#HOLDS HER CLOSE TO MY CHEST SO SHE CAN LISTEN TO MY HEARTBEAT...................

[eraserbread]

growing old with kento pls🥺🥺

check out more of my wife guy!nanami ✧ ୨୧ - part 2

→ f!reader, fluff, sfw

for your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, kento got you a cat, a kitten, to be exact -- golden, like him, hazel eyes like him. he's your baby, taking over that space in your home that your daughter's move back to tokyo brought out.

just like he always wanted, kento retired early in malaysia, and tokyo's where your daughter chose to stay. school in the city was far more riveting than stewing away in a beachside cottage. and alone for the first time again in nineteen years, you had love to celebrate.

so, he hands you that little purring kitten as soon as you stumble out of bed, smiling at the gentle coos you're giving. looking at you in the rising sun reminds him of how you'd dote over your young daughter twenty years ago. he's always loved you, but seeing your motherhood bloom and grow out of you made him obsessed.

"awh, kento." you're pouting, holding the kitten to your heart. you're in a shorter nightgown, cut above the knees he leans down and closes his hands over. for a fifty-year-old man, that mobility has never gotten lost. in fact, you think he looks the best he's ever have -- greyed roots, shaved stubble, fine lines. so familiar.

"happy twenty-fifth." he replies, kissing over your knee. "been with you longer than I've been alone, now. our marriage's brain is finally fully developed."

"you're such a dad." you scoff, lovingly. "it's a boy? I'm gonna name him kento."

"don't. that's not a very creative name." he stands with a grunt, leaning towards to kiss your lips. little kitty purring between your chests, he lingers.

the only thing you got him for twenty-five years together was his steaming bowl of char kway teow he's hunching over as you head through a night market. you were supposed to be sharing, but you'll let him have it. you can taste the umami on his lips when he kisses you, and that's enough.

the nights gone on in street food carbs, and drowned-out music. scooters whiz past you in the dusty streets, and kento keeps his arm strong around your shoulders, staking that lifelong claim in physicality.

always, you end up by the beach, lying out on plush lounge chairs. you're resting on his chest, heartbeat backing the rush of the waves and the pulse of the fire-dancers in front of you, lighting up the sand. you haven't touched alcohol all night, neither has he, but his sound has you nodding off. you trail your settled-in hands across his homey chest, pressing the tips of your nails into his clothed flesh.

you can feel him shiver, then whisper, "tickles."

then, for that thirty-eighth anniversary, your husband, grey and in his sixties, wakes you up with kisses to the neck. windows open, an early-morning sea breeze rushing through the bedroom, you stir to life and savor the touch.

"i have loved you for forty years. can you believe it?" he mutters, keeping his lips pressed to your skin. "and I still want you like it's the first."

you're smiling into the sheets, still so susceptible to his charms in your older years. he knows you inside and out, upside and down. at this point in life, he is you.

at the foot of the bed, poor old little yuji, your thirteen-year-old ginger cat purrs in sleep. kento's rustling makes him flick an ear, but the old boy is far too comfortable to move.

for year thirty-eight, you made him his favorite breakfast and served it to him as he sits on the balcony with a book in his lap. kento's come to wear glasses, thin-framed ones that hang on the edge of his nose as he grumbles at words.

it's all he lives for now, western poetry, wife handling, and cleaning up after a rowdy cat. every night like clockwork, he calls his daughter in tokyo -- sometimes she doesn't answer, but most of the time she does. for hours, or just as long as she allows, she goes on and on about her life, the woman she's seeing, the home she's buying, and the job she's loving.

kento listens with every ounce of his soul just like he listens to his words, and you, and the sound of the warm langkawi breeze as it hits his face.

out here in the seclusion, there aren't any curses -- no angst. all that matters is the life he's hand-picked, thoughtful to the core.

and that night, his final gift is a sweater you sewed for him, and you. sandy hands, warm cheeks -- you present your naked body to him in the night, letting the full moon guide him right to where he knows to touch.

age is just experience. it's been thirty-eight years of memorizing each other's bodies - intimacy is like oxygen. he reaches for the canyon between your thighs on your secluded, beachside balcony, swallowing the sound of his name like he has for a lifetime.

like clockwork, every single time this starts, he whispers between your lips, "I love you."

and you whisper back, "i love you, too."

[starmapz]

man's best friend - r. sukuna

❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]

❦ oneshot

❝ you know those videos of people falling in love with the pet they didn't want? yeah, turns out your husband sukuna could be the star of one of them. ❞

❦ cw ; 18+ only. mdni. sexual themes. fluff! husband!sukuna. soft!sukuna. part of the love & company series of oneshots but can be read separately.

❦ words ; 1.8k.

main masterlist || love & company masterlist

Shutting the door behind you, you kick your boots off and pad slowly into the house. “Ryo!” You call out in search of your husband, peeking into the kitchen.

He rounds the corner in only a pair of gray sweatpants, every peak and valley of his washboard abs on display. If it were any other day, you would be jumping him in a heartbeat and he knows it. So when you don’t, even as your eyes trail down his body, he approaches you suspiciously.

“Who are you n’ what did you do with my wife?” He asks, a hint of playfulness decorating his tone. He eyes your outfit, still in your riding gear aside from your boots and helmet. You haven’t taken off your leather jacket yet, which is odd.

When his gaze lands on your chest, he narrows his eyes. “You get a third tit at work today?” He asks as he realizes you have a lump hidden beneath your coat. You can’t help your giggles at his stupid joke, shaking your head. The lump shuffles beneath your coat and his eyes go wide.

“You did not,” he deadpans, searching your expression.

Oh, but you did.

“Okay listen, I know you didn’t want a pet until we got a bigger place, but hear me out!” You plead as the lump shuffles more before it finally pokes its tiny little face out from your coat.

Facing Sukuna is the tiniest, most disheveled bundle of fur he’s ever seen. The little kitten is pure black, hair sticking out in every direction and wide green eyes that take in the world as the little furball tilts its head curiously at your husband with a pathetic mewl.

“No. No way, that thing’s gotta be covered in fleas. We talked about a dog,” he shakes his head. “Where did you even find it?”

“Ryo, come on!” You pout at him with a look entirely too similar to the kitten and his glare flickers between the two of you. “I found it in the bushes outside work and my co-worker said it’d been there for a while. I couldn’t leave it!” You insist, pulling the furball gently from within your jacket to hold them tightly to your chest.

He’s probably right about the fleas, but how could you not immediately fall in love with the little kitty as it calmly abides to you holding it like a baby, chewing softly on your gloved thumb as you hold it up to Sukuna.

“We don’t even need a big place to get a cat!” You insist. The kitten stops chewing on your thumb, rounded green eyes turning to stare up at Sukuna as it mewls pleadingly. Sukuna has half a mind to wonder if the kitten can understand you because between the two of you pouting at him, he thinks you have to be conspiring specifically to get him to break.

He sighs dramatically, rubbing the crease between his brows. “Fine. But it’s your responsibility.”

And how is Sukuna ever meant to resist his beautiful wife with the way your eyes light up?

Of course, you knew from the moment you brought the bundle of soot home that Sukuna would cave. What you didn’t expect was the way their dynamic shifted.

After getting cleaned up and visiting the vet, you discovered she’s a sweet little girl and insisted on naming her Jiji, after the cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service. Your husband had more… creative name choices. Pawasaki and Yameowha were among the worst of his horrible bike-related names, but Ducati had to be the one that really took the cake for the one that made you groan the most.

… And it also happened to be the one that stuck.

“Kuna! Have you seen Cati?” At least Cati sounds close to Kitty, right? Peering into the living room, you catch a glimpse of Sukuna laid out over the couch in a black hoodie and gray sweatpants, his arms folded back behind his head and his eyes trained on the TV.

“Yeah, she’s in here,” he replies nonchalantly. Stepping into the room, you look around for her but she’s nowhere to be found. Turning to Sukuna finally, your lips purse and your heart absolutely soars at the sight of the little kitty curled right into the crook of Sukuna’s neck, almost invisible buried in his hoodie.

“Oh. My. God,” you gasp, pulling out your phone to take a photo, which quickly becomes thirty photos to Sukuna’s dismay as his smirk becomes a scowl by the fifteenth. “You two are the cutest things I’ve ever seen. This is gonna be my wallpaper.”

It doesn’t take long for the two to warm up to one another either. Ducati is like his shadow, always following right behind him even as he brushes her off. She’s constantly rubbing against his ankles and mewing for his attention. He doesn’t pay her much mind at first, but his resolve crumbles after only a few weeks.

Brushing your teeth one morning before work, Sukuna walks into the washroom in a red hoodie to grab his razor. As he slips past you, your jaw drops at the realization that Ducati’s little tail is poking out from his hood.

“No way,” you barely manage to mumble through the toothpaste and toothbrush, spitting it out and darting back to your room to grab your phone. It hardly matters that you have toothpaste on your lips still when you need a photo of this right now.

“Your camera roll must be mostly photos of her,” he chides, plugging his razor in.

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

A puff of air leaves his nose in a laugh as he watches your mirth through the mirror. Who is he to deny his wife of having a camera roll full of photos where you can barely make out where your kitten’s limbs start and end?

The day everything changed was when you woke up early enough to see their morning routine. Sukuna got up early to work out and have breakfast before work, while you would practically rush out the door, but your body had other plans today.

The sun warms your cheek as it peeks over the horizon and with a yawn you realize your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Usually you would just flip over, but a morning with your husband sounds even better.

Slowly shuffling down the hall, you blink sleep from your eyes as you make your way into the kitchen in time to see what might be the funniest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

Sukuna sits down at the table with a breakfast burrito on one plate and another smaller plate in his other hand. He sets it down at the chair beside him with some coffee and your jaw drops when you realize what’s on the smaller plate.

It’s Ducati’s fucking breakfast. He pulls the chair beside him out and pats it before pushing her plate to the edge of the table so that she can reach it.

“No fucking way,” you breathe out. Like a deer in the headlights, Sukuna’s eyes widen, before his expression hardens.

“What? She’s hungry,” he grunts like any of this is normal by any means and he isn’t the cheesiest cat dad on the planet. To think he was a dog person a few months ago.

You burst into laughter as his tough-guy persona crumbles. You may be his princess, but that cat is his queen.

“I need to get my phone, oh my god-”

“Don’t you dare!” He roars, but you’re already racing back to the bedroom in a flurry of giggles. Sukuna sighs, slumping back in the chair as he stares at the ceiling.

“You’re such a sucker,” you tease as you snap another dozen photos of the pair to add to your collection.

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, holding his hand up to block the camera’s view of him as though the tattoos on his wrist don’t spell out exactly who he is.

You found out a week later that the next step from breakfast at the table is apparently coming with you on dates.

Finishing up your makeup for your beach day with your husband, you bound over to the door with your duffle bag of towels, sunglasses, and sunscreen ready to go. Sukuna, on the other hand, packed very differently.

Kneeling on the ground, Ducati’s on her side, her fluffy black tail happily swishing back and forth as Sukuna adjusts a harness on her.

“Kuna, as cute as that is, I don’t wanna lose her,” you gently scold, deciding you have to put your foot down when it comes to your cat joining you on your beach date.

“We won’t lose her,” he gruffs, scooping her up into his arms. “She has a tracker tag. It’s connected to my phone.”

You have to stifle a laugh. “Right, of course. That’s super normal. Normal people do this with their cats.”

Sukuna glowers, heat rising from his neck up to his cheeks. To think that this is the same man who cuffed you to your bed frame last night that’s now brimming with embarrassment. “She likes being outside,” he grumbles.

“I know she does but I thought the front yard would be as far as she would go,” you sigh, unable to help your smile. “Fine, Ryo. She can join us, but you better watch her like a hawk.”

“Promise, princess,” he agrees, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Your hickeys r’ showing, by the way.”

You shrug. “My makeup would come off in the water anyway if I tried to cover them and I know you like them,” you smirk. Something dark flashes in his eyes, his free hand that isn’t supporting Ducati in his arms reaching out to rest on your waist. His fingers tighten, his grip sinking into the plush of your skin as he pulls you into him.

“I like when people know you’re mine,” he purrs, eyes lidded. 

“That’s good, because now,” you begin, a gleam in your eye that he recognizes all too well, “people will know that I’m with the big burly biker and his tiny little kitty,” you tease with a grin as you push off of his chest, adjusting your duffle bag over your shoulder. “Come on, you big sucker. Let’s go to the beach.”

Of course, you’ve seen the videos and stories of men who didn’t want a pet later becoming said pet’s best friend, but you could never have imagined that would be your hardened and often cold husband. Especially given that when you had discussed getting a pet, he wanted a big dog like a Rottweiler or a German Shepherd.

Like many other times over the course of your life, he surprises you at every turn as you find him in the kitchen pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios with Ducati atop his shoulders. Another time, you find him doing pushups in your bedroom with the cat laying on his back, earning a raised brow. On rare occasions, he even calls both of you ‘his girls’.

Turns out, Sukuna is a cat guy. And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it means you’re not Ducati’s favorite.

main masterlist || love & company masterlist

❦ a/n ; was feeling inspired since i adopted my cat a year ago tomorrow and couldn't help but think this would suit this sukuna really well <3 as always, likes, reblogs, and comments are super super appreciated <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist to be added. 18+ only, age must be visible on blog.

@toffeebrat @gojodickbig @4acoffee @billiondollarworth @qyuin

@bxnfire @jayghostedu @favvkiki

writing & format © starmapz. art © too-many-owls. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune.

[buckyys-babydoll]

daddy’s girl

pairing — congressman!bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary — past assassin. nowadays congressman. and yet, his most important business is home with his girls.

warnings — lots of fluff, sexual tension

wordcount — 1.373 words

authors note — bucky as girl dad, just has my heart.

The moment the keys land on the small shelf in your hallway, you count backwards with a smile plastered on your face.

Three.

Silence. For a moment, but you know it only needs a few more seconds before your house is filled with noises like you're taking care of a whole football team.

Two.

You get off the couch, making your way over to the door of the living room to see the scene unfolding.

One.

Your husband stands with his arms wide open in the hallway. His shoes and jacket still on, waiting. Just like you, with a wide grin on his face.

Zero.

“Papa!” The high-pitched, excited voice of your daughter comes from her room. He shouts, echoing through the hallway as she runs with heavy, thundering steps toward the stairs.

“Slow, trouble,” Bucky says, loud enough for her to hear. But she doesn’t care, her feet carrying her down the stairs as fast as possible while she giggles loudly. “Hi, trouble, we don’t want ya to get hurt.”

She huffs.

She got that from her daddy. And he knows.

Whenever you scold him for anything — playfully — he’s huffing. Just like your little daughter. A troublemaker through and through.

“Papa! I draws,” she tells him, her small arms stretched out as she jumps down the last few steps to land safely in his strong arms.

Every day when he comes home after work, you get to see the same sweet scene.

Since your little girl can walk, she runs to her daddy the moment she notices he’s home. And by now, she doesn’t even need long to find out if it was you doing dishes or him coming home.

“You were drawing, baby?” He mutters, kneeling down to put her down but still staying at one height with her.

She nods proudly while her small hands tangle into some of his long strands that fall into his hands and face.

You lean in the doorframe, your heart fluttering in your chest. Seeing your husband so happy, so carefree and full of love causes that tingling feeling in your stomach every single time.

A few years back, when you met Bucky, you wouldn't have thought he could look that happy and full of light. But there he is.

You never tried to fix him. You never will because you can't. But you also don’t want to fix him.

He's not some device that's broken and needs a repair. Bucky is a human being, with his past, with his scars — on body and soul. And though some nights his past is still haunting him and some nights he’s panting and shaking next to you, you never tried to do anything else but just be there for him.

To hold him in his darkest moments. To kiss away the tears. To let him listen to your breathing and your steady heartbeat.

Bucky never wanted someone to fix him. He just wanted someone to stay. And that someone is you, his beautiful and sweet wife and mother of the energy bungle that’s keeping him grounded.

“Draws mama ‘n you, papa,” she says proudly, wiggling out of his arms to run upstairs so she can get her drawings and show them to her dad.

Bucky chuckles softly, his ocean blue eyes trained on the girl before he looks around. His eyes catching you still standing in the doorframe with the beautiful smile all over your lips.

A smile he falls for. Every single day.

“Hi, mama,” he mutters, slipping out of his shoes before he takes a step closer and reaches out to bring his calloused hands to your waist.

A sigh escapes his lips when he pulls you close again to his firm chest. Your arms curling around his neck, playing with the long strands that curl slightly in his neck.

“Hey, handsome,” you chuckle, pecking his plump lips.

His sandalwood scent surrounds you just like his warmth.

“How was your day?” He asks, pecking your lips once more before he looks deep into your eyes.

His gaze is soft and loving, and you can’t help but smile even more. He really is the most beautiful man — gentleman. And he’s all yours.

“Good, little trouble kept re-watching your interviews until I got her to draw something for you,” you chuckle.

Your daughter was sitting excitedly in front of the television, following every one of her dad's movements. She even started to do some moves he always does, repeating his words even if she doesn’t really understand all of them.

“Just like her daddy,” Bucky mutters, turning his head to the stairs when he hears your daughter running through the floor once more. “I love you, pretty mama.”

With that he kisses your forehead and pulls back slightly. Just a moment after, your daughter jumps right back into his arms, showing him proudly the pictures she drew.

One of her running away with Bucky’s metal arm. One of them is standing in front of people and talking about ponies — at least that's what she tells him.

Bucky praises her for every drawing she shows him. The light in her eyes and the happiness written all over her face that her daddy loves her drawings so much make your heart flutter in your chest.

“Now, c’mon, let’s make dinner, trouble,” Bucky says, stroking her hair back before he gets up from where he was kneeling. “Hear your little tummy growling at me already.”

Trouble giggles, hugging his legs to step onto his feet. Bucky smirks, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders as he walks with her toward the kitchen.

He doesn’t bother to change into a t-shirt, no, he stands with his suit pants and shirt in the kitchen. Making dinner with your daughter, not caring about some stains on his shirt.

Unfortunately, it makes him look even more sexy. Handsome. Beautiful. And all yours.

Bucky lifts your little girl up and sits her down on the counter, standing next to her while he looks over her shoulder at you.

You know you will get all the attention from him after dinner. Once the little girl is in bed, he’s all yours.

“What’s your tummy demanding, baby?” Bucky asks, his calloused fingers tickling over her small belly until she’s wiggling and trying to get away from his moving fingers. “Mhm, maybe some pizza. Or pasta. Or does that little belly of yours want veggies?”

“Nooooo, no veggies, papa,” she shakes her head. “I no like veggies. And mama likes no veggies.”

What a lie. You love vegetables. But your daughter just loves to pull you into everything she doesn’t like, so she’s not alone. Just like her daddy.

“Mama doesn’t like veggies?” Bucky grins, looking at you with a knowing smirk on his lips.

He's making you vegetable plates in the evenings because you prefer them over some sweets when you’re watching movies together. You adore vegetables, so you’re definitely the last one who would say no to them.

“Mhm, pizza it is then?” Bucky suggests, even if you already planned on having pizza anyway. But to see the bright smile on her face because you're making her favourite food makes his day.

She squeals when Bucky gets everything ready to make the pizza with her. Or put all the ingredients on top of it, even if it’s a whole mess of every food she likes.

Chicken. Salami. Surprisingly, some pepper.

“What about some cucumber?” Bucky suggests playfully as he cuts a slice and holds it in front of her mouth. Sneaking some pieces of food into her mouth is the most important part of making food together.

“Nu! I no like veggies, papa,” she shakes her head, pushing his hand away.

Bucky chuckles, offering you the little cucumber heart he cut. He knows she doesn’t like it. But he knows you do.

You smile, taking it and putting it between your lips, suckling softly at it until Bucky is groaning under his breath. His eyes darken for a moment before he tries to focus on making the food again.

“You’re in for trouble, mama,” he whispers, leaning toward you to bite into your earlobe. “Gonna have so much fun with my sweet and mighty wife.

Comment and reblog to support content creators.

[owuwi]

➤ lottie matthews x fem!reader

.ᐣ lottie helps you calm down after you came to her crying.

⤷ cw: none

──────────────────────

"it's okay, you can let it all out."

lottie's sweet, calm voice broke through your sobs, warm arms wrapping themselves around your trembling frame as you desperately cried.

everything was too much—shauna's recent behavior, how close everyone was to being rescued yet not being allowed to—and you couldn't help but break, needing to let it all out.

talking about this with lottie was ironic since she wanted to stay in the wilderness, though she was the only one who was in the 'healing' state of mind.

"i'm here for you, i understand how you feel." she continued, her dirty hand delicately running through your hair as she pressed you even closer to her—your head now resting on her chest, listening to her steady heartbeat.

"i-i can't—... i can't do this anymore, n-not again..." your voice was small, cracked; tears freely running down your cheeks and nose runny as you remembered the hell you experienced for the past year.

"i-it hurts... p-please make it s-stop..." you quickly spoke up again, both of your hands turning to fists while you roughly hugged and subtly rocked yourself in an attempt of calming down.

she noticed this, of course, and slowly did to you what you were doing to yourself. she silently held you tight while rocking you back and forth, her free hand running up and down your sweat-drenched back.

if lottie was being honest, she felt bad for you. sure, she felt freer there than she did back home, but it was obvious you didn't. the two of you had always been quite close, so seeing you sob like a little girl definitely affected her.

she noticed the way you started squirming in her hold; how your sobs grew louder and your breath faster. "close your eyes, just close your eyes and listen to my heart." she meticulously told you, kneeling and guiding you down onto the dirt with her.

she tightened the grip her arms had around you, holding you against her body as if you were a wounded animal. she knew you needed to feel her, needed to know she was there with you—for you—, and she didn't have any issues in demonstrating it.

the sight of your long finger-nails scratching your own arms caused this feeling inside of her, a familiar feeling she had trouble naming. the way you coped was no stranger to her—she too did that—and it gave her better ideas of how to help you out.

she gently placed her hands on top of yours and stilled your movements, not wanting you to continue injuring yourself. "i'm here, i'm right here for you..." she murmured, her voice slightly shaky as she spoke, though she managed to compose herself—not wanting you to see the pain seeing you like that inflicted on her.

after you calmed down, she stayed in the same position, eyes closed and heart aching.

lottie loved you with her whole heart and she would always prove it to you.

[dumdogs]

LOOPED: MIYA ATSUMU

she's stuck in a loop: texting him late on a friday night, letting him into her bed, clinging to him, silently begging for him to stay, only for him to leave again.

masterlist

tags/warnings: friends with benefits, implied love triangle, angst, hooking up, unhappy ending, kinda softcore smut but no actual smut, hardly proofread, mdni

word count: 2.2k

an: thinking abt starting a gen taglist for works like this since im planning on pivoting away from writing a bunch of series and focusing more on things like this. idk. let me know what you think if you want i can't make you. also do i think this is my best writing? no but writing has been so hard lately im proud of myself for getting this out

Atsumu likes to hold her after they fuck. 

His bare leg is hooked over her hip, and his arm is thrown over her shoulder, pulling her into his chest. It’s hot under her sheets, and Astumu’s skin is coated in a thin layer of sweat. It’s humid and unbearable, but she bears it, holding onto him by his waist, because it’s the only time he’s like this with her. 

“Thank you,” he says, and he tucks her head under his chin. His eyes are closed, and he lets out a long, deep breath. “I needed that.” 

He thanks her like she did him a favor. Her arms go a bit tighter around his waist, and she presses her ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Yeah,” she mumbles, her cheek pressed flat against his skin. “Anytime.” 

Atsumu runs a hand over the back of her head, smoothing down her hair. His fingers continue, dragging slowly down the center of her spine. “Do you mind if I stay for a little while?” he asks, voice dropping to a raspy whisper that makes her feel so desperate that shame boils just under his touch. 

Her eyes close. “No,” she says, her lips brushing against his bare chest as she speaks. “You can stay for as long as you want.” 

It’s like this every week. She always expects it to be different, and it never is. Every week, when it feels like it’s been dark for too long and she’s alone and can’t sleep, she texts him after she promised herself she wouldn’t. Sometimes he responds and says he’ll be right over, sometimes he replies and says he can’t. Sometimes he shows up without saying anything at all. 

It’s been like this for a while. Long enough for her to feel embarrassed that she’s letting him drag her along like this. 

He hums, and she can feel vibrations throughout his chest. “You’re so soft,” he tells her, “it makes it hard to leave.” 

Atsumu will leave, though. Before the morning comes, he’ll be out the door without saying a word to her. It doesn’t seem very difficult, when he does go. He always peels her off of him like she’s some piece of dirty laundry and slinks out of the room when he thinks she’s fallen asleep. 

His breathing steadies like he’s slipping into sleep. She tilts her chin forward, and places a soft kiss on the center of his chest. She won’t be able to sleep. She’s too wired, it’s too hot, and her neck lays uncomfortably on top of the pillow. When the morning comes she’s going to be sore and tired, and it will be a strain to get anything done. 

Her eyes close, and she’s sure that Atsumu’s knocked out when she whispers, “You don’t have to leave, y’know.” 

He doesn’t say anything. She wasn’t expecting him to. She keeps her eyes closed, and thinks of his warmth, trying her best to avoid thoughts of it disappearing when the morning comes. 

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Atsumu stands at the edge of her bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants. “I’m sorry to leave so soon,” he tells her, thumbs tucked under the waistband as they settle at the bottom of his hips. “I have to be at the gym so goddamn early tomorrow.” 

Her legs are crossed underneath the blanket and she sits upright, holding the pillow he usually sleeps on against her lap. “”S okay,” she tells him, watching as he grabs his hoodie off of the floor and throws it on over his head. “I’m not offended or anything.” 

“Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have come over tonight,” he confesses, and now she’s starting to feel a bit of a sting. “I just really needed to see you tonight.” 

She doesn’t know how to feel about this. She shuffles a bit, an indiscernible feeling settling uncomfortably over her skin. Atsumu doesn’t say things like that. She doesn’t know how to react. “Is something wrong?” 

Atsumu freezes, placing his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. His expression is screwed up, knotted. Something is wrong. She leans forward, like she’s expecting him to whisper it in her ear, like he’s about to profess something profound and close to his chest. But Atsumu just shakes his head, “Nah, it’s nothing,” he says. He pats the pockets of his sweatpants. “Have you seen my phone?” 

She’s disappointed, but she doesn’t know why. She leans back and reaches towards her nightstand, yanking her phone off the charger and dialing Atsumu’s number. She knows it by heart, and hopes that he doesn’t notice. It buzzes from under her sheets. 

He leaves half past midnight, forty minutes after he got there. She can’t sleep once he’s gone. She stays up, scrolling mindlessly through her phone, trying to wear down her mind, make it too tired to keep thinking of him. 

Sakusa texts her. Five minutes past one. “Was Atsumu at your place?” 

She ignores it. 

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Atsumu lies on his side, and draws patterns on her bare stomach with the tip of his finger. She doesn’t say anything, out of fear of making him stop. She watches him instead, watching his face as he stares down at her midriff. He has this slight smile on his face, and it makes her feel pleasantly uneasy.

“I like your stomach,” he tells her. “I think it’s my favorite part of you.” 

The smile that grows on her face must give her away. She’s grateful for how occupied he is with her skin. “You have a favorite part of me?” 

“Yeah, I mean, I like all of you,” Atsumu tells her. “But I do have favorites. Your stomach, your nose, your thighs, fuck, just so much of you,” he sighs, as if overwhelmed. “I mean, a man can only take so much.” 

She doesn’t think it’s fair, that she’s expected not to fall in love with him when he says things like that. So unabashedly, completely unprompted. And there is this small part of her that kind of resents him, for things like this, saying all of that when he’s going to leave her before the morning comes. But she likes it more than she could ever hate it. So she smiles, and she says, “I don’t think I could pick my favorite part of you,” and means it more than she should. 

Atsumu’s hand stops, and he looks up at her. He grins, and it makes her stomach flip. 

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

It’s fifteen minutes to midnight, and she’s pacing in her bedroom, trying not to look at her phone. She texted him twenty minutes ago, and she thinks if she keeps herself from looking at her phone, it’ll make him respond quicker. She can’t back her logic, but she’s well past the point of reason. 

He hadn’t talked to her all week. Which, she tries to tell herself, isn’t too weird. He’s busy. He’s a professional athlete. He has better things to do than entertain her and her whims, and what is she to him, really, besides a person to sleep with? They weren’t that close when they started hooking up, and it’s not like the fucking as brought them closer together. 

But still, her stomach knots up with nerves. She feels like something’s wrong. Maybe she gave him too much of herself. Maybe he doesn’t want as much of her as she’s willing to give. 

Her phone vibrates against her nightstand, and she nearly breaks a toe rushing to answer it. On her home screen is a notification from him. 

Can’t make it tonight. Sorry. 

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

She always tries to give Atsumu what he wants. He likes it when she begs, so she begs. She gets down on her knees and begs to please him. He likes the feeling of her on top of him, thighs squeezing on either side of his hips, so she climbs on top of him, not stopping when her thighs start to burn. He likes it wet, so it’s wet. His hair tugged, his neck nibbled on, his back scratched. Whatever he likes, she gives it to him. 

And he keeps making these small little grunts of pleasure and his eyes are fluttering, but Atsumu feels far away. Unimpressed with the way her body moves against his. His hands lay lazily on her hips, not gripping tightly on her flesh. He doesn’t whisper praise in her ear. He doesn’t bite down on his lip and tell her yes, he likes it like that, keep doing that. He’s quiet, withdrawn. 

She keeps trying to give him more, and more, desperation clawing on the inside of her chest. But Atsumu gives her nothing. He takes what she offers silently, and it starts to feel like he’s keeping his eyes closed to avoid looking at her. 

After, he doesn’t hold her. Atsumu lies on his back with his hands tucked under his head, staring at her ceiling. He doesn’t say anything. 

Her body feels like it’s burning. She feels humiliated. The silence is bad but she thinks talking might be worse. She doesn’t want him to leave but she doesn’t want him to stay if it’s going to be more of this. The air is so thick she thinks she might choke on it. 

Atsumu turns his head to look at her. “Have you talked to Omi recently?” 

The question shocks her so badly she turns her head to him, face scrunched up in confusion. “What?” 

He shrugs. “He hasn’t been talking to me lately. I was just wondering if he said anything to you.” 

Her head straightens out and she looks back up at the ceiling. “He texted me the other week and asked if you were here. I didn’t know if I should tell him or not, and it didn’t really seem like any of his business, so I just didn’t respond.” 

Atsumu hums. “I think he’s jealous of you.” 

“Do you want him to be?” she asks at once, and then regrets it. 

Atsumu doesn’t say anything to this. He gets quiet, and she has to bite down on her lip to keep herself from saying something else stupid. Somehow, the air gets heavier. 

“I’m sorry,” she says after a minute of silence. 

“It’s okay,” Atsumu says, and he doesn’t mean it. He leaves a minute later, and tells her it’s because he has an early practice, but she’s not stupid. 

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Atsumu presses her against her bedroom wall, and when she closes her eyes, all she can see is him and Sakusa, arm’s slung around each other’s shoulders in a post-victory celebration earlier that day. And the way Atsumu looked at him makes her feel rotten. It hurts to remember, and Atsumu pounding into her does little to distract from it. 

She’s the loser in this war, she thinks, arms around his shoulders and leg hooked over his hip, too disconnected from her body to feel anything. It doesn’t matter how many times Atsumu has crawled back into her bed and held her against his chest. It doesn’t matter how in love with him she is. It’s always Sakusa. It’ll always be Sakusa. 

He holds her tightly after, their legs tangled together and his cheek resting on the top of her head. His phone’s in his pocket and it keeps buzzing. Atumu ignores it, and she can’t stop herself from thinking that it’s him.

She swallows. Her throat feels dry. “Someone keeps texting you,” she says, because she wants him to acknowledge it. 

Atsumu inhales deeply. “Ignore it,” he says, “just lie with me.” 

She closes her eyes, and does as she’s told. 

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Can I come over tonight? 

He texted her first. He doesn’t usually, but he did. The notification popped up over a video the MSBY Black Jackals post-match. Meian’s giving a courtside interview, but just behind him, she can see Atsumu and Sakusa, shoulders squared and tensed, keeping a strict distance from each other as they exit the court. She can feel the chill through the screen of her phone. 

She doesn’t know what it is that holds the both of them back from each other. Maybe it’s her. Maybe Sakusa doesn’t realize that Atsumu would drop her immediately if Sakusa ever asked him to. 

She’s always known that he would, though. Whatever she has to offer doesn’t seem to compare to Sakusa. She’s just a temporary fix, really. Just something to hold Atsumu over until Sakusa realizes this. 

She taps on the notification, and her conversation with Atsumu pops up. For a second, she scrolls through it. Minimal talking, mostly texts from her, with late responses from him. She can see it there, how much Atsumu doesn’t care about her. It doesn’t matter if he asks to come over or tells her he loves her stomach or how hard it is for him to leave. He just doesn’t care about her. Not the way she cares about him. 

Her thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment, paused in contemplation, before she types out a quick, yeah, sure, and hits send without thinking anymore about it.

If Sakusa hasn’t figured it out yet, then she’s not about to help him. She’ll just keep giving and giving, until there’s nothing left to give.

[slutoru1207]

I love you, but I need boundaries

Jealous!Reader x Protective!Mark

Boundaries & Reassurance | Soft but Firm Conversation

It takes Mark exactly one second to notice something’s wrong.

The way you lean away when he reaches for your hand. The forced smile. The quiet, distant way you say, "Yeah, I’m fine, just tired."

He’s not buying it.

So, the moment you're alone, he corners you.

Not in an aggressive way, but in a Mark way—close, warm, protective, concerned. His hands settle on your arms, brows furrowed as he studies your face.

"Talk to me, sweetheart."

You hesitate. You don’t want to start a fight. You know you shouldn’t feel this way. But—

"Is there something between you and Eve?"

The words slip out before you can stop them. Your stomach drops, guilt clawing at your chest—but Mark?

Mark looks absolutely wrecked.

"What?" His voice is barely above a whisper. "Baby, no. God, no."

You exhale sharply, looking down. "Then why does it feel like she understands you better than I do?"

Mark takes a step closer, voice urgent. "She doesn’t. She never could. Just because we’ve known each other forever doesn’t mean she knows me like you do."

You swallow hard. "I don’t want to be that person, Mark. I don’t want to tell you who you can and can’t be friends with. But I also can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt when you’re always with her, always laughing with her, always—" You shake your head, voice cracking. "I need to know I’m enough for you."

His expression shatters.

"You are." His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize you. "You’re everything to me. And if I’ve made you feel any different, that’s on me. I’m sorry, baby."

You take a shaky breath. "I need boundaries, Mark."

"Okay." His response is immediate. "Tell me what you need."

You steady yourself. "I need you to be mindful of how close you are with her. I need you to stop letting her touch you like that."

"Done."

"I need to know that when we’re all together, you’re still focused on us, not just her."

"I hear you. I’ll do better."

"And if I ever feel uncomfortable, I need you to listen and not just brush it off."

Mark nods firmly. "You have my word. You’re my priority. Not her. Never her."

Your chest tightens with emotion. "Okay."

Mark pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. "No more pulling away from me, alright? If something’s wrong, you tell me. We fix it together."

You nod against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. "Okay."

And this time, when he kisses you, you don’t hesitate to kiss him back.

Because this? This is what love feels like.

[luveline]

Hi lovely!

Can you please do one where Hotch and Reader are in a fight and it gets heated and he maybe raises his hand just because he’s shouting and she flinches?

He would be prepared to FIGHT whoever made his honey feel that way 🗣️🗣️

💘

for you my sweetheart. fem, 1k

cw implied past domestic violence 

“It was right,” you're saying, on the defensive, your voice molten, “it was the thing to do!” 

“It wasn't.” Hotch closes the door. “It wasn't the right thing to do, it wasn't even close.” 

You realise, under everything, that he's right, but you couldn't help yourself, you had to try and save the day, had to swerve the SUV. Plus, he's done it himself, and you both know that. “If Monikie got out of that exit we never would've seen her again.” 

“There were roadblocks on the I–46, and I don't think I have to tell you that you could've gotten a lot of people seriously hurt–” 

“You've done worse,” you deny.

His expression, broadly furious, narrows into something sharper, “And that is my decision to make, but you report to me.” 

“You can't seriously want to act like a boss now,” you say. 

The room isn't overly large, and so you stand close to one another with no need for shouting, but your voices begin to overlap. Hotch is so angry. It isn't like him to yell at you, his voice strained. 

“You can't truly think that the decision you made today was the right one. You need to calm down, and you need to listen to me when I tell you that this was the wrong move. We'll talk about it more tomorrow.” 

“You're shrugging me off?” You could laugh. “You can't be serious. Every member of this team has done the same, or worse–” 

“But they're not you!” His voice peeks, his hand jolting out in front of his chest, flat-palmed in incredulity. 

You're really quite close to each other. 

It's not his fault. 

You step back, desperate to be away from the movement, the hand, because it doesn't register as his hand, only there's a chair behind you and a table behind that and you bump into the plastic with a creak and screech. You're righting yourself as quickly as you're tripping but Hotch is already moving away. Three steps that feel like a gorge. 

Your heartbeat soars. 

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. 

“Of course.” You breathe out funny. It's not his fault, but there's something wired in your brain now, and it knows that the first strike isn't the last. Your hand shakes as you brush at an itch under your eyes. 

“I'm not mad,” he says. 

“You sounded pretty mad."

“I've changed my mind.” He gives you a long hard look, and then he moves to the office door to open it before returning to his initial position. He's given you an exit route. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he says. 

You put your hands on your hips and bend at the waist, breathing out hard. “Fuck, I know that."

“You thought I might.” 

“So profile me,” you say, panicking still, face hot and itchy all over. “Tell me why.” 

“Someone's hit you before. Enough to anticipate the second blow.” 

“But you knew that already, didn't you?” 

Your ears get cloudy like there's water in them and you can't stand the feeling of Hotch's gaze on the back of your head. You force yourself into a standing position and try to ignore what happened. 

“You're unfairly angry with me,” you say. 

Hotch just shakes his head at you. 

“It's… It's not a big deal,” you say, quieter. He already knew because of course he did, every member of the team gets checked. You have records, and he's in a position of power unlike most, he could've read them like the morning paper. 

“Why would you say that?” 

“I can still do my job.” 

“I wasn't going to suggest you couldn't.” 

Then why… why is he looking at you like that? You're humiliated enough, and his gaze is so… so soft. So sorry. Tears gather warm behind your eyes and your chest aches like you've been holding your breath. You frown, eyebrows lifting at the starts, not knowing if you should beg him to forget the whole thing or finally give in. 

“Come here,” he says gently. Completely optional, his fingertips twitching but stationery at his side. 

You stare resolutely at your shoes. 

“I'm sorry I scared you, it wasn't my intention. I can imagine how it feels. I'm not mad, honey,” he says. His voice drops to a murmur, “Come here,” he pleads. 

You take a clumsy handful of steps and he meets you in the middle, arms going carefully over your shoulders. You'd feel condescended by it if it weren't shockingly nice to be considered in such a way, or if the solid mass of his arms around you didn't soothe. You feel protected rather than boxed in, held, and not restrained. 

His hand slides open down the length of your back.

“I'm sorry I scared you,” he repeats, for your ears alone. 

“It's not like it was really you that scared me.” 

The memory scared you. The flinch was instinctive, less to do with Hotch and more to do with the connection between a moving hand and stinging pain. 

He hangs his head by your ear until his nose touches your shoulder, and for a few seconds, it's just you and him together, no fighting, and no fast-approaching hands. 

“You didn't scare me,” you mumble, hiding your face in his shoulder instead, forcing him to stand tall. 

Incoming footsteps cut your embrace short, but he doesn't pull away too swiftly. His hands grave the lengths of your arms, and he gives you a long, loaded look. Before you can calibrate the action to the man, he's chucking you under the chin, a stroke of his index knuckle, a promise of more to say. 

He catches Morgan before he can enter the room and directs him back out. “Take a minute,” he advises you. 

You sit in a chair and do as he's offered. Memory is a tricky thing. 

[delirious-donna]

Afternoon Distraction

an: the wonderfully talented @rookieloveskashi recently wrote a fic (read it here) with both Kakashi and Obito and reader, and it reignited my absolute love and devotion to these two men. It made me reread The Oral Lesson and rekindled my desire to make something more into this dynamic. So, I think I can now say that the Touch Starved series is officially a thing!

pairing: Hokage!Kakashi x female reader x ANBU!Obito

warnings: oral sex (male receiving), sloppy head, overwhelmed Obito, blushy boy, cum swallowing, voyeurism & exhibitionism, light throat fucking, light dirty talk, a lot of touch starved behaviour, implied poly, emotions are hard

The sultry, almost broken whimper was a noise you would chase—eagerly.

If you had a tail it would twitch faster and faster like that of an overstimulated bunny, thumping against your backside to serve as a reminder of how good it felt to give pleasure. Especially when that person was someone you adored unconditionally.

The whimper was followed by a drawn out moan which was unsuccessfully stifled by a broad, calloused palm. Your eyes darted up, immediately caught in the trance of a powerful crimson gaze.

Obito’s cheeks and the tips of his ears were almost the same shade as his activated Sharingan, and it made you smile. Drool seeped from the corner of your lips, his thick cock jumping when the edges of your teeth scraped his sensitive skin and prominent veins, careful not to hurt.

You slurped up the excess spit, delighting in the pinch of his dark eyebrows as they contracted together. His chest heaved, your palm spread right in the centre so you could feel his heartbeat pound against it.

He still wasn’t used to this.

He wasn’t used to the attention, the love and the physical intimacy.

Obito remained cautious as his fingers brushed through your hair, searching your face for clues if he should continue or not and only grasping up the length when you sighed and batted your eyelids. That was enough to show you enjoyed it, drunkenly moaning when he tugged harder to pull at the roots.

“H-hush. Gotta be quiet. He’s working,” Obito stammered in an urgent whisper to the increasing sounds you were making.

“She never can be quiet, can you, sweetheart?” Kakashi cooed from somewhere to your left.

Your gaze flicked sideways, backside pushed up and out in a tauntingly tempting wiggle. Kakashi only chuckled, his chin resting on a gently closed fist.

“How does he taste, love?”

Obito spluttered; his hips rising from the small love seat tucked into the Hokage’s office and in turn stuffing your mouth with his thick meat until the tip popped into your throat.

“Fuck—oh fuck!” The ANBU Captain cursed and threw his head back against the couch, revelling in the swallowing sensation you made to accommodate the sudden but not unwelcome intrusion.

From out of your sight, Kakashi did his best not to stare, but it was near impossible. How could he work when his beloved wife sucked his personal guard off so lewdly? He had every intention of setting down the scroll in his hand and kneeling behind you so he could release his aching member and bury it in its rightful home—your sweet little cunt.

He pressed a palm against the rigid bulge, hopeful that with enough pressure it might be wrangled into some semblance of submission, but it was a fight he would not win.

Obito’s eyes were pinned on him from across the room, the Sharingan spun and blackened before returning to a pulsing crimson in the late afternoon sun. Kakashi tapped his masked cheek, holding his gaze without wavering.

The two men were locked into an understanding that was still being explored. This… arrangement was still new to all involved, but there was a desire to show the loyal Uchiha that love, affection, intimacy and sexual touch were good and healing.

They listened to your sloppy ministrations and Kakashi took pity on the Uchiha and his less than sure actions when it came to guiding you. “Why don’t you put your hand at her crown, Obito… that’s it. Push her back down. Ah ah, don’t give me that look, she likes it.”

You moaned around his girth, fingers walking along the muscled length of his thighs as you tried to take as much of him into you without using your hands. When Obito started to use you, your eyes rolled over at how good it felt and your nails dug into his dual coloured skin.

“See?” Kakashi crowed, smug. “Spread your thighs a little more, sweetheart.”

Obediently, you followed the request and preened at the accompanying moan that echoed around the room of the most powerful man in Konoha. That man was your husband and what a man he was.

“Oh, Obito—if only you could see what I can. Our precious girl is dripping, and it’s all from sucking you off. Mm… we should reward her efforts.”

“Uh-uh-huh. So good. I can’t… oh god, won’t last,” Obito whimpered, rolling his head along his neck before turning beseeching eyes on the silver-haired shinobi.

Kakashi tsked but only made to lean back in his chair. “Swallow every drop without a spill, and Obito and I will ensure you are suitably empty headed and nicely sore between those plush thighs.”

Those very plush thighs clenched together before widening once more so Kakashi’s view wasn’t obscured. Obito grabbed for your hand, entwining your fingers and drawing your attention back to him.

He looked ready to blow; beads of sweat dappled his forehead, his eyes shining in what you could only describe as wonderment and his mouth slackened to allow a string of incoherent syllables to fall out amongst broken moans.

You squeezed his fingers, told him it was alright, that you were right here with him and that it was okay to let himself go. Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, not just from the effort of swallowing down his thick cock but because this was another way you were breaking down his barriers.

“Obi… please?” You rasped, popping off only long enough to speak the two words and returning to his salty tip to run your tongue around and over, flicking into this slit until he hissed.

He nodded, jaw tight and determination ignited in his gaze. The hand at your crown started to guide you again, pushing you deeper and deeper until his cock was lodged in your throat and all you could do was take it. The veins pulsed against your slick tongue and with a final gasp and a shove, Obito held you down with your nose buried in his dark curls whilst he came undone.

Hot splashes of cum painted the back of your throat, falling down in an endless spraying arc. He held you and you held him, your hand still tightly clenched with his and the other gripping his hip as they strained and bucked.

With a gasp, you finally pulled off and licked at your lips. So much had coated your throat that you didn’t have the satisfaction of tasting his spend until that moment. You chased the heavy tang, running the flat of your tongue over every ridge and groove of Obito’s still pulsing cock. He whimpered and keened in reaction, pulling at your hair but never even to stop you.

Obito jerked from the sensitivity, his head spinning from the bliss and his ears ringing with the sound of his own frantic heartbeat. It took some time to come back to the present, but when he did he blushed all over again.

Kakashi was sat back in his chair, framed by the panoramic majesty of the Konoha skyline, with his hand wrapped around his cock and his mask loose around his throat. He watched as the man he was sworn to protect with his life pumped himself in slow deliberate twists of his wrist, his charcoal grey eyes dark yet full of desire.

He wanted to speak or at least say something but he couldn’t find the words. All he could do was pass his gaze from Kakashi to you and back again. Obito cradled your face whilst your cheek nuzzled against his pelvis, the soft hums emanating from your throat and the smugly satisfied smile you offered him only sped up his heart even more.

Kakashi saved him again. “Our girl did so well, and so did you. How about you carry her over and we’ll lay her perfect body on my desk? I think it’s time we worshipped her.”

Obito couldn’t agree more.

[colouredbyd]

The Nightingale II: Victor’s Mask

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: Regulus and his childhood love are torn apart by years of betrayal and silence, each carrying the weight of unspoken pain. In their reunion, guilt and heartbreak consume them as Regulus realizes he failed to protect her, his promises shattered.

warnings: emotionally intense themes, scenes of crying, trauma, survivor’s guilt, and the weight of abandonment. hurt and comfort

word count: 7.4k ( i need a fucking lobotomy)

authors note: my back broke writing this but omg thiss was an emotional rollercoaster HOLYY FUCKK, anyways i hope u love it and if u wanna be added to the taglist just leave a comment🌷💖

previous part next part series masterlist main masterlist

They gave me three minutes.

Three minutes. That’s all they give us. Three minutes to say goodbye to everything I’ve ever known. To the crooked streets that raised me. To the voices that kept me breathing on nights I didn’t want to. To the only home I’ve ever had, even if it’s always been splintered and aching. Three minutes to wear a brave face I don’t believe in, to lie through my teeth and pretend I’m not already unraveling.

The door closes behind me with a finality that splits the air. And then the silence crashes in—deafening, suffocating—like a scream caught somewhere deep in my chest, one I’ll never get the chance to release.

Mary reaches me first. She slams into me so fast I nearly lose my footing. Her arms wrap around my ribs like iron bands, like she’s trying to hold me in place, to keep me from being torn away. Her sobs shake through both of us, hot and wild, and I bury my face in her shoulder because if I look at her, I’ll fall apart.

“No,” she whispers, over and over again, like a broken hymn. “No, no, no. Not you. It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

I hold her tighter. I don’t trust my voice, don’t recognize the way it sounds when I finally force the words out. “It’s okay.” It isn’t. “It’s not, but… just pretend it is. Please.”

She leans back just far enough to see my face, and her eyes are raw, rimmed in red. Her lip trembles as she tries to speak, but when she does, her voice is fierce through the heartbreak. “You don’t deserve this. You’re soft. You’re kind. You keep people alive with your voice. You sing when the world can’t even speak. This shouldn’t be your ending.”

I have nothing to give her. No comfort. No answer. So I press our foreheads together like we used to when we were little and scared and hoping the stars would listen. It’s a small thing, fragile and familiar. A borrowed kind of peace.

“I’ll scream for you,” she says, and her voice is fierce now, like fire catching. “Every night. I’ll scream so loud the stars hear me.”

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t waste your voice on something already lost.”

And then she’s gone. Or maybe I’m the one slipping away.

Pandora steps forward next. Quiet, trembling. Her eyes are wide, distant, filled with something brittle and breaking. She doesn’t cry—not yet—but I can see it in the way she moves, careful and slow, like the wrong breath might shatter her.

She reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The softness of it is what destroys me. Not the noise. Not the grief. The tenderness.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her, barely able to get the words out. “Just stay. That’s enough.”

But she speaks anyway, her voice cracking like thin ice beneath a heavy weight. “I wish it was me. I’d go. In a second. If it meant you didn’t have to.”

My head shakes before I even know I’m doing it. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Her hand finds mine, cold and small, and for a heartbeat that stretches far too long, the three of us just stand there—fused together in the center of the storm, tangled in a silence thick with everything we’ll never have time to say. Grief blooms between us, wide and all-consuming. Too big for the room. Too big for the world.

And still, we hold on. Because that’s all we can do.

Then I hear her—my mother.

She’s humming.

The tune is broken and slow and out of time, like a lullaby she’s forgotten the words to. She drifts into the room like a ghost, arms slightly outstretched, eyes distant but fixed on me. Her hair’s coming undone. She hasn’t looked like herself since my father was killed. Since they dragged him out in the night and called him a traitor and left us behind to rot.

She blinks like she’s seeing me for the first time in years. I don’t know whether to cry or run. But she reaches for me, and I let her pull me into her arms.

“Sing for them,” she whispers, brushing her lips to my temple. “Just like you used to sing for me.”

I can’t hold it in anymore.

The dam inside me shatters without warning, and I collapse into her arms with a sob that rips through my throat like it’s been waiting years to be heard. I bury my face in her neck, her hair, her heartbeat, clinging to the only thing left that feels remotely like safety. Like home. I cry for everything—for the girl I used to be, for the childhood they stole, for the promise she once whispered when the world was still soft.

“You’ll never have to see the Capitol,” she told me once, tucking me into bed with lullabies and lantern ight. “Not with your own eyes.”

Now I’m being offered up like a lamb, gift-wrapped in sorrow.

But she holds me. She holds me like she remembers. Like somewhere inside the grief and the panic and the aching bones, the woman who raised me still exists. Still knows me. Her arms don’t tremble. They anchor. They remind.

A knock on the door.

Sharp. Final. A sound like a sentence being read aloud.

Time’s up.

The door creaks open and a Peacekeeper steps inside, uniform pressed, face blank, voice colder than death. “It’s time.” Two words. That’s all they give me.

I pull away slowly, like tearing fabric. Every inch of distance feels like something sacred unraveling. Like losing a limb. Mary’s fingers are the last to let go, slipping from mine like falling leaves. I don���t look back. I know if I do, I won’t be able to leave at all.

I turn. And I’m already shaking.

The Justice Building is colder than I remember.

Not just the kind of cold that clings to your skin—but the kind that sinks into your bones. That finds the softest parts of you and freezes them solid. The marble walls gleam too perfectly, polished until they shine like something holy, but it doesn’t fool me. I know what they’re hiding. I know what’s seeped into the stone over the years—blood, screams, last goodbyes swallowed by silence.

I sit still. Or I try to.

But my hands won’t stop trembling in my lap. They won’t stop remembering. Mary’s voice, sharp and shattering, breaking like glass when they said my name. Pandora’s arms, wrapped so tightly around me I couldn’t breathe, refusing to let go as if holding on could stop the tide. And my mother, knees in the dirt, her cracked whisper looping like a broken lullaby as the Peacekeepers dragged me away. He’s just asleep. He’ll come back. He promised.

The door opens with a soft click that still manages to feel like thunder. And then she enters.

Marlene McKinnon.

Capitol escort.

She walks in like she owns the sky, like she has never been told no in her life. Her honey-blonde curls are pinned to perfection, a crown that glows under the dim lights. Her dress shimmers in the colors of bruised twilight, plum and gold threaded together like a storm caught mid-scream. Every click of her heels is a countdown, measured and merciless. She smiles, but it is the kind of smile you wear to a funeral when the cameras are watching. Her voice follows, smooth and slow like silk dipped in poison.

"Darling," she purrs, stepping toward me as if approaching something fragile and afraid. "You must be our star."

I say nothing. I can’t. My voice slipped away somewhere between the platform and the train, curled into the hem of my mother’s dress and stayed behind.

Marlene tilts her head like she’s trying to decipher whether I’ll break beautifully or disappointingly. Her gaze glides over me, sharp and assessing, and then softens into something almost admiring. Or maybe it’s hunger. I can never tell with Capitol people.

"Pretty," she hums. "Tragic. District Seven always gives us the most beautiful tragedies."

She reaches out, slow and theatrical, and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. It is a gesture meant to soothe, but it feels like branding. Like I belong to her now.

"You’ll do well, sweet girl," she says, her voice low and pleased. "The Capitol loves a little poetry."

I don't respond. My stomach turns. I am a song she is already rewriting.

Before I can gather myself enough to speak, the door opens again. And he walks in.

James Potter.

He is the last person I expect to see, and yet he fills the room like he was always meant to. I’ve seen him on television more times than I can count. Loud, fast, brilliant in that way that makes people look twice. The boy who laughs at danger and grins like the world should keep up. His hair is a mess of storms. His eyes, wildfire.

He never looked at me. Not really. Not until now.

He stops in the doorway as if the air has thickened. And then his eyes meet mine, and the bravado slips for just a second. Something flickers there. I don’t know what it is. Recognition, maybe. Maybe guilt. Or maybe he just hates what this place does to people.

His jaw clenches. His shoulders go rigid.

"Shit," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "Of all the people..."

I want to ask what that means. I want to ask if he remembers me. If he knows I should have died in the arena five years ago. But the words knot themselves in my throat.

Marlene’s voice slices through the silence. "And here’s our charming young hero."

James lets out a dry laugh. "If I’m a hero, we’re all screwed."

She waves her hand, breezy and unconcerned. "Sit. Sit. We’ve got a thousand things to do, and no time to do them if you two insist on brooding."

He sinks into the chair beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can feel his attention like pressure against my skin. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just breathes like he’s trying to steady himself.

Then, softly, "What’s your name?"

"You know my name."

He nods, not looking away. "Yeah. I do. But I wanted to hear you say it."

I turn to face him. His eyes aren’t warm. They aren’t kind. But they aren’t fake. And after everything, I don’t know what to do with something that feels that real.

"I’m not going to die in there," I say, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze sharpens like the flint of a promise. "Good. Then don’t."

Marlene claps her hands, too loud and too delighted. "Perfect. Just perfect. Beautiful girl with ghosts in her eyes. Brooding boy with a chip on his shoulder. You two are going to be Capitol darlings."

She means it like a blessing. It feels like a curse.

James leans back in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest. His voice drops.

"I’m nobody’s darling."

And for the first time since the Reaping, I almost laugh. Not because anything is funny, but because I want to remember what it feels like to be alive.

But I don’t laugh.

Because I know what’s coming.

And it will not be kind.

The train glides into the Capitol like a blade through silk. I don’t move from the window. My breath fogs the glass as the city rises—no, erupts—before us. A fever dream stitched together from shards of gold and chrome and cruelty. Every surface gleams like it’s daring you to blink. Towers spiral like broken spines into a burning sky, red and gold bleeding together as if the horizon itself has caught fire.

I should look away. But I don’t.

The platform below is crawling with people who’ve twisted themselves into something inhuman. They glitter and glint and move like dolls wound too tight, their faces painted into expressions that don’t feel real. A woman blinks and glitter falls from her lashes. Another wears needles in her braid. They clap and cheer and whistle—not for us, but for the story they think they’re watching. We’re not people. We’re the performance. The slaughter, neatly gift-wrapped in silk and steel.

The doors hiss open. The air is heavy with perfume—sweet, cloying, with an undertone of something rotting underneath. I step down, the ground tilting under me, and might have fallen if James hadn’t caught me by the elbow. He says nothing, but his grip is steady. His jaw is tight. He feels it too.

The dining car hums with warmth, the kind that clings to the Capitol like perfume, artificial and overindulgent, too much of everything. Across from me sits James Potter, jacket shed, sleeves rolled up like he’s trying to pretend we’re still home. As if fabric and posture could stitch us back into the lives we lost. His eyes flick toward me, then away again. Over and over. Like he’s trying to figure out how I’m still breathing. Like he wants to ask but already knows there’s no answer that won’t ruin us both.

The silence is louder than the train. It pulses under my skin, tugging at my fingertips, making them twitch with memory. It’s the kind of silence that only comes after goodbye. The kind that echoes.

Then the door opens.

And in walks Marlene McKinnon, like she invented the sun and decided to wear it.

She’s wrapped in sapphire silk that spills over her frame like water, laced with golden threads that catch the light and dare it to look away. Her heels strike the floor with the kind of certainty that cannot be taught. Her lips are blood-red. Her eyeliner is so sharp it could draw blood. She wears herself like a weapon, a crown, and a dare all at once. A girl forced into royalty who chose to play queen anyway.

“Ah,” she says, voice soft as a clap, “my lovely little tributes.”

There’s Capitol polish to her tone, but it’s not cruel. Not yet. James doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll. I say nothing. My hands are folded tight in my lap, knuckles aching from the strain. I can’t afford to be soft.

Marlene’s gaze flicks between us, her smile sharp and tired. “I know,” she says, threading her fingers through her curls. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it? One minute you’re counting bread and chopping wood, and the next…” She flicks her wrist, and the rings on her fingers glint like small stars. “Bam. Welcome to the big leagues.”

James mutters, “You said it. Not us.”

She laughs then, a short, broken sound like a bell cracked down the middle. “Touché, sweetheart.”

She slides into the seat beside us, crossing her legs with elegance that has been rehearsed to the point of muscle memory. She smells like roses and something sharper beneath, like rust or blood or the taste of fear when you’ve bitten your tongue too hard.

“You’ll be meeting your mentor soon,” Marlene says after a beat, voice quieter now, edged with something brittle and unraveling beneath all the Capitol polish.

We both look up.

James glances up. “What’s he like?”

And for the first time, something fractures in her carefully painted expression. Her hand rises to her pinky, twisting a thin gold ring around it like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this moment. Her voice lowers. The words drop like stones.

“He’s not the nurturing type.”

James raises an eyebrow. “So a real ray of sunshine, then.”

“He doesn’t watch the reapings,” she says flatly. “He avoids his tributes. Refuses to learn their names. Doesn’t train them. Doesn’t speak to them. Doesn’t save them.”

The air in the car changes. Like someone’s drawn the curtains and let the storm inside. Like we’re all drowning now, slowly, beautifully.

James straightens. Just slightly. His shoulders tense the way a tree might bend before lightning strikes.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

There is something new in his voice. Not fear. Not yet. But suspicion, cracking through the bravado.

Marlene doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blink. She just looks at him. Like someone who has watched too many people walk into fires thinking they were invincible.

“It means,” she says, carefully, “you’d better hope the odds are extra in your favor. Hope the sponsors take pity. Hope the audience likes your face.”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other. Her voice never rises. It doesn’t need to.

“Because some victors mentor for the attention, for the cameras, and the glory. Some for the paycheck, for the Capitol parties, and for the illusion that they matter.”

She pauses to let the silence crackle.

“And some,” she adds, quieter now, “don’t even notice they’ve been assigned. They’re too far gone. Drunk. Sedated. Hollowed out.”

Her eyes move.

And then they find me.

The quiet that follows isn’t stillness. It’s pressure. Something thick and invisible and pressing down on the bones.

“And some,” she says, her voice dropping to a hush, “don’t care if the children they mentor live, or die screaming.”

Everything inside me stills.

Not in fear.

Something worse.

Recognition.

It isn’t a chill. It’s a return. An ache I buried and forgot to mourn. It is letters that stopped arriving. Stars that stopped being carved into soft bark. A voice that used to murmur always beneath the dark canopy of pine, now replaced by silence so total it echoes.

I know what absence tastes like. I know what it means when forever means until the cameras come. Until the Capitol gives you a crown made of blood and demands that you wear it smiling.

Because if it’s him—if it’s really him—then I already know.

I already know what it means to be abandoned.

James shifts beside me, frowning. He hears it too, the truth under her words. But he hasn’t put the pieces together. Not yet.

“Who is it?” he asks.

Marlene smiles, but it is not a smile.

It is a wound shaped like a promise. Something sharp wearing the mask of sweetness. It curves at the edges like she’s amused, like she’s been waiting for the reveal, like this is the part of the story she always loves best.

“You’ll see soon enough,” she says.

And in my chest, something quiet begins to unravel. Then she rises—smooth and unbothered. Fixes the fall of her dress like it matters. Glides to the front of the car in a whisper of silk and perfume and something heavy and unsaid.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And the silence she leaves in her wake is deafening. Not empty, not peaceful—just loud in a way only grief can be. Like something once living has been removed from the room, and the absence aches louder than a scream. It thrums beneath my skin, crawls up my throat. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a sickness blooming.

James exhales beside me, slow and jagged, like the air is thinner here. Like he’s just now realizing we’re breathing something poisoned.

“You think she’s just trying to scare us?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s tension in it, a sharpness trying to hide behind casual curiosity. He wants to laugh it off. Wants to shrug and say it’s all Capitol theatre. But I hear the edge.

I don’t answer right away, because Marlene’s voice is still ringing in my ears. Cold. Clear. Final.

Some don’t care what happens to the kids.

And I remember.

I remember the boy who stopped writing before I could beg him not to. The letters that once smelled faintly of pine, always folded with care, slowly turning into silence. I remember the boy who carved stars into the bark of our secret tree and swore they were mine. Swore he’d never leave. Swore he’d find a way back. And then he didn’t.

I remember the boy who kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my soul. The boy who whispered my name like it meant sanctuary. And then disappeared like something forbidden. Like something holy that should never have touched something like me.

I remember the shadows that loved him before I did. The way they clung to him. The way they claimed him. Long before the Capitol ever did. He was always fading, always slipping through my fingers like smoke I tried to hold.

If it’s him.

If it’s Regulus Black.

Then this isn’t just the Hunger Games.

This is something ancient. A reckoning stitched into the stars. A punishment the universe has been holding back, waiting for the perfect moment to let loose. This is my name echoing through time, not as a tribute, but as a ghost he thought he left behind.

This is the wound I never got to stitch. The one I hid beneath music and performance and practiced smiles. This is every unfinished goodbye coming back with claws. Every whispered promise cracking open like a rib.

I close my eyes, and there’s ash on my tongue. The taste of endings. The taste of betrayal. The taste of a boy who used to be my whole world and now might be the one who watches me die.

“No,” I whisper finally, my voice so low it almost doesn’t belong to me. “I think she’s warning us.”

James goes quiet beside me. For once, he doesn’t have a joke. Doesn’t press for more.

And I don’t explain. Because if he knew—if he really knew—he’d understand that this isn’t about sponsors or scores or surviving the arena.

This is about the boy who made me believe the stars were mine, and then left me to burn alone in their light.

When we arrive, the Training Center towers over us like a grave marker. All glass and steel and too much light. It reflects our own faces back at us—fragile, doomed, terrified. Inside, the floors gleam and the air smells like metal and bleach, like they’re trying to erase all the blood spilled here over the years.

A Peacekeeper leads us down a hall, stopping at a silver door at the end. “Your mentor is inside.”

James doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the handle. But I freeze. Every nerve in my body tightens. Something in me is screaming—something that’s known the shape of this moment for years.

The door creaks open.

The world on the other side isn’t loud. It doesn’t roar or scream. It exhales. A breath held too long, let out too slow. The hallway behind us disappears like a memory as we step into the dim, circular room, and all the noise in my head—the train, the Capitol, Marlene’s voice—all of it falls away.

It’s quiet in here. Not peaceful. The kind of quiet that follows violence, when the blood has already dried and the echo of screaming still lingers in the walls. The floor is scuffed and scored, marked with the ghosts of training sessions that ended in bruises, breaks, or worse. Straw dummies lie in tatters near the far wall, their insides spilling out like something once human. Targets line the perimeter, each one punctured over and over again, scarred with precision.

This is a place designed to kill the softness in children. A place where they’re sculpted into something sharp enough to survive.

James shifts beside me, his footsteps hesitant. Even he, all fire and fury, feels the weight in the air. It's thick with memory. With expectation. With dread.

And at the very center of it all, standing alone beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, is someone.

A figure. Still. Silent. Back turned.

He’s dressed in Capitol black—sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, collar buttoned to the throat. His posture is too careful to be relaxed, too precise to be casual. He stands like someone who has learned not to flinch, not to hope. Like someone who has made a habit of bracing for pain.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. And still—I know.

Not a guess, not a maybe. It’s the kind of knowing that doesn’t whisper or knock, it doesn’t wait for me to catch up. It crashes into me, fierce and unforgiving, like a memory I spent too long trying to bury. The kind of knowing that lives in your bones, that aches behind your ribs, that haunts the quiet parts of you. It’s the weight of years pressing down at once—years of silence, of unanswered letters, of dreams that ended before they began. It’s every night I stayed awake wondering what I did wrong, what he meant by forever, and why he never came back to prove it.

He’s alone in the space, framed by shadow and fluorescent flickers, posture held with the kind of precision you only learn from fear or war. His arms hang stiff at his sides, not relaxed—braced. Every inch of him is poised like a wire pulled taut, like one wrong breath might snap something buried deep.

There’s a rhythm in him that hasn’t changed, something so deeply etched into my memory I couldn’t forget it if I tried. The way his weight settles on the balls of his feet. The way his shoulders slope like he’s always carrying something unseen. The way he stands like the world might hurt him if he lets it close enough.

It’s him.

Even if the Capitol has tried to scrub the boy I loved out of him—this is still Regulus Black.

He’s taller now. Sharper. Haunted. His hair’s shorter, neat in a way that feels wrong, too clean for someone who once smelled like pinewood and campfire smoke. But the ghost of him is here, stitched into the shape of the man standing before me.

Even after all this time, my body remembers what my mind tried to forget.And now, here he is. Standing just a few feet away, close enough to touch, and yet impossibly distant.

Regulus Black.

I can’t breathe.

Marlene’s heels snap against the floor like a gunshot, pulling me back to the moment. She steps forward, face carefully composed, though there’s something too sharp in her eyes.

“Black,” she says, and her voice is colder now, like even she knows what’s about to happen. “Your tributes are here.”

He doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t even blink.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s even heard her—if this is all just some cruel trick, a Capitol performance, a silent punishment stitched together to humiliate us. But then his voice cuts through the room like a wire pulled too tight, and suddenly, there's no air left in my lungs.

It’s not the voice I remember.

It’s deeper now, carved hollow, stripped of softness like someone reached into him and scooped out all the warmth, leaving only the shell behind. A shell that sounds like Regulus, shaped like him, but missing every piece that once made him human.

“I don’t care who they are.”

The words punch the breath from my lungs.

“I don’t care where they’re from, what they’ve lost, or who they’ll leave behind.”

Each sentence is slower than the last. More deliberate. Like he’s not just speaking—he’s severing. One word at a time.

“I don’t care how you die. Fast, slow, screaming or silent—it doesn’t matter.”

My fingers curl into fists, but I can’t feel them.

“I don’t want to know your names, I won’t remember your faces, don’t waste your breath trying to make me care.”

My body goes still. My mind follows. Because I think—some fragile part of me still thought maybe. Maybe he would look at me and flinch. Maybe he would hesitate. Maybe some small flicker of the boy I loved would crawl out of that Capitol-polished armor and whisper that this wasn’t who he wanted to be.

But there’s nothing. Not a pause. Not a tremble.

Just that voice, steady and ruined.

“Don’t ask me to pretend. I’m not your hero. I’m not your comfort. I’m not here to save anyone.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment something inside me rips loose.

Not in a burst—not in the kind of way that makes noise—but like thread slipping from a needle. Quiet. Slow. Final. A pain that doesn’t bleed but leaves behind a hollow where something soft used to live.

And now here he is. Saying he doesn’t care if I die. Saying he doesn’t care who I am.Saying  life means nothing.

But I remember. I remember every look, every laugh, every promise he made with shaking hands. I remember the stars. I remember the kiss he never should’ve given me, and the goodbye he never said.

I remember enough for both of us.

So maybe he doesn’t care.

But I do.

God, I do.

And that might be the cruelest thing of all.

I don’t wait. I can’t.

The moment his voice fades — sharp and final, like the slam of a cell door — I leave. I move before I even realize I’m moving, as if my body has already made the decision my mind is too splintered to face. I slip past James, who flinches like he wants to reach out, like his voice is caught in his throat and strangled by something heavier than air. Past Marlene’s warning glance, sharp and gleaming, slicing across the space between us like a blade she’s too practiced with. Past the weight of everything we haven’t said, the things we should have screamed, the silence that hangs between us like a noose.

My legs don’t ask if I’m ready, they don’t care if I come undone in the process. They just carry me forward — steady in pace, but shaking beneath the skin like I’m stitched together with thread drawn too tight, like one wrong step will unravel everything.

I don’t stop. Not when the doors hiss closed behind me. Not when the world becomes blur and breath and noise with no name. Not until I’m alone.

Until the echo of his voice no longer bounces off the marble. Until the scent of him — that Capitol musk of static and smoke and something sweet that’s already rotting — stops clinging to the air like a ghost I can’t shake.

Only then do I collapse. Not dramatically, not like the heroines in Capitol cinema reels. Just enough to fold into the wall, to press my shoulder against something cold and real. Just enough to feel the stone bite through the silk and remind me that I’m still solid, even if everything inside me is slipping like dust through a crack in the floor.

They find me, of course, they always do.

Color and glitter and too-bright teeth, with perfume that clings like poison. They descend like a flock of doves carved from razors, cooing with voices soaked in syrup and steel. I don’t fight them. I don’t speak. I don’t even blink. I just let them touch me, reshape me, peel me open like I was made for their hands, like I was never mine to begin with.

They treat me like glass, but not in the delicate sense. Not fragile — no, not that. They treat me like I’m meant to be broken. Like it’s the point. They scrub me down, dip me in rosewater until my skin reeks of a garden I was never allowed to belong to. They file and bleach and measure. They talk about my waist, my legs, the lines of my collarbones, as if I’m not there, as if I’m nothing but a thing to be altered and offered up.

They dress me in purple — not the kind that blooms in spring, not the kind that lives in twilight skies. No. This purple is bruised and blooming with silence. A shade so deep it almost swallows the light. It hangs off my shoulders like a second skin, threaded with stars. Tiny constellations stitched in silver, glinting like prayers in a sky no one can reach. The fabric clings, soft as smoke, sharp as memory. The neckline grazes my collarbone. The sleeves drift down my arms like spilled ink.

They pin a star into my hair. Just above my left ear. And they call me “The Nightingale.”

I don’t smile. I don’t flinch.

My stylist is Lily Evans, she is nothing like the others.

She’s quiet — not with the silence that comes from fear, but the kind that feels deliberate, chosen, sacred. She moves slowly, carefully, like she’s touching something already half-ruined and doesn’t want to break it further. She doesn’t speak unless she needs to, just nods or hums or murmurs when something fits right. She handles my wrist with the same care someone might give a match in the wind.

There’s grief behind her eyes. Not pity — She would never pity me. But old, folded grief. The kind that’s been pressed flat and carried too long. The kind that no longer begs for release but waits for the right moment to burn.

“You don’t have to be loud to be seen,” She says as she fastens a silver cuff around my wrist. Her hands are warm. “They’ll see you. Even if you never say a word.”

I nod, because my voice doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.

Then the lights come.

They are cruel and cold and blinding. The stage hums under my feet with some mechanical heart I can’t see. Everything around me is too loud and too quiet, the air thick with expectation and hunger. The crowd pulses, restless. The cameras slither like serpents on mechanical limbs, all of them stretching toward us like they can smell blood already. Every lens is an eye. Every eye is a mouth. Every mouth is waiting to devour.

The host stands at the center, tall and sharp, dressed in black that gleams like oil. His mouth is a blade. His name is Severus Snape — the Capitol’s favorite storm. He speaks in a voice that feels ancient and poisonous, every word perfectly carved. Even when the crowd cheers, he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.

“Welcome,” he says, smooth as spilled ink. “To a night of introductions. A glimpse into the lives of those who may not survive the week.”

The audience laughs. I don’t.

“And now,” he says, with a curl of his lips that isn’t quite a smile, “let us welcome a familiar face. The youngest Victor in Capitol history. The boy who made blood look poetic. Your mentor from District Seven… Regulus Black!”

The lights shift.

And he walks onto the stage like he was born in shadow.

He wears black, always black — no color, no warmth. His jacket is sharp enough to cut. His boots make no sound. He moves like fog trapped in crystal. The crowd explodes. They adore him. They worship his silence, his cruelty, his carved-out sorrow.

He raises his hand once — the perfect gesture. Just enough. Capitol-trained. Emotionless.

I know the shape of that mask. I watched him build it with bleeding fingers and shaking breath. I watched him craft it over the boy who used to trace the stars on my wrist and whisper stories only we knew. The boy who once called me “Starling” like it meant something holy.

Then Snape speaks again.

“And now, our male tribute from District Seven. Please welcome… James Potter!”

James emerges like he was born for this. He smiles, runs a hand through his curls, and lets his jacket catch the light like it’s part of his heartbeat. The crowd laughs, swept into his orbit. He bows low and wide. A showman’s charm. A warrior’s grace. And for just a second, just one heartbeat, I forget why we’re here.

Then the silence returns.

Snape raises his hand.

“And finally…”

I know before he speaks. My body knows, my heart collapses inward like it’s been waiting for the blow.

“Our female tribute from District Seven… Y/N  Y/L/N!”

It doesn’t sound like a name. It sounds like a sentence. It sounds like steel.

And I see it — everything — all at once.

Regulus stills

Not in the way the Capitol adores, not with the glimmer of stage light on gold and victory, not with the polished pause of someone soaking in their applause. No, this stillness is the kind that doesn’t belong here, the kind born of something breaking. It’s sharp and sudden, humming beneath his skin like a pulled wire about to snap, too tense, too still, too quiet to be mistaken for anything other than what it is—fear

It begins in the smallest ways. A twitch in his jaw, a barely-there shift in the set of his shoulders, a breath caught too high in his chest. His arm, raised in a practiced salute, falters mid-air like it’s forgotten its purpose. The smile on his lips lingers a moment too long, then wilts at the corners, slipping away like melting wax. The crowd doesn’t notice at first, too busy clapping, cheering, basking in the glittering illusion of their perfect boy—but I do. I see it all. I see him

His eyes move—not toward the lights or the endless rows of glittering faces, not toward the cameras that hover like insects—but toward the wings of the stage, toward the shadows, toward where I’m standing, silent and still and shaking just beneath the surface

And then

He sees me.

His gaze doesn’t just land on mine, it sinks. It finds me, like it was always meant to. Like some invisible thread between us has pulled tight for the first time in years and neither of us can look away. For a breath, we exist nowhere else. Not in the Capitol, not on a screen, not in a nightmare painted to look like a dream. Just here. Just him. Just me

And that’s when he begins to fall

His hand drops first—not carefully, not with that Capitol grace they taught him, but like something heavy has torn it from the air. It falls too fast, too sudden, too human. The movement slices through the performance like a blade through silk. The crowd begins to quiet, uncertain now, shifting in their seats as if they can sense something sacred is being unraveled before their eyes

His chest rises like he’s gasping for air in a place where none exists, like his lungs have only just remembered how to move and now it hurts. There’s a tremble to it, barely visible unless you know what to look for. But I do. I always have. His frame leans forward slightly, just enough to make one of the handlers shift uneasily, ready to step in

His mouth opens like a wound. His lips part, shaping a name he doesn’t say—but I know. I know. It’s my name he’s reaching for in the silence. It’s me he’s trying to speak into a place that has no room for the truth. His voice doesn’t come, but it doesn’t have to. His face says everything. His eyes, wide and horrified, already speak in a language only I remember

And then the moment is stolen

The screen glitches—only for a breath, a flicker of static that dances across his face. The Capitol reacts fast, always fast, slicing clean through the feed like it was a mistake that never happened. The image reappears, seamless and polished, his expression replaced with a safer version, something empty, something usable

Music floods the room. Manufactured warmth replaces the cold reality. But it’s too late. Everyone saw

And worse than that—they felt it

The crowd shifts, unsettled now. Conversations still, laughter dries out like ash. No one knows what to do with what just happened. No one wants to name it. They pretend not to notice, pretend the illusion is still intact, but it hangs in the air between them like a bruise

Because they saw the crack

And in a place like this, where everything is built on silence and spectacle, a crack is dangerous. A crack is a promise that something deeper is waiting beneath the surface, something hungry and sharp and true

He shattered in front of them

And they’re too afraid to admit it

Because here, silence is a god

And when someone dares to break it, the world forgets how to breathe

And everyone remembers what it means to bleed

The lights haven’t even cooled, the cheers still echo faintly through the walls like ghosts of a show gone wrong, when Marlene storms in, heels hitting tile like gunshots, sharp and unforgiving. Her dress ripples behind her like a warning. Her face is a painting cracked straight through the middle—flawless on the surface, but fury bleeding through the lines

“What the hell was that?” she demands, voice slicing through the room like broken glass. “You nearly exposed everything—do you have any idea what they’ll do if—”

“Get out.” Regulus says

Quietly, at first

Marlene blinks, lips still parted, caught mid-rant. “Excuse me?”

He turns to face her. Slowly. Deliberately. Like every movement costs him something. The shadows catch in the hollows of his face, in the sharp line of his jaw, in the haunted dark of his eyes

“I said out!” he repeats

No longer quiet

Not polished or practiced. Not the voice the Capitol put in his mouth. This one is older. Deeper. Unforgiving. It sounds like thunder clawing its way through stormclouds. Like something ancient waking up inside him

Marlene straightens, something in her spine pulling taut like she’s trying not to flinch. “No one’s leaving until we—”

“Now.” he says, and this time the word hits like the crack of a whip

There’s something in it. Not just anger. Not just exhaustion. Something final. Something cold. The kind of tone that stops people from breathing, the kind of tone that knows exactly what power sounds like when it stops pretending to be polite

The room stills

One by one, they scatter. The stylists vanish without a sound, like petals pulled from a dying flower. James opens his mouth, a protest already blooming on his tongue, but someone grabs his arm and he’s gone too, dragged out before he can even say my name

And then it’s just us

The silence that follows is too large for the room. It settles over everything, thick as smoke, curling into the cracks, pressing into the spaces where words used to live.

Regulus turns fully this time. Not the mentor. Not the Victor. Just him. Just the boy I knew. His eyes land on me and it’s like he’s seeing something he thought the world had burned away.

His eyes find me, and everything he’s built to survive collapses. The Capitol polish fades. The armor cracks. His face drains of color. His lips part, barely breathing, and for a second, I think he might shatter from the inside out.

His legs buckle beneath him, as if his body can no longer bear the weight of this moment, as if his bones are finally acknowledging what his heart has known all along. He crumples to the floor, not with grace, not with restraint—but with the brutal honesty of someone unraveling. There is no performance in the way he falls. Only broken instinct.

“No,” he breathes, the word cracking as it leaves his mouth. “No, no, no…”

His voice is fragile, but it keeps breaking like a wave refusing to die. He crawls toward me on his hands and knees, not caring about the eyes watching, the silence hanging above us like a blade. His hands hover, shaking mid-air, as though I’m something sacred. Like if he touches me, I’ll vanish into smoke. Like I can’t possibly be real.

“You’re not real,” he whispers, voice disbelieving and raw. “You’re not—” It splinters. “They told me you were safe. They swore they’d never touch you.”

“I’m here,” I breathe, my voice almost too soft to hear, and I can barely stay standing. “I’m really here.”

His hands twitch, aching to close the distance between us, but they falter. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Not while he’s still convincing himself I exist.

“I didn’t watch, star.” he confesses, and the words feel torn from him, his eyes wide, burning, begging for forgiveness I haven’t yet offered. “I stopped watching the Reapings. I couldn’t bear it. I thought—if I didn’t look, it wouldn’t happen. I thought I’d saved you.”

“You didn’t know,” I say, but the words are a blade in my throat. They taste like metal. They taste like lies.

“I should’ve known,” he says, his voice crumbling into sobs. “I should’ve felt it the moment they said your name. I gave them everything. My silence. My smile. My soul. I let them carve pieces out of me until I didn’t recognize myself. I thought if I became theirs, if I let them make me a puppet, they’d forget you ever existed.”

“You left,” I whisper. The words fall like ash, soft but final. “You promised you’d come back.”

His hands are trembling again, caught between motion and stillness, suspended inches from my skin. “I left so you wouldn’t have to be part of this,” he says, his voice low and breaking. “I left so you’d never be in a room like this. With cameras and weapons. With strangers deciding if your blood is worth spilling.”

He looks at me as if he’s memorizing everything he forgot. His eyes trace my features like they’re trying to count the years we lost—like he’s scared each blink might erase me again.

“I thought if I played their game—if I smiled when they asked, bled when they demanded, performed like a good little ghost—I could make them forget about you. I thought my silence could shield you.”

“It didn’t,” I say. And it hurts to say it. “You disappeared. And they came for me anyway.”

He doesn’t argue. He can’t. His face caves inward, like something in him has cracked so deeply it can’t be stitched back together.

“I thought you hated me,” I whisper, unable to stop the truth now that it’s out. “I thought you forgot.”

He shakes his head with a desperation that borders on grief. “I never hated you,” he says, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting years. “I hated myself. For leaving. For living. I remembered you every single night. I whispered your name into pillows I didn’t deserve. I carved stars into the walls when I couldn’t sleep. I prayed the Capitol would forget you.”

His tears fall silently, cutting down his face like glass. “But they didn’t. And I was too much of a coward to look.”

Then, finally, his hand lands on mine. It’s cold. Unsteady. Reverent. Like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve under his fingers. “Say something,” he whispers. “Please. Tell me you don’t hate me. Tell me I didn’t lose you completely.”

I’m crying too hard to answer. But I reach forward. I guide his trembling hand and press his palm to my chest, over my heartbeat.

“You left,” I say, my voice shaking, “but I never let go. Not really.”

He breaks. Not in the quiet way he did before—but completely. His sobs come without warning, deep and strangled, as if every scream he’s swallowed over five years is finally ripping its way out. His arms wrap around me, desperate and tight, and he pulls me against him like he’s terrified I’ll be stolen all over again.

In his embrace, we are no longer mentor and tribute. No longer Victor and girl destined to die.

We are just two broken people who once made a promise beneath the stars.

“I would’ve burned the Capitol to the ground, little bird.” he breathes into my hair, voice scorched with agony. “If I had known. I would’ve walked back into the arena a thousand times if it meant you could live.”

I close my eyes. Press my forehead gently to his. Feel the way his breath catches when I do.

“It’s too late,” I whisper. “They already chose me. I’m here now.”

His grip tightens. “Then let them do what they want to me,” he says, and his voice has changed again. It’s sharper now, like steel dragged through flame. “But I won’t lose you. Not again.”

But the Capitol does not barter with love.

And somewhere inside, we both know that.

Still, in this moment—just for this moment—we are not surrounded by cameras or death or power.

We are two children, grown into ghosts, clinging to each other in a room built for blood.

Outside, the Games wait with open jaws.

But we let the world pause.

Because we already died once.

Because this is the moment our hearts remember each other again.

Because pain, when shared, is louder than any silence they can force on us.

And because love—bruised, trembling, defiant—is still here.

Breathing. Burning. Bleeding.

Alive, for now.

taglist: @urfunnyvalentin3 @yvessentials

[t0yac1d]

All I Wanted (M.Wheeler x F!Reader)

Warnings: Smut, cheating, public sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, praise, p in v, mirror sex, edging, semi-mean!Mike, hair pulling, degrading (Mike calling reader dumb, a slut, a cock whore and a whore)

Word Count: 976

It was wrong, you both knew it was wrong. She's your best friend and he's..well, her boyfriend, just hers, only hers. It's betrayal and dirty, so why are you still doing it? It's been months of you guys sneaking around and each time you'd talk to her she'd smile. Saying how you're the best, an amazing friend and how thankful she is to have met you. It hurts you to know what she doesn't, but God, it just feels so good.

You're pushed up against the skating rink's bathroom sink with his face between your thighs. You want to stop, you can't do this to your best friend. And he wants to stop, he's her boyfriend and it's just wrong. But the way his tongue moves around, in and out of you, the way his fingers would move and curl deep in your dripping wet pussy. The way his nose would graze your clit, the way his hot breath would fan over it.

The way he looks up at you with those eyes, it's all you wanted. Your head tilted back against the mirror, one leg on Mike's shoulder, it was really a sight to see. "Make some noise for me, baby. Let me hear those pretty moans." He panted and pleaded, chin drenched from your juices.

"Just don't wanna get caught, Mikey.."

He moaned, sending vibrations all throughout your body. That nickname, the way you say it and the way it just rolls off your tongue, it could make him cum right there. It could make him break up with her in a heartbeat.

"Love it when you say my name..do it again." He demanded, wanting to hear how you say his name. "Mikey.." you whimpered, hand moving to his hair, lightly tugging on the strands. Mike moaned at the feeling, loving the way your fingers ran through his hair, pulling at it whenever he hit a certain spot.

He pumped his fingers in and out of you, curling them while he tongue fucked your hole, his nose brushing against your clit. It was all enough for you to come undone for him in a matter of seconds. He stood up, placing a hand on the back of your thigh and the other on your lower back, holding you up. His chin and part of his shirt was soaked, his hair was messy and his face flushed.

"Don't be scared to make a little noise, let them hear." He smiled, "And get caught by El and Will? I think I'll pass." You chuckled, "We won't get caught-"

"How are you so sure? Either of them could walk in."

"I'm not sure but just trust me, please?"

You stood silent for a while, "Fine. But if we get caught I swear on everything I love-"

"I'll deal with it." He said, "Now turn around for me, pretty girl."

You listened, turning around placing your hands on the sink, looking at Mike from the mirror. He lifted your skirt up, gripping and kneading your ass. He unbuttoned his pants, pulling them and his boxers down enough for his dick to spring out. He hissed at the feeling of the cold air against him.

Mike looked at you from in the mirror, making eye contact and giving you a smirk before giving a hard thrust. You let out surprised a moan, "Give a girl warning next time, yeah?"

He shook his head, smiling and giving your neck a kiss. "Ready?"

You gave him a nod and he started off with slow, sensual thrusts, squeezing your hips and placing kisses on your jaw and neck. He was so close to you, his chest on your back and his face in the crook of your neck. Inhaling your scent, intoxicated and in love with the way you smelled.

His hands moved from your hips, lightly tracing his fingers over your skin and under your shirt. He stopped at your tits, squeezing them as he picked up the pace. You wonder if anyone could hear you guys. If they can hear the skin slapping and the obscure moans the two of you let out.

He looked up, looking at your reflection, the way your face contorted in pleasure with each thrust he gave. "Mike, I'm so fucking close.." you breathed.

"Hold it."

"I can't..I can't hold it Mikey.."

"Yes you can. We both know you can. Hold it like the good girl I know you are."

You whimpered, mouth falling open at the harsh thrusts Mike was giving. Your head dropped at the feeling of Mike's cock hitting g-spot over and over again. "Raise your head and look at yourself."

You whined, Mike let out a huff and grabbed a fistful of your hair, "I said, raise your head and look at yourself, are you dumb? Huh? Dumb on my cock already?"

"Yes, yes, yes.." you whined, which Mike chuckled at, "My dumb little cock whore."

"Look at you, fucking your best friend's boyfriend when she's right out there. She probably already knows about you whoring around and sleeping with me."

Mike made you make eye contact with him, his pretty face and smile contrasting with his words and harsh thrusts. His fingers made their way down to your clit, rubbing rough and fast circles on it. "Cum for me. Cum for me like the slut we both know you are."

With one last hard thrust, Mike came inside you, his nut filling your pretty slutty pussy up and claiming it as his once again. "I love this fucking pussy, fuck."

A knock was heard at the door and it opened, just enough for the person to sneak in. "Are you guys done?" Will asked, Mike looked down at you and back up at will,

"Give us another forty-five minutes, I'm gonna need another round before I go back to Hawkins."

[baelabong]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴏᴡꜱ

ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ! ᴡᴏɴʏᴏᴜɴɢ x ʜᴇɪʀᴇꜱꜱ! ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

plot: forced into an artanged marriage by your family, you resent both them and your future wife. Except you can’t seem to actually hate her

notes: angst,fluff, 5k words

You stand at the entrance of the grand hall, your heart pounding in your chest. The gown you’re wearing is a masterpiece of silk and lace, flowing elegantly around you, but it feels like a cage. Each intricate detail, each delicate stitch, is a reminder of the expectations weighing on your shoulders. You feel trapped, your breath shallow as you take in the scene before you—the lavish flowers, the towering chandeliers, and the sea of guests, all here to witness a union built on anything but love.

Wonyoung is already at the altar, waiting for you. She stands tall, poised in a perfectly tailored suit, her expression calm and composed. She’s every bit the perfect bride, the picture of grace and elegance. But as your eyes meet hers from across the room, you can see something flickering beneath the surface—a flicker of emotion that she quickly hides behind a soft smile.

The aisle feels impossibly long as you begin your walk, every step measured and deliberate. The murmurs of the crowd fade into the background, drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat. You can feel the weight of their stares, the silent judgment of those who have come to witness this marriage of convenience.

When you finally reach the altar, Wonyoung’s gaze is steady, unwavering. There’s a depth in her eyes that catches you off guard, something that makes you falter for just a moment. But you steel yourself, refusing to let your emotions show.

The officiant begins the ceremony, their voice a distant echo in your ears. You force yourself to focus on the words, even as Wonyoung’s presence seems to consume all your attention. She’s close—too close—and the scent of her perfume, something soft and floral, fills your senses. It’s distracting, disorienting, and you hate that it’s affecting you so much.

“Y/N,” Wonyoung’s voice is gentle when she speaks her vows, her tone warm and sincere. “I vow to stand by you, to honor and respect you, and to support you in all that we do together.”

There’s a weight to her words that you can’t ignore, a promise that feels too genuine, too intimate. You swallow hard, your own vows sticking in your throat as you struggle to find the right words.

“I vow to honor this union,” you begin, your voice low and strained. “To fulfill my duties as your partner, and to stand by you as we face the future together.”

It’s all you can manage, the words bitter on your tongue. But Wonyoung doesn’t falter, her expression softening as she listens. The ceremony continues, the officiant guiding you through the motions, and you go along with it, your mind racing with everything unsaid.

Finally, the moment you’ve been dreading arrives—the kiss. The officiant pronounces you married, and the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for the final act that will seal this unwanted union.

Wonyoung steps closer, her hand gently resting on your arm. “Y/N,” she murmurs, her voice so soft that only you can hear, “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

Her words are a lifeline, a kindness you didn’t expect. But the eyes of the crowd are on you, and you know what’s expected. There’s no escape, no way to avoid this moment. So you nod, just enough to let her know you’ll go through with it.

Wonyoung leans in, her movements slow and careful, as if she’s giving you time to pull away. But you don’t. Her lips meet yours in the faintest, gentlest kiss, a whisper of contact that sends a jolt through you. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, but the warmth of it lingers, confusing and unsettling.

As you pull away, the applause of the crowd rings in your ears, but it feels distant, like it’s happening in another world. All you can focus on is Wonyoung—the way she’s looking at you, the way her hand lingers on your arm, as if she’s afraid to let go. And maybe, just maybe, you feel the same.

But you push that thought down, burying it deep inside. You can’t afford to let your guard down now. Not when this is just the beginning of something neither of you fully understands.

———-

The suite is a dream—a secluded, oceanfront villa with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the moonlit sea. The sound of the waves crashing gently against the shore fills the air, but the peaceful ambiance does nothing to soothe the tension between you and Wonyoung.

You stand near the bed, staring out at the horizon, trying to gather your thoughts. The beauty of the place feels almost mocking, as if it’s taunting you with the idea of a perfect honeymoon that you know will never be. The gown you’re still wearing from the wedding clings to you uncomfortably, but changing is the last thing on your mind.

Behind you, Wonyoung is quiet, her presence a constant reminder that this is no ordinary vacation. She’s been quiet since you arrived, the journey here marked by a strained silence that neither of you dared to break. Now, as the reality of your first night as a married couple settles in, the weight of it all feels suffocating.

You turn away from the window, your eyes landing on the massive bed at the center of the room. It’s beautifully made, the softest linens draped across it, but you can’t bring yourself to even think about sleeping there. The very idea of sharing that space with Wonyoung, no matter how innocent, makes your chest tighten with a mix of dread and anger.

Without a word, you walk over to the bed, grabbing one of the pillows and tossing it onto the plush sofa across the room. “I’ll sleep here,” you declare, your voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil brewing inside you.

Wonyoung, who had been watching you quietly from the doorway, finally steps into the room. She’s already changed out of her wedding attire, now dressed in something soft and casual, but the tiredness in her eyes is impossible to miss. “Y/N…” she begins, her voice trailing off as if she’s not sure what to say.

You don’t wait for her to finish. “It’s fine,” you say curtly, busying yourself with arranging the sofa. “There’s no need to pretend this is something it’s not.”

There’s a brief silence, and for a moment, you wonder if she’s going to argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, Wonyoung lets out a quiet sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Alright,” she agrees softly, the word hanging in the air between you.

You settle onto the sofa, avoiding her gaze. The sound of the waves outside is the only noise in the room, and it’s almost unbearable in the awkwardness that follows. You can hear Wonyoung moving around, the rustle of fabric as she fidgets with the edge of the blanket on the bed.

“This doesn’t have to be a war, you know,” Wonyoung’s voice is gentle, almost tentative. The words are laced with a softness that catches you off guard, making you freeze in place.

Your back stiffens at her words, your defenses rising instinctively. “It already is,” you respond coldly, your voice like ice. You don’t turn to face her, but you can feel her watching you, can almost sense the sadness that your words have left in their wake.

You curl up on the sofa, pulling the pillow close to you as if it could somehow shield you from the confusing mix of emotions swirling inside you. You hear Wonyoung slip into bed, the sheets rustling as she settles in, but the tension between you is palpable, thickening the air with every passing second.

Neither of you speaks again. The silence stretches out, broken only by the rhythmic crashing of the waves outside. You try to close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, but your thoughts are a tangled mess, replaying every moment of the day, every look, every word exchanged between you and Wonyoung.

Across the room, Wonyoung shifts in the bed, and you can tell she’s just as restless as you are. The bed is large enough for two, but it might as well be a chasm, the distance between you insurmountable.

And yet, as you lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, you can’t shake the feeling of Wonyoung’s presence, the warmth of her so close and yet so far. The night drags on, the minutes feeling like hours, both of you lost in your own thoughts, both too proud—or too afraid—to reach out.

Morning can’t come soon enough, but you know deep down that the rising sun won’t dispel the tension between you. It’s only the first night, and already, it feels like an eternity.

————

The kitchen is dimly lit, the only sound the rhythmic chop of your knife against the cutting board as you prepare a late-night snack. It’s become something of a routine for you—a small act of independence, a way to claim a piece of normalcy in this life you didn’t choose.

You’re focused on the vegetables in front of you, each slice precise, almost methodical. The repetition is calming, allowing you to forget, just for a moment, about the reality of your situation. But the peace is short-lived. The sound of soft footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, and you stiffen as Wonyoung enters the kitchen.

She’s dressed casually, her hair slightly tousled as if she’s just woken up. She pauses in the doorway when she sees you, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. “Y/N,” she says softly, “I didn’t expect you to be up this late.”

You don’t respond immediately, your focus remaining on the task at hand. The tension between you is palpable, thickening the air as Wonyoung steps closer.

“Let me help,” she offers, moving toward the counter.

“I don’t need help,” you snap, sharper than you intended. You don’t look at her, but you can feel the way she tenses at your words, the frustration in her silence.

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Wonyoung finally retorts, her voice rising slightly. “I’m trying here!”

The knife in your hand stills, and you set it down with more force than necessary, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as you try to keep your emotions in check. “Trying to do what, exactly?” you shoot back, turning to face her. “Control everything? Handle my life like it’s another one of your business ventures?”

Wonyoung’s eyes flash with hurt, but she stands her ground. “I’m not trying to control you, Y/N. I’m just trying to make things easier. You don’t have to worry about the company anymore. You don’t have to work yourself to the bone. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No, it’s not,” you say, your voice trembling with anger. “I want to work. I want to manage my family’s company. It’s the one thing that’s still mine, the one thing I have control over, and you just took it away like it was nothing!”

Wonyoung hesitates, her expression softening as she searches your face. “I didn’t take it away. I’m handling it so you don’t have to. I didn’t want you to be stressed, especially with everything going on.”

“Stressed?” you laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “This—this life you’ve built for me, this cage you’ve put me in—is more stressful than anything else could ever be. I never asked for this, Wonyoung. I never asked for you to take over my life!”

Wonyoung’s frustration flares, and she takes a step closer, her voice tight with emotion. “And you think I did? You think I wanted any of this? I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. We both are!”

The words hang in the air, sharp and painful, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, glaring at each other, neither willing to back down. The tension is suffocating, the anger between you building until it feels like it might explode.

But then, Wonyoung’s expression shifts, her shoulders sagging as the fight drains out of her. “I didn’t ask for this either, Y/N,” she says softly, her voice breaking the silence like a whisper. “But it’s what we have now. And I’m just… I’m trying.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, the raw honesty in her voice catching you off guard. You can see the weariness in her eyes, the toll that this marriage has taken on her, too. But your own anger is still too fresh, too raw, to let you fully absorb it.

You turn away, your hands trembling as you try to steady your breathing. “I can’t do this right now,” you mutter, grabbing your phone and leaving the half-prepared snack on the counter. You don’t wait for Wonyoung’s response as you storm out of the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you retreat to the bedroom, the echo of Wonyoung’s last words follows you, sinking into your thoughts despite your best efforts to push them away. You didn’t ask for this either. The truth of it lingers, the realization that you’re not the only one struggling to navigate this unwanted life.

But tonight, the distance between you feels too great to bridge, and you can’t bring yourself to face her again. Not yet.

———

The evening is heavy with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid during dinner. Your family’s polite, yet pointed, questions had left you feeling cornered, suffocated by the expectations placed on you now that you’re Wonyoung’s spouse. The lavish dinner, the forced smiles, the subtle digs—it all became too much, and you found yourself needing to escape.

You barely remember how you ended up here, on a bench in the middle of a park, the rain pouring down relentlessly. The cold droplets soak through your clothes, but you don’t care. The chill is a welcome distraction from the storm raging inside you, a storm that’s been building for months.

You’re drenched, but it doesn’t matter. The rain blurs everything, making the world around you feel distant, almost surreal. Your thoughts are tangled, a mess of anger, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of being trapped. You’ve been fighting this battle alone for so long—fighting against Wonyoung, against your situation, against the life you never wanted.

But tonight, after that dinner, the fight seems pointless. The exhaustion is catching up to you, and for the first time, your resolve begins to crack.

You don’t hear her approach at first. The rain drowns out the sound of footsteps, but then there’s a shadow, a presence beside you. You look up and see Wonyoung standing there, holding an umbrella over your head. Her clothes are soaked from the rain she must have walked through to find you, but she doesn’t seem to care.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The rain continues to fall, creating a curtain around the two of you, isolating you from the rest of the world. Wonyoung’s expression is hard to read, a mix of concern and something else, something softer.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. The vulnerability in your own words surprises you, the way they seem to slip out before you can stop them.

Wonyoung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she carefully sets the umbrella down so it covers both of you, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Then, slowly, she sits down beside you on the bench. She’s close, but she doesn’t touch you, respecting the distance you’ve always kept between you.

“Because I care,” she says quietly, her voice almost lost in the sound of the rain. “Even if you don’t want me to.”

Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. The sincerity in her voice, the way she says it without any expectation or demand, catches you off guard. It’s not what you expected, not what you wanted to hear. And yet, there’s a part of you—a small, almost forgotten part—that’s deeply moved by it.

You look away, staring at the rain-soaked ground as you try to push down the emotions bubbling up inside you. This isn’t what you signed up for. You were supposed to hate her, to resist everything she represents. But now, sitting here beside her in the rain, you feel something shift.

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—a crack in the armor you’ve built around yourself, a tiny sliver of something other than resentment.

You clench your fists, willing yourself to stay strong, to keep up the walls that have kept you safe. But it’s hard, so much harder than it’s ever been before. And when you finally look at Wonyoung, really look at her, the fight inside you wavers.

She’s watching you with those soft eyes, full of a care you’ve refused to acknowledge for months. The rain has made her hair cling to her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her focus is entirely on you, her concern genuine and unwavering.

“I don’t need your pity,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the rain. But even as you say it, you know it’s not true. What you don’t need is to feel this way, to feel your heart soften toward her when you’ve worked so hard to keep it hardened.

Wonyoung shakes her head slightly, her gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not pity,” she replies, her tone firm yet gentle. “I just… I don’t want you to be alone in this.”

Her words are like a lifeline, and for a fleeting moment, you want to reach out, to grab hold of what she’s offering. But you pull back, afraid of what it might mean, of what it could lead to. You’ve fought so hard to keep your distance, to stay independent, and letting her in feels like surrender.

So you swallow the lump in your throat, pushing down the emotions threatening to spill over. “I just needed some air,” you say, your voice more steady now, more controlled. “I’ll be fine.”

Wonyoung doesn’t argue. She simply nods, accepting your words even though you both know they’re only half-true. She stays beside you, though, silent and supportive, her presence a quiet comfort you didn’t know you needed.

The rain begins to let up, the storm passing as quickly as it came. But the tension between you remains, unresolved and lingering in the damp air. Eventually, Wonyoung stands, offering you a hand to help you up. You hesitate for only a moment before taking it, her touch warm despite the cold.

As the two of you walk back together, the umbrella shielding you both from the last of the rain, you can’t help but feel that something has changed between you. It’s subtle, a shift in the way you see her, in the way you feel when she’s close. But it’s there, undeniable, and you’re not sure if that scares you more than the storm that just passed.

Because for the first time, you don’t just see Wonyoung as your unwanted wife. You see her as someone who cares—someone who, despite everything, might just be worth letting in. And that thought, more than anything, is what you find hardest to push down as the two of you walk home in the fading rain.

————-

The ballroom is grand and opulent, filled with the elite of the business world. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the room, illuminating the expensive suits and designer gowns of the guests. Soft music plays in the background, the gentle hum of conversation filling the air.

You stand near the edge of the room, a glass of champagne in hand, trying to blend in but feeling completely out of place. The event is Wonyoung’s domain—a world of powerful connections and strategic conversations. She’s in her element here, and you can’t help but feel like an outsider.

Your eyes find Wonyoung across the room, and you can’t look away. She’s surrounded by a small group of influential figures, her smile charming, her posture confident. Every gesture, every word she says, exudes a natural grace and authority. It’s like watching a master at work, and for the first time, you feel a pang of admiration—something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel before.

As you watch her, something inside you shifts. There’s an unfamiliar emotion stirring in your chest, something more than just admiration. You’ve always known Wonyoung was competent, but seeing her like this, so poised and in control, it’s… impressive. And strangely, it makes you feel something you can’t quite name.

But you push those feelings aside, focusing instead on the coldness of the champagne glass in your hand. You’ve spent so long keeping your distance, building walls around yourself. Now isn’t the time to let them crumble.

Just as you’re about to slip out to the terrace for some air, a voice interrupts your thoughts. “So, you’re the spouse, huh?” The tone is condescending, laced with a smugness that grates on your nerves.

You turn to see an older man, a high-ranking executive from one of the companies Wonyoung frequently deals with. He looks you up and down, his expression dismissive. “Must be nice,” he continues, “being married to someone like her. You don’t have to do anything but look pretty, I guess.”

Your face heats up, but before you can respond, Wonyoung appears beside you. Her eyes flash with a fierce, protective anger. “Is that really how you speak about my spouse?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the air with palpable intensity.

The man’s smile falters, surprise flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making an observation.”

Wonyoung doesn’t let up, her tone harsh and uncompromising. “An observation based on ignorance. You don’t get to belittle her because you think it’s funny. You don’t know the sacrifices she’s made, the work she’s done.”

The man starts to stammer, but Wonyoung doesn’t give him a chance to recover. “You think you’re entitled to judge someone based on their relationship with me? You have no idea what she’s been through, what she’s accomplished. So why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?”

The crowd around you begins to murmur, their eyes shifting between you and Wonyoung. The man clears his throat awkwardly, trying to regain his composure. “Okay, okay. I didn’t realize… I apologize.”

Wonyoung stands her ground, her expression unyielding. “I suggest you learn to be more respectful, not just to my spouse, but to everyone around you. We’re equals, and she deserves to be treated as such.”

As the man walks away, Wonyoung turns to you, her anger slowly melting into concern. “Are you okay?”

You nod, though you’re still processing the intensity of the defense. “I—thank you. I didn’t expect you to—”

Wonyoung cuts you off, her voice still firm but softer now. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of disrespect. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. Don’t let people like him make you doubt your worth.”

Her words, so different from the usual tension between you, catch you off guard. The way she stood up for you, her fierce protection, makes you reconsider everything you’ve thought about her. She’s not just the wife who took over your life; she’s someone who genuinely cares, someone who might just understand you in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

That night, as you lie in bed, the events of the evening replay in your mind. Wonyoung’s fierce defense, her protective nature, and the way she stood up for you make you see her in a new light. She’s not just someone you’re stuck with; she’s someone who fights for you, even when you don’t expect it.

You turn to face her in the dim light of the room, finding her already looking at you with a mix of concern and something softer. “I didn’t realize you felt that way,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wonyoung’s expression is calm, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “I care about you, Y/N. More than you might believe.”

You lie back, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts a whirlwind. Wonyoung’s actions have shifted your perception, showing you a side of her that’s unexpectedly compassionate and fiercely protective. It’s a turning point, a moment where you start to see her not just as your spouse but as someone who might just be worth letting in.

You turn back to her, finding her lying close by. The distance between you feels smaller now, the walls you’ve built around yourself beginning to crumble. You reach out tentatively, and Wonyoung shifts closer, her warmth a comforting presence.

As you drift into sleep, you find yourself tangled in the sheets with her, the space between you shrinking. It’s the first time you share the bed without reservation, a small but significant step towards understanding each other better.

———-

The living room is softly illuminated by the warm light of the lamps, creating an inviting atmosphere. Outside, the city’s noise is a distant murmur, leaving the room in a peaceful hush. You and Wonyoung are snuggled together on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over both of you. It’s become a routine to spend these evenings together, sharing meals and conversations that you never thought you’d have.

Tonight, you’re sitting with a bowl of homemade pasta and a glass of wine, a comfortable silence hanging between you as you both enjoy the meal. After weeks of growing closer, this has become a favorite part of your day. The tension that once defined your relationship has eased, replaced by moments of genuine connection.

Wonyoung sets her fork down, looking at you with a thoughtful expression. “You know, I’ve been thinking…” she begins, her voice softer than usual. “Since you don’t need to manage your family’s company anymore, why don’t you take it back? I know it was important to you.”

You look up from your plate, surprised. “What do you mean? I thought you were handling it.”

Wonyoung nods. “I am. But I know it was your dream to run the company. I don’t want to stand in the way of that.”

You shake your head, feeling a mixture of gratitude and concern. “I appreciate that, Wonyoung, but I don’t want you to get in trouble with my dad. You’re doing a great job, and I don’t want to cause any issues.”

Wonyoung’s expression turns serious. “Your dad is already aware of the situation. He respects that I’ve been handling things, but he also knows how much the company means to you. I don’t want to overstep, but I’m offering this because I believe it’s what you want.”

You sigh, feeling conflicted. “I don’t want you to be stuck with the burden if you’re not comfortable. And I don’t want to be the reason you end up in trouble.”

Wonyoung reaches out, placing a comforting hand on yours. “It’s not about burden or trouble. It’s about supporting each other. If you want to take it back, I’ll make sure everything is smooth. But if you don’t, that’s okay too. I just want you to be happy.”

You look at her, the sincerity in her eyes making it hard to keep your guard up. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and you both laugh over shared stories and memories. The comfort and ease between you are palpable, a stark contrast to the awkwardness that used to define your interactions. As the evening progresses, you find yourself feeling more at ease, more willing to open up.

Wonyoung stands to clear the dishes, and you follow her into the kitchen, where you continue chatting about trivial matters. The soft clinking of plates and the hum of the dishwasher create a soothing backdrop to your conversation.

As you’re drying the last dish, you turn to Wonyoung, your heart racing slightly. “Wonyoung, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

She looks at you with curiosity. “What is it?”

Just as you open your mouth to speak, the phone rings loudly from the living room. The sound is jarring, and you both look at each other in frustration.

Wonyoung gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, I should get that.”

You nod, trying to hide your disappointment. “Sure.”

Wonyoung answers the phone, her voice becoming distant as she steps into the other room. The warmth and intimacy of the moment are broken, replaced by the distant sound of her conversation.

You stand in the kitchen, feeling a pang of frustration. The confession you were about to make now seems like a distant dream, overshadowed by the interruption. You feel like you’ve let your guard down too soon, and the moment of connection is lost.

Wonyoung returns after a few minutes, her expression apologetic. “It was just a call from the office. Sorry about that.”

You force a smile, though your heart feels heavy. “It’s okay.”

You both return to the living room, the conversation picking up where it left off, but the closeness you felt earlier seems elusive now. As you sit there, you can’t help but feel a sense of missed opportunity, the words you were about to share still lingering unspoken.

Wonyoung sits beside you, her presence still comforting but the moment’s warmth has dissipated. You lie back on the couch, the blanket pulled around you, trying to push aside the frustration of the interruption.

Wonyoung glances at you, her eyes searching yours. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed like you were about to say something important.”

You nod, though you’re still feeling the weight of the unspoken words. “Yeah, just… another time.”

[quimichi]

Hello there.

I wonder, how would Archons comfort Creator!Reader, when Creator!Reader has nightmares? Like, when Archons sitting or doing something, they noticed that Creator!Reader is crying and whispering their names in their sleep?

Anyway, have a good day/night.

↳ ❝ [YOU'RE HAVING A NIGHTMARE] ¡! ❞

>>> and the Archon's take care of you ♡

Archon's x Creator!Reader

Venti

"Shh." Venti lays beside you. "Shhh... it's alright, it's alright." He pulls you close, so that you can lean against his body. With his hand in yours, he traces his fingers across your face gently, calming your breathing. "It's alright, you're safe, your Grace. You're home. It's okay." "Venti...." that's all you mumble in your deep sleep.

His breathing grows heavier as his heart begins to beat faster. He strokes your hair, his breath close to your ear.

"Shh, it's alright, it's alright," he repeats, trying to console you. "Don't worry, my Grace. I'm here." A small sigh escapes him as he lays his head down on your chest, listening to your rapid heartbeat, gently hugging you while he tries to get ahold of his own breathing.

"Shh," he whispers softly, repeating the same gesture he just did, "don't worry, my Grace. Everything's going to be okay." Despite the anxiety that seems to be wracking his body, Venti seems dedicated on doing everything he can for you, even if it means he'd get no sleep on your behalf.

His eyes are closed and his fingers entangle with yours, his breath still shaky and uneven.

Although you didn't wake up, his presence alone helped more than anything....

Zhongli

Zhongli's face becomes increasingly more worried looking. He can see your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together tightly and your teeth bare down as if grinding against each other.

He reaches forward to take your shoulder, but he's forced to step back as your eyes open with a jolt, your whole body tensed. They are wide, the pupils dilated by the stress that's coursing through you.

The muscles along your jaw become as tight as if pulled taunt, your body trembling but still. Your entire body has stiffened and your breathing has become quick and shallow.

"Zhongli...." Your voice is soft and breathless, yet you seem to carry some small bit of fear in your words. You call out Zhongli's name, and his eyes snap up to look at you once again. He blinks, staring at you like he doesn't quite recognize you for a moment. Yet, a light seems to come on in his eyes once again, his expression growing from worry to concern.

"My grace...," he breathes, and it is evident in his tone how worried you make him, "I'm here to protect you you" You fall forwards, finding yourself caught in Zhongli's arms. You feel him catch your weight, holding you against his chest comfortably. His breath catches in his throat and he seems to freeze in place, not sure how to react to your action.

He seems unable to voice his thoughts, his worry, and instead simply squeezes you tightly against him.

"I'm always going to be there for you..."

Raiden

She stays awake, watching you as you sleep. She is silent in the darkness, laying fully awak beside you. If you were having a nightmare, she would do whatever it took to keep you safe. She would protect you. And if the nightmare would get to bad she would wake you.

Her eyes burn, and her muscles ache. She wishes he could hold your hand and press her lips against your forehead in gentle comfort ans support. "R...Raiden..." is all you can manage out in your sleeping state "Yes?" Her voice is soft, so quiet that you might hear it only as a whisper in the back of your mind.

Raiden leans closer, her movements gentle. She is still and quiet, but he cannot help the way that he is looking at you. Her eyes are soft and gentle, and there is a concern in her gaze.

Is there something bothering you? Do you call out for her protection? She wants to know how you are feeling, how she can help. Please...she wants to help.

She's relieved you're still fast asleep, although not in a good state. If youd wake up and look at her, you'd only see a worried Raiden ready to strike anything for you. She doesn't wants to upset you in a way, that's why she only pulls you closer to her chest, holding you in her much powerful arms...

Nahida

Nahida is instantly alert, having heard the sound of your troubled breathing the moment it changes. She kneels by your side, watching you closely and studying your face— your expression seems calm and tranquil, but she can tell that you're in great distress. Without hesitation, she strokes your cheek, her fingers gentle and soothing, as her voice lowers to a whisper.

"It's alright, my flower," she says, "you're dreaming. Whatever it is that ails you, I'm here. You're safe now. Friends protect each other" 

"Nahida..." you call out for her in your sleep, you can feel her presence. Nahida strokes your hair gently, her soft words meant to soothe you and calm your troubled mind. "I'm here, I'm here," she whispers to you again, knowing instinctively that you're calling for her even in your sleep.

"Shh, it's alright. It's just a dream. I'm here now." Nahida wraps a protective, reassuring arm around you, her own body heat radiating in your direction. Her other hand is firmly wrapped around yours— he's not going anywhere.

"You're safe now," the Dendro Archon whispers, her voice soothing, "just relax and let it go." She leans in and presses his forehead against yours, her eyes closed.

"I'm always here for you, my bestest friend"

Furina

Your mind races, your body trembling as your thoughts are overwhelmed. It is hard to make sense of anything. You want to scream or run or just curl up and be done with this feeling. Your eyes burn, your throat aches like you've been choked, and you can't seem to pull your breathing back to normal.

You want to wake up, and you try— oh how you try— but you remain trapped here in this dark place. And then— and only then— you finally realize that it is a dream. You wake up.

"Furina-!" She leaps up as soon as he hears you say his name.

"I— what happened?" he asks, her eyes taking in and adjusting to your presence once more.

"My love, is there something wrong?" She still seems slightly unsteady, and it's clear that he's just woken up, but her worry takes over, clearly.

"You're not hurt are you?" You shake your head in response to her question, no, but you're not well either. "My love..." she calls you, taking you rapidly in her arms holding you so close you might drown into her protection...

《♡ TAGLIST ♡》

@junejunejun

[ma-sulevin]

Rook is going to check on everyone. She’ll visit them in their chosen rooms, ask how they’re feeling, make sure they have what they need, listen to them complain about their problems while the world is ending around them all, and she’ll find a way to fix everything. That's what she does. It's what she’s always done. It's how she keeps herself feeling okay in the face of everything.

She’s going to check on everyone, she will, but for some reason she finds herself climbing the central stairs and heading to Emmrich’s tower first instead of checking on anyone else.

“Oh, hello, Rook!” Emmrich looks a little surprised to see her but not at all upset by the fact she showed up without knocking. In fact, he’s smiling at her despite the exhaustion she can clearly read on his face, the thin lines around his eyes deepening as his smile grows. “How can I help?”

“I just wanted to… see how you're doing,” Rook says, pausing long enough to push the door closed behind her. “After Weisshaupt. How are you feeling?”

Emmrich keeps his eyes on her as she walks closer, his hands clasped in front of him as usual, and answers, “Very well, thank you. How–”

“Did you have any injuries?” She barely registers that she interrupts him, her gaze snagging on the firelight glinting off his rings. “The darkspawn, did they get close enough to bite you? Scratch you even?”

“Not at all,” Emmrich says, voice lower now that she’s standing close. “I did have to throw out my boots, but–”

“Are you sure?” Rook knows she cuts him off this time, not caring about the boots, already willing to replace them as long as he isn't hurt, still unwilling to think about what that feeling means for her. “The Blight only needed the smallest of wounds to enter your body before, and we still don't understand the changes Ghilan'nain has made to it.”

She’s still staring at his hands, unable to look up at his face to see the expression in those kind eyes, and she grabs his wrists without thinking. She pulls his hands closer to her face so she can see his knuckles, unbroken from the fighting, then turns them over to check his palms.

They're calloused from holding pens and staves for so many years, the hands of an academic, unlike her warrior-mage hands, hardened from fighting darkspawn for nearly a decade now. His hands are uninjured, but as she moves to look at his wrists, his forearms, he pulls them away from her grasp and cups her chin instead.

“Rook.” His voice is even lower now, laced with an emotion she doesn't know how to name, and she drags her eyes up to finally, finally meet his.

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth and wraps one hand around his wrist as she looks up at him. The silence stretches for a long moment before he finally breaks it.

“I am fine, I assure you. How are you?”

His voice is so warm, his expression so soft, the concern so genuine that all it takes is his thumb brushing against her jaw for her carefully built facade to crumble.

She bites harder on her lip, but that doesn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. She tries to pull away, to put that safe amount of space between them again, but the soft clicking of his tongue stills her movements.

“Oh, my dear Eira.” Instead of letting her go, he pulls her in, letting her face rest against his chest.

She stands stiff for a heartbeat, then another, then she feels his hand cupping the back of her head and his chin resting against the top of it, and she breaks.

She breaks, and Emmrich holds her together.

It’s okay, just this once.

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Thinking about sleepy Swiss.

Barely awake Swiss who purrs up a storm as Aurora cups his face in her hands and coos at him.

Sexy morning voice Swiss who sends Dew's brain into overdrive just my mumbling "good morning".

Exhausted Swiss who crawls into Aether's lap and faceplants into his chest.

Swiss who rests his head sleepily on Cirrus' shoulder in the tour bus, tail wagging lazily when she scratches him behind the horns.

Swiss who manhandles Phantom until he can use his chest as a pillow, listening to his heartbeat.

Sleep-deprived Swiss who lays down on the sun-warmed dock at the lake, one hand brushing the surface of the water for Rain to hold onto whenever he might want to while Swiss dozes off.

Swiss letting out a jaw-dislocating yawn, distracting Sunshine as she stares at the thick fangs it displays.

Swiss who tugs Mountain on top of him on the couch so that he can have his own personal weighted blanket.

Swiss who absent-mindedly nips and kisses at Cumulus' forearms whenever she holds his drowsy form, his eyes half-shut.

Bonus : Swiss and Ifrit napping together as close as physically possible, legs, arms and tails tangled, Ifrit's head on Swiss chest and the multi ghoul's face burried in Ifrit's hair, just cozy big boy cuddle with motor-like purring as a soundtrack.

[reomikagekin]

Thanks for the main cast of alien stage think with FEM motherly s/o request thing. But if you don't mind another same but different request this time, can you do the main cast of alien stage on what's their reaction on female motherly figure s/o who holds them like a mother before their last breath was taken? & Luka & Mizi thoughts on fem s/o motherly personality. Sorry bad grammar

You feel like home…

Sua

She’s fading fast. You’re covered in blood — hers — and your voice shakes as you call her name. Sua, loud and proud, fearless even when the world crumbled around her, is now lying limp in your lap. Her breaths are shallow, short, and painful.

You press her to your chest, rocking gently like a mother calming a frightened child. Her fingers twitch weakly against your arm.

“You always…” Sua’s voice is broken. “You always held everyone like this. Even when you were hurt. Even when you were scared.”

You wipe away the blood at the corner of her lips. “I’d hold you through anything.”

She blinks up at you, vision fading. Her expression softens.

“I wanted someone like you when I was little. Someone who stayed. Someone who loved without asking me to change…”

You brush your hand over her hair, quieting your sobs. She dies listening to your heartbeat — a rhythm she never had growing up, but found with you in the end.

Ivan

Even now, Ivan smiles.

But it’s not his usual grin — not the polished, practiced expression he wore for others. This smile is broken. Uncertain. Like a boy caught pretending to be fine for too long.

He’s dying in your arms, and for once, he’s not performing.

“You’re… so unfair,” he whispers, voice trembling. “You always knew how to look at me like I was just a person.”

You cradle his face in your hands and kiss his forehead.

“That’s all you ever were to me. Just… my Ivan.”

He laughs. It’s raw and real — something no one ever got to hear.

“You always gave me a place to return to. Even if I was selfish. Even if I was cruel.”

You don’t scold him. You just keep holding him.

Ivan’s last breath escapes like a confession he never had the courage to say. His fingers wrapped tightly in your sleeve, clinging to the warmth he never believed he deserved.

Till

He’s terrified. His whole body trembles as you catch him, dragging him close to your chest like instinct. He’s small like this. Not just physically — but emotionally. Young. Worn out. Exhausted.

“I-It hurts…!” he cries. “I don’t wanna die!”

You rock him. Slow, steady, whispering words you don’t even register anymore.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

He sobs like a child.

“Why does it feel like this? Why does it hurt so much?! Why didn’t anyone stop this?!”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, clutching him tighter. “I wish I could’ve protected you from everything.”

His hands curl against your shirt, his face buried against your chest.

“Y-You’re warm,” he mumbles, voice weakening. “Like my mom used to be… before she left…”

You press a kiss to his hair, weeping silently as his breathing slows. He passes in your arms — held, soothed, and at peace in a way life never gave him.

Hyuna

She always joked she was invincible. She’d grin at death like it was a rival. But even she looks small now, limp in your arms, blood soaking her shirt. Her smile is faint — still trying to be strong.

“Didn’t… think I’d go out like this,” she laughs weakly. “I thought I’d be yelling until the end…”

You cradle her like she weighs nothing, like she’s not breaking apart in your arms.

“You don’t have to be loud right now,” you whisper. “Just rest. I’m here.”

Hyuna’s eyes flutter. “You always sound like my mom,” she murmurs. “I hated it, y’know? That gentle voice. But… I get it now.”

You press your forehead to hers.

“I'm proud of you,” you whisper, “for surviving as long as you did. For never giving up.”

Hyuna’s lips part in a trembling breath. “Then… hold me a little longer…”

She dies smiling — curled into your warmth, face pressed against your neck like a child who finally lets go.

Mizi’s Thoughts on Motherly Fem!S/O

She didn’t know how to react to you at first. You were gentle, soft-spoken, always looking after the others — even when no one returned the kindness. She thought it was weakness. A delusion.

But the first time she collapsed into your arms after Sua’s death — shaking, sobbing, unable to breathe — and you just held her, said nothing, and let her cry...

That was the first time Mizi realized what safety felt like.

You didn’t judge her. You didn’t ask for strength. You let her be small. Human.

And she came to you again. And again. Even if she never said it out loud, you became her peace.

Sometimes she’d pretend to fall asleep beside you, just to feel your hand in her hair. She needed you. The warmth. The quiet.

Mizi never had a mother. But she found something in you that stitched the wound closed — even if only temporarily.

💭 Luka’s Thoughts on Motherly Fem!S/O

Luka didn’t believe in softness.

He grew up believing love came with conditions. That vulnerability was a weakness that got you hurt — or worse, killed. So he watched you carefully.

Why did you help the others when they couldn’t help you?

Why did you love them, even when they broke down or lashed out?

It didn’t make sense — until he broke down in front of you once. He had a nightmare. You found him alone, crying silently.

You didn’t say anything. Just pulled him into your arms and hummed softly, like he was a child who deserved gentleness.

He never forgot that moment.

Even after, he refused to speak of it. But he sought you out more. Sat near you. Let himself be touched, comforted, known.

You were the only one who saw past the walls. You saw the scared little boy beneath all that ambition and calculation.

You didn’t save him with words. You saved him by simply being there. And that… that terrified him.

Because losing you would be the one thing he could never recover from.

[bloodsuckingfiends]

So about those smutty drabble ideas …

Astarion tries to seduce Tav but finds out he would be her first. So he will take even more special care of them. He does like Tav, after all. Whether he admits it to himself or not.

A Failed Plan

A/N: He is so smitten and doesn't even know it and I love it. Also, this came out longer than I originally intended oopsies

Warnings: blood, loss of virginity so smut, praise, Tav is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns

The metallic tang of blood, Tav's blood, hits Astarion within seconds. He withdraws himself from her core and she whimpers at the loss of fullness within her. His carmine gaze looks down to where they are joined, crimson staining both of their skin.

"Tav darling, is this your first time?" his voice is uncharacteristically soft.

Tav's cheeks and chest flush, and she takes a shaky breath, "Yes. I'm sorry, I should have told you." She flounders over her words, nervously looking up at the vampire above her.

"Shh sh sh," he hushes, his hand coming up to brush hair from her cheek, "it's alright, I just want to make sure so I can properly take care of you." A shiver shoots down his spine at the realization that he actually means what he's saying. That he does indeed want to make sure that during Tav's first time, she is cared for. That she doesn't regret it.

A small smile eases it's way onto Tav's lips as he reassures her, and her breathing begins to even out again. The beat beneath her ribcage slows, still an anxious beat, albeit less anxious now.

"If I would have known, I would have eased my way in, " Astarion drags the head of his length through her slick folds, tapping it gently against her clit, then notching it at her entrance. "Made sure that you would be able to easily take me."

Tav whimpers, tears pricking at her eyes as he slides into her, inch by painful inch. He was rather large. Larger than she expected he would be, especially for her first time.

Astarion's long fingers drag up Tav's arm, lacing with her own fingers. He dips his head to her cheek, lips pressing to the blushed skin in a soft kiss, following a path down her delicious neck, "How are you doing, pup?" His cool breath tickles her ear and she shudders.

"You're big." Tav murmurs, her thighs tightening around his waist.

"Yes, but look at you taking me so well, sweetheart." He leans back a little, making a show of watching as he slowly pulls out before easing back into her again, "so soft and warm."

"Please, more." Tav whispers a bit brokenly, her eyes meeting his. Pleasure, rather than pain, begins to build in her belly, and her brows knit together from it. Astarion's movements pick up, and he leans forward again to hold Tav against his chest. She tucks her face in the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering shut. Her hands come up to hold him back, resting on the expanse of his shoulder blades. He tenses as she touches his scars, before relaxing into her.

He snakes a hand between them, his dexterous fingers rubbing circles against her swollen clit. Tav mewls against his neck, hips bucking against his.

“Think you can c-come for me?” he tries to keep his voice steady, tries not to stutter, but he feels himself hurtling faster toward the precipice.

She moans an affirmative, her heels digging into his ass a sign that she’s close.

A few more circles and she comes, a loud cry escaping her lips as her thighs quake around his waist.

Astarion’s not far behind, and as she clenched around his cock, he falls over the edge, painting her insides with his seed.

He slows his hips, the both of them panting softly as they part from each other, Astarion rolling to the side and gently pulling Tav to rest against him.

“We can’t stay out here-“ she starts to protest before he cuts her off.

“It’s only for a moment, darling. Just relax for a moment.” His fingers mindlessly play with the ends of her hair, as she settles against him, and he listens to her heartbeat steady itself.

As she lays against him, beneath the stars, he begins to worry that his initial plan, just may be falling apart.