of her throat. The sound ignited you from the inside out, body scorching from that one low and soft Mira sound no one else will ever get to hear.

The kiss burned from spark to blaze, no warning, just need — all heat and no hesitation. Heat tangled through every second, her figure shifting up in hopes to dissolve into you. But still, it was Mira who found the words.

“You’re not getting rid of me, you know.” Her voice was hoarse, chest out of breath, words inevitable. “You’re not getting rid of me, ever.”

Her brows knitted together while her jaw trembled from such assurance, such softness. Hot palms slithered beneath your shirt, digits extending around your bare sides while an intense gaze stayed in yours.

“Even if some demon claws through the damn window. Even if I get called to a mission mid-kiss. Even if you wake up one day thinking this whole thing’s too much…” She paused, shivering at the feel of your touch. “I’m still here. I’m staying. You got me.”

The impact of her speech crashed into you all at once — not sweet, not flowery, sincere. And when you did not say anything, just stared at her like your lovesick heart was threatening to escape the confinements in your ribcage, she cleared her throat and mumbled,

“...And yeah, I’m your pretty girl, or whatever.”

You laughed, somewhere in between love-struck awe and appalled, and Mira dipped her head with a blush she could not hide fast enough.

You already caught her through the curtain of your lashes. A gleaming liveliness in your pretty eyes, And it illuminated all over her — in the warmth of your cheek against her collarbone, in the fingertips still tangled in her sweater.

Mira felt something ascend in her chest, a blooming, a breath of spring thaw melting years of frost, the dizzying realization that this — you, all of you — was hers.

And she was yours; your pretty girl. And nothing in the world has ever made her feel more fucking safe.

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