#and yes he was initially mute

[lexumpysfunland]

I finally made a ref sheet for Stanley yippee!!! he's just a silly heheh

[sysig]

Can love 😍💕💞❤️ bloom 🌻🌼🌹🌷💐 on the 🤜💥 battlefield?? (Patreon)

[mariasont]

Training Day - A.H

a/n: you all wanted more bimbo!assistant!reader and i'm a woman of the people so here we are

on a real note i love her and she is my queen

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you don't understand why hotch is giving you training lessons, but apparently he thinks you need it

warnings: talking about men following her in public YUCK, hotch trying to train reader, reader not knowing what's going on, cuties being cute

wc: 0.8k

"I still don't really know why we're doing this."

You were grumbling more than was characteristic for you, with every part of your body, your arms, your legs, and even your ass, suffering from a dull ache--sadly, not the result of any enjoyable pastime. After being knocked over more times than you cared to count, Hotch extended his hand toward you. You gladly took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

Your fingers deftly pulled at your pink tracksuit top over the sliver of abdomen that that had been revealed in your less-than-graceful take down. Hotch had pointed out the impracticality of your outfit when you showed up, but you stood firm on the principle that if early training sessions were expected of you, then your attire would be non-negotiable.

"Because I want to be confident in your abilities to defend yourself." His arms folded over his chest as his gaze bore into you, challenging you to contradict him.

"I'm just here to look pretty and answer your phones, crime-fighting isn't in my job description. That's your thing, Mr."

You shuffled back to your original position anyway, hands coming up to shield your face as you mentally sorted through the steps, or at least tried to, struggling to recall the correct foot placement.

"Shoulder width apart."

It's like he could read your mind. You were not entirely convinced that he couldn't.

"Crime-fighting doesn't have to be your thing," Hotch stated, narrowing the gap between you, his hands firmly correcting your stance. You sometimes found an excuse to stand just so, hoping he would step in to manhandle you into place. "But being part of the BAU, even peripherally, means you're not immune to risks. I need to know you can handle yourself... for my piece of mind."

"Sir, is this like, your super-secret way of showing you care?"

Your lips twisted into a half-smile as his hands clasped your waist a little tighter than necessary: a warning that said you were playing with fire. His fingers then moved to direct yours, positioning them closer to your face, his knuckles lightly grazing across your cheek in the process.

"Eyes on me, stay focused."

"My eyes are always on you, sir," you say, your head canting to one side. 

He released a controlled breath, giving you a level look that signaling you were pushing it. Nevertheless, you flashed him a beaming smile and initiated the move he had been drilling into you. The tip of your elbow made contact with the soft of his stomach.

He issued a muted groan as he intercepted your arm, preventing it from digging further, and in a fluid motion he spun you around, pinning your backside to his front.

"That was perfect, right?" you squealed, your fist shooting up in victory.

The sudden jump caused his hands to shift from your arm, finding a new perch on your hips to steady your... enthusiastic bounce.

You whirled in his grasp, the proximity sending a faint hum through his chest. Clearing his throat, he managed. "Yes, uh, that was it."

Clutching his shirt, the fabric crumpled beneath your purple-tipped fingers, you giggled. "Just imagine someone trying to follow me to my car now. They wouldn't know what hit 'em!"

"Is that a common occurrence?" The lines of his face gathered into that customary look of concern, that characteristic frown of his making an appearance.

He gently disentangled your hands from his shirt, not letting go, but rather laying his atop of yours.

"Well, sometimes, but I usually just call Morgan, put him on speaker, and he starts talking about the FBI stuff," you explained, giving a light shrug that nudged the zipper of your jacket down just a smidge. "They take off after that."

He clenched his eyes shut, pausing momentarily before reopening it. One hand let go of yours to adjust the zipper back to its proper position.

"That makes my stomach hurt." And it did. "Don't hesitate to call me when that happens. I'll come get you."

Your smile stretched ear to ear, potent enough to make him feel lightheaded. "You know, with all these trainings, who needs to call for help?"

"How about we compromise, and you still call me, regardless?"

You pout your lips, shiny with clear gloss rather than your usual pink. "That sounds less like a compromise and more like a you thing, ya know?"

Hotch's laughter rumbled from his chest, a warm, breathy sound, as he let go of your hands, which he realized he had been holding far longer than appropriate, and guided you to the door.

"You don't appreciate the added precautions I'm willing to take for your safety?"

Dragging your sneaker on the floor, you plucked your bag from the wall as Hotch closed the door behind you. "Gee, when you say it like that..."

When you walked down the hall you seemed to be perfectly in step.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253 @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @sarcasm-and-stiles

join my taglist here

[xxbirkindoll]

coming back to you

pairings: ex!rafe x ex!reader

warnings: angst, fluff, jealousy

summary: rafe and y/n broke up and after 6 months, reader sees him at a party—except rafe isn’t alone.

words: 2.9k

The sunset over the Outer Banks was a spectacular sight—an explosion of orange and pink hues blending into the purple twilight. But tonight, as you watched the waves crash against the shore, the colors seemed muted, like they were missing something. Much like your life over the past six months.

Six months. It felt like both an eternity and a fleeting moment since Rafe had broken up with you. Even now, the memory of that day still stung, etched into your heart like a scar that refused to heal.

"I just need to work on myself, Y/n," he had said, his voice thick with emotion. "My temper, my… everything. You deserve better than what I can give you right now."

You had stood there, tears blurring your vision as you tried to understand what was happening. Rafe was your world, the one constant in the chaos of your life, and suddenly, he was telling you that you needed to be apart. That you, his Y/n, deserved better than him. It was a noble reason, and you knew he meant well, but it did nothing to soothe the heartbreak that followed.

Rafe was your first love, the person who made you feel alive and safe in a world that often felt too overwhelming. You had been drawn to him, not just for his good looks or his undeniable charm, but for the way he seemed to understand you in a way no one else did. He could be reckless, yes, and his temper was legendary, but beneath it all, you had seen the softer side of him, the side that cared, that loved fiercely and deeply.

You hadn’t expected to be torn away from that side of him. But he had been right, in some ways. Rafe had demons to fight—his addiction, his anger, his own insecurities. And he needed space to do that. You understood that, but it didn’t make the pain of losing him any less real.

For months, you’d been trying to move on, to rebuild your life without him. It was hard. Every corner of the Outer Banks held memories of him. From the beach where you first kissed to the docks where he’d whispered how much he loved you as the sun set. It all haunted you, a constant reminder of what you’d lost.

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were determined to take a step forward, to finally put some distance between you and the past. That’s why you agreed to go to the party with Sarah, despite your initial hesitation.

“You need this, Y/n,” Sarah had insisted earlier that day, her tone firm but gentle. “It’s been too long since you’ve done something fun. And I promise, Rafe won’t be there. He’s… been keeping to himself lately.”

You knew Sarah meant well. As Rafe’s sister, she was caught in a tricky position—being loyal to her brother while also being your best friend. But she had always been there for you, through the highs and the lows, and you trusted her.

And so, you found yourself at the Cameron family’s beach house, the music pounding in your ears and the smell of the ocean mixed with the scent of alcohol filling the air. The party was in full swing, with people dancing, laughing, and losing themselves in the carefree atmosphere.

But as much as you tried to blend in, to lose yourself in the moment, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was the fact that you were at a place so closely tied to Rafe, or maybe it was the way your heart clenched every time you thought about him. Either way, you felt a knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

“Hey, are you okay?” Sarah’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you turned to find her watching you with concern. She was holding two drinks, one of which she handed to you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You forced a smile, not wanting to worry her. “I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed, I guess.”

She nodded, her expression softening. “I get it. But try to have some fun, okay? You deserve it.”

Taking a sip of the drink, you nodded again, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed your own assurances. You scanned the crowd, trying to distract yourself by observing the people around you. Most were familiar faces, locals you’d grown up with, but one person caught your eye. A girl you didn’t recognize, with short, brown hair and a confident smile.

And then you saw him. Rafe.

He was standing by the pool, laughing at something the girl had said, his hand resting casually on her waist. Your heart stopped, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just seeing him again that hit you like a punch to the gut—it was how different he looked. His once shaggy hair was now buzzed short, and he had put on muscle, his t-shirt clinging to his toned arms and chest. He looked good, better than you’d seen him in a long time.

He looked like he was doing well. Like he was happy.

You wanted to be happy for him, you really did. But all you could feel was the sharp sting of jealousy and hurt. He had moved on. And you were still here, stuck in the same place, unable to let go of the past.

“Who’s that?” you found yourself asking, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sarah followed your gaze and winced slightly when she saw what—or rather, who—you were looking at. “That’s Sofia,” she said carefully. “She’s new around here. I think she’s just visiting for the summer.”

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, trying to process the information. Rafe was with someone else. Of course he was. You had no right to feel this way, but you couldn’t help it.

“He seems… different,” you murmured, not sure if you were talking to Sarah or just voicing your thoughts out loud.

Sarah sighed, her expression troubled. “He’s been trying, Y/n. He really has. But it’s been hard for him, too, you know? Breaking up with you—it wasn’t easy for him.”

“I know,” you whispered, your eyes still fixed on Rafe. “I just… I didn’t expect this. I thought that if he got better, maybe…”

“Maybe he’d come back to you?” Sarah finished gently.

You nodded, feeling the tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You blinked them away, not wanting to cry here, not now.

“Y/n, I think—” Sarah started, but before she could finish, someone bumped into you from behind, causing you to spill your drink. You turned, muttering a quick apology, but when you looked back towards the pool, Rafe and Sofia were gone.

The rest of the party passed in a blur. You tried to have fun, to talk and laugh with Sarah and the others, but your heart wasn’t in it. All you could think about was Rafe. You caught glimpses of him throughout the night, but he was always with Sofia, and it hurt too much to keep watching.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You needed air. You needed to get away.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” you told Sarah, who looked at you with concern but didn’t try to stop you.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered, but you shook your head.

“No, it’s okay. I just need a minute.”

She nodded, squeezing your hand before letting you go. You made your way down to the beach, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat of the party. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing, and you found a spot on the sand, sitting down and hugging your knees to your chest.

You let the tears fall then, the ones you’d been holding back all night. It wasn’t fair. You had waited, hoping that Rafe would come back to you when he was ready. You had believed in him, in his ability to change. And now, seeing him with someone else, it felt like all your hope had been shattered.

The worst part was, you couldn’t even be angry at him. You knew why he had broken up with you, and you knew it was the right thing for him to do. But that didn’t make it any less painful.

You stayed there for a while, letting the tears flow until there were no more left. When you finally looked up, the party was still in full swing, but you didn’t feel like going back. You just wanted to go home, to curl up in bed and pretend that tonight had never happened.

But as you stood up to leave, you saw a figure walking towards you along the shoreline. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized who it was.

Rafe.

He stopped a few feet away from you, his hands shoved into his pockets as he looked at you with those piercing blue eyes that had always made you weak in the knees.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves.

You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself. “Rafe. What are you doing here?”

“I saw you leave,” he said, his gaze never leaving yours. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much he had hurt you, but another part of you just wanted to fall into his arms and forget everything else.

“I’m fine,” you said instead, though your voice wavered. “You should go back to the party. Sofia’s probably wondering where you are.”

“Sofia’s not important,” he said quickly, and the intensity in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. “She’s just someone I’ve been hanging out with, nothing more,” Rafe continued, his voice edged with urgency. “I’m not with her like that, Y/n. I’m not with anyone. I couldn’t be.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sunk in, but you couldn’t let yourself believe them just yet. “Rafe, it’s been six months,” you said, your voice cracking. “You’ve had time to move on. And that’s okay. I don’t expect you to—”

“I haven’t moved on,” he interrupted, taking a step closer to you. “I haven’t moved on from you. God, Y/n, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to get over you, to pretend that I’m okay without you, but I’m not. I’m really not.”

You stared at him, unable to speak. His words were like a lifeline, something you had desperately needed to hear, but it only made things more confusing.

“Then why did you leave?” you finally whispered, the question that had haunted you for months slipping out. “Why did you break up with me if you still… if you still care?”

Rafe looked down, his jaw clenched tightly, as if he were fighting some internal battle. “I was scared,” he admitted after a long moment. “Scared that I was going to drag you down with me. I was a mess, baby. My temper, my addiction… I didn’t want you to have to deal with that. You deserved better. I needed to get better, for both our sakes.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, but there was still a part of you that couldn’t let go of the pain he had caused. “And now?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Are you better now, Rafe?”

He looked up at you then, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly broke you. “I’m trying,” he said softly. “I’ve been going to therapy, working out, trying to stay clean. I’m not perfect, and I’ve still got a long way to go, but I’m trying. And the whole time… all I could think about was you.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken feelings. You wanted to believe him, wanted to run into his arms and let him hold you like he used to. But you were afraid—afraid of getting hurt again, afraid that he might leave you once more.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whispered, your eyes filling with tears. “Rafe, you broke my heart. I thought you didn’t want me anymore, that I wasn’t enough.”

Rafe’s expression crumpled with guilt and regret, and he closed the distance between you, reaching out to gently cup your face in his hands. His touch was warm, familiar, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Y/n, you are everything to me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped wanting you. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore. But I see now that I did anyway, and I hate myself for it. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world that mattered. It broke down the walls you had built around your heart. The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, and you let out a shaky breath.

“Rafe…” you began, but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. All the pain, the longing, the love you still felt for him—it was all too much.

Before you could stop yourself, you closed the remaining distance between you and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. For a moment, Rafe seemed stunned, but then his arms were around you, holding you tightly against him as if he were afraid you might disappear.

He smelled like salt and the faint scent of his cologne, the combination so achingly familiar that it made your heart ache. You felt his chin rest gently on top of your head, his breath warm against your hair as he held you close.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. “I didn’t want to, but I did. I missed you every single day.”

“I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “More than you’ll ever know.”

For a while, neither of you moved, content to just hold each other, to feel the connection that had never really been broken despite everything that had happened. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was the only thing that broke the silence, a calming rhythm that matched the beat of your hearts.

But eventually, reality crept back in, and you pulled away slightly, looking up at Rafe. His face was so close to yours, his blue eyes searching your own with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Rafe,” you began, your voice unsteady, “I don’t know if we can just… go back to how things were. So much has happened.”

“I know,” he said quietly, his hands still resting on your waist. “I know we can’t just pick up where we left off. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again, Y/n. I want to be with you. I’ve never stopped wanting that.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any sign that he might be saying this out of guilt or obligation, but all you saw was the truth. He meant it. He still loved you, despite everything.

“I still love you too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I never stopped.”

Rafe’s eyes softened, and for a moment, you saw the boy you had fallen in love with all this time ago—the boy who had made you laugh, who had held you when you cried, who had loved you with everything he had.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath on your skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. And in that moment, you knew that despite everything, you still wanted him. You still wanted to be with him, to try again.

But there was still a part of you that was scared, that didn’t want to go through the pain again.

“I’m scared, Rafe,” you admitted, your voice shaking. “I’m scared that things will go back to how they were.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his expression serious. “I won’t hurt you again, Y/n,” he promised, his voice firm. “I’ve been working so hard to change, to be the person you deserve. I won’t let you down this time. I swear.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to trust him, to let yourself be vulnerable with him again. But trust was something that had to be earned, and you knew it wouldn’t be easy.

“I need time,” you said softly, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. “I need time to trust you again.”

Rafe nodded, his expression understanding. “I’ll give you all the time you need,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

And for the first time in six months, you felt a glimmer of hope. You didn’t know what the future held, but you were willing to take a chance on Rafe, on the love that still burned between you. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing worth having ever was.

As you stood there on the beach, wrapped in Rafe’s arms, you knew that this was a new beginning. A chance to rebuild what had been broken, to find your way back to each other. And this time, you would do it together.

a/n: i hate this so much! maybe bcs its too long and doesn’t have smut but ill try next time. pls give me requests!!

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach. 

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?  

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you. 

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume. 

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea. 

"Okay," you concede. 

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known. 

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.” 

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table. 

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates. 

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care. 

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you. 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you. 

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door.  “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads. 

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair. 

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again. 

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it. 

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas. 

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun. 

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield. 

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye. 

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him. 

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite. 

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart. 

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment. 

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours. 

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence. 

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first. 

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital. 

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night. 

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over. 

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm. 

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane. 

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it." 

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball. 

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout. 

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest. 

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard. 

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears. 

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?” 

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

 “My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words. 

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout. 

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most. 

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.  

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask. 

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it. 

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips. 

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?” 

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back." 

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out. 

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries. 

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now. 

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room. 

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho. 

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?” 

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much. 

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree. 

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

 “I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears. 

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep. 

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us. 

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain. 

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own. 

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.” 

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking. 

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory. 

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze. 

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho. 

'My heart will always remember you'. 

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low. 

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him. 

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul. 

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home. 

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are. 

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to. 

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday. 

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms. 

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known. 

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on. 

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call? 

He couldn’t survive another call.  

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone? 

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right. 

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care. 

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders. 

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you." 

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks. 

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.” 

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?" 

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips. 

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed. 

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised. 

"Because you are." 

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away. 

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge. 

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground. 

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly. 

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?" 

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap. 

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand." 

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-" 

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this." 

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?" 

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us." 

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness. 

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn." 

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave." 

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them." 

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.” 

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek. 

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat. 

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft? 

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away. 

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.” 

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat. 

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

[takes1]

p.2 asahi x feral reader w/ a size k!nk

this is gonna get so fucking good ya'll i love thisss!! it's fun writing this sweet guy be a little dirty lmao

warnings. nsfw. minors DNI info. nsfw / build-up to more smut / phone sex / mutual masturbation / blue balls / suggestive conversation / gentle giant!asahi / mutual size kink / sweet asahi / long-mid distance issues / kuroo's sister!reader / kuroo cockblocking / kuroo being protective / 2.3k words / multipart series so reply to be added to taglist! haikyuu collection. more hq here! part one here. part three here. final part here. more links. my ao3. masterlist. requests open!

Your pencil twirled, tap-tap-tapping against your half-filled page of notes as you searched for the next header to copy for this dreadful, draining history class.

Anything to distract you from the fact that he hadn't called you.

The game was Tuesday- now it was Friday evening, and still, no word from him. Maybe you had something in your teeth when you spoke to him, or you smelled bad, or he just didn't like your hair. You had dedicated hours trying to figure it out.

A phone call was hard evidence he was interested in you. Practically a 'yes' to your fantasies, which had only gotten more unhinged with the hurt of this perceived rejection.

He still remained just a few minutes worth of your real energy on some ordinary day. But God, how you mourned for what could've been. How he would've filled you up, wrecking you with the satisfaction and excitement you yearned for.

buzz buzz. buzz buzz. buzz buzz. buzz buzz.

The sound initially deepened your already lackluster mood, because you learned to be disappointed with every call that wasn't from a Miyagi area code.

You were grateful that your eyes happened to glaze over the screen before you completed the swipe to ignore it.

A piercing scream of delight filled your entire house through a cracked bedroom door.

Tetsuro's unwanted, grating voice across the hall shattered your elevated state of bliss:

"SHUT UP!"

"YOU SHUT UP! I'M ON THE PHONE!"

You took a deep breath on the fifth ring and, shaking off the nerves by standing up out of your swivel chair, you swiped across the screen to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, is this (Y/n)?" A deep, rumbly voice made your knees weak.

"Y-es," Your voice cracked, tummy tingly, "Is this- Asahi?"

His name left your lips so well. You fell onto your back on your bed, pressing your thighs together at the sound of his reply.

"Yeah, that's me."

You hadn't heard his voice before, thinking hard about it now, because he didn't say anything to you in person.

"I thought you wouldn't call," You bit your lip in restraint, but kept the tension in your belly, "Why'd you keep me waiting for so long?"

A grumbly sigh on the other end gave you a full-body shiver. You crossed your legs.

"I was nervous," He admitted.

The giant did have a heart, after all. Curious, you smiled and looked up.

Your face fell.

"Get out of my room!" You shouted at Tetsuro, who was lingering in the doorway.

"How long have you been in here?!"

"I'm not in your room," He tested you by putting a foot inside, and didn't answer your question, instead pressing his own, "Who the hell are you talking to?"

It reminded you: A quick 'Hold on' and what you thought was the mute button--

You scrambled across your bed to the doorway to close it, but he dove out of the way and you ended up shutting him in. You flung it open again.

"Get out!!"

The demon-spawn was making for your phone, so you leaped onto his back and weighed him down to the floor instead.

"It better not be--," He grunted with effort as he shoved you off by the face, "Some country-bumpkin prick!"

There was no contact on the screen, so he couldn't be sure who you were talking to even with your phone in his hand.

"Who is this?" He interrogated, his torso leaning on your bed, his knee on your chest to keep you down.

You punched his leg over, over, and over again. He swatted at you while looking at your phone to figure out why nobody was responding to him.

It gave you the opportunity to push him off while his balance was uneven. You slapped your phone out of his hand and it clattered to the floor.

There was a violent hush over the two of you.

Tetsuro rose of his own accord, dodging a slap, and kicked your phone far under your bed with a grumble.

"Like I'm gonna just let that happen."

The door slammed behind him. You skittered up, opened it, then called after him, "Stay out!!"

You made sure to lock and barricade it this time.

When you leaned down to find your phone, it was impossible to reach with your hands or legs from either side of the bed. That asshole had made sure to kick it just far enough to make you get creative.

You had to tie together a ruler and a clothing hanger to retrieve it, then use your foot to leverage it out.

To your relief, the call was still active. But it wasn't muted.

Heart sunk halfway down your ribcage, you asked a grim question, "How much of that did you hear?"

His chuckle lifted your spirits instantly.

Almost as a conditioned response, you glanced to the door. It was still secure.

"I'm so sorry, my brother is the worst." You grumbled, climbing back into your bed with a sore face, hand, and knee.

Asahi's tone was clear and smooth.

"It sounds like he just wants to keep you out of trouble."

Your body jumpstarted again at that word. You wanted all the trouble he had to offer. You couldn't help but giggle, since his response sounded as if he was referring to himself.

"I know how to handle myself," You grinned, "I'm only a year younger than him."

"He's a senior, isn't he?"

"Mhm."

"So you're a second-year."

"Mhmm," You could listen to him talk all day. Your hand rubbed over your prickled chest, savoring his voice against your ear.

"Good. I feel like less of a creep, now."

In his admission you could hear his lips curl into a smile- your covered your mouth and kicked your legs in the air.

"Don't tell me you thought I was a first-year," You teased with false surprise.

"I-," He sighed, a little labored, and something shifted against the receiver, "Knew it was a possibility."

His standards aside, your interest moved to the extra sound on his end of the line. You prayed it was something risque.

"What else do you wanna know about me?" You stretched your legs up and watched your blank ceiling, biting your lip in wait for his response.

The way he towered over you- his frame was perfect for your fantasies. You imagined him leaning over you now, legs draped over his massive shoulders.

"What made you want to give me your number?"

Another shift, a heavy sigh. You couldn't raise the volume any higher, nor could you hold the phone any closer to your ear to try to hear what he was doing.

In the hopes that he was dirtier than he wanted to let on, you smiled at the freedom to paint his imagination.

"Hmm..." You drawled.

An eager hand dipped between your legs, with one last glance to the door, and you palmed yourself through your shorts while you spoke.

"Your serve really did it for me," As you recalled that last hit, you heard him shift again, "I like your look- y'know, the whole samurai vibe--,"

Asahi laughed a little, making you grin.

"-I think it's really hot."

A pause. "Wait- really?"

"Yeah!" You giggled, "You're a good mix of cute and scary, that's a huge turn-on."

"Wow."

Maybe it was a bit forward of you to say, but so was everything else until this point. Your breath stalled, hoping that was a good wow. It felt so quiet for so long. Everything was still on both sides.

You sat up after a few moments, pulse quickening, and you bit your finger to keep from blurting out another stupid claim. It must've been too much- you were just about to hang up when you heard a quiet, different tone through the speaker.

"What are you wearing right now?"

Mouth open, you made sure to click mute before squealing into your pillow-- when you came up, teary-eyed from the pressure and excitement, you had to catch your breath.

Your voice was slightly hoarse when you unmuted yourself and asked, calmly, "Do you want me to lie to you?"

Thrown in a dumbing whirl of arousal, you went to reach for a vibrator, but realized the sound would probably be too much. You opted for your own fingers instead and tried hard to visualize his heavy hand over yours.

"Shit-," He huffed an uneven sigh, "Go for it."

Did he have any idea how sexy he sounded? You hoped he did- you hoped he knew exactly how to touch you, pleasure you, break you, then put you back together.

Your raised, flirty tone didn't match your answer, "Nothing."

The rumble of his laugh guided your hand to swirl small, soft circles around your clit. Your chest rose and fell a little faster, chasing the budding tightness that was finally coming back to you.

"What are you doing right now?" You couldn't help but ask. It was too tempting to wait around for him to tell you.

"Mm, I'm talkin' to you," He evaded. His smirk was audible through the phone.

His slight regional accent was so perfect. To Hell with city boys, you wanted this big, gruff countryside boy.

He laughed at your whine.

"I wish you weren't so far away," His tone lowered to a bare mutter- it was dripping in lust, but he covered it with a thin veil of wariness.

Your fingers felt so good, but his reminder only made you more sensitive to how you could never fulfill the ache deep inside without him right here, in Tokyo.

You could appreciate how he still kept his cards close. You weren't as patient as him- but upon your inevitable frustration that he wasn't as candid as you, the realization that it was the safer outcome dawned on you. If he wasn't so careful, he might hurt you.

Still, you were riding gentle, pleasant waves while you daydreamed through your response.

"How long would a train ride be?"

He didn't have to tell you how pretty you sounded for you to know. The little raise at the end of your sentence, the tiny waiver in your voice, you knew he liked it.

The quiet seethe on his end confirmed this. He told you without having to look it up, "Hour and a half."

Your pussy practically shut down.

"I could do that," You lied. Your brother would explode if he found out you hopped on a bullet train by yourself to go see some Karasuno boy- and he would. He always did.

Another low laugh. It fixed everything. You threw your head back again, fingers in your mouth so your fingers could slide a little better.

"Don't sound so disappointed," He cooed, "Me and the guys are gonna be in town for the weekend- and I was just thinkin'--,"

"Oh my god, yes. Whatever you're about to say, yes."

His distant 'Damn' away from the phone made you blush. You stopped touching yourself, just for the time being.

"There's just one problem."

You waited for the reveal without responding, then realized he wanted you to ask him.

"What?" You giggled at the weird pause.

His laugh was faint through the rest of his point, "Your brother."

You squinted at your ceiling again with a grumpy sigh. He was right. In fact, you were sure he didn't know the extent of how right he was. Your family was on Life360, and he had your location at all times.

If you turned your phone off, or deleted the app, or put it on 'battery saving-mode' he'd know, and it would be more ground to question you on.

It wasn't the tattling that bothered you, it was his nosiness in the first place.

The last time you snuck out to go see a boy further in the city, he followed you and ruined your movie date by kicking the back of his chair for half of the film. He drove you home and grilled you the entire way back.

"Fuck," You sighed, sitting up with a bit of a tummy-ache from your abandoned orgasm, "Yeah."

It sounded like he was moving again, but he was less flirty, and it made you think he maybe put his dick back up to think better.

"He actually called our team captain, Daichi. We were uh, still on the way back from the game. On the bus. And he put it on speaker."

Your jaw dropped again.

"Said he'd- ha-ha, he said he'd castrate anyone who touched you."

An annoyed sound left you.

"Don't tell me you believe that," You laughed pitifully.

Part of you believed it, so you wouldn't blame him if he did. That same days-long disappointment was creeping back.

Asahi considered his answer. He landed on, "I think... ah, I don't know. I think being cautious is smart."

You nodded slowly, but he couldn't see.

"I still wanna see ya," He added.

You grinned, relieved, and a little aroused again at his drawl, "Good."

It still left the obvious problem. You deliberated on what you could do. A glance to the locked door gave you one idea. Another glance to the window elaborated on it.

How could you see him, not leave the house, and have your brother not know at the same time?

Your question was slow as you slid off of your mattress and started to test the reliability of your window frame.

"How good are you at climbing?"

taglist.

thank ya'll for supporting this!!! i love this series it's so fun to write so i'm glad other people do too!! reply to be added to existing list :)

@valiantqueengarden @rinheartshyunlix @alpha-mommy69 @yuyunhoo @insertamazingnamehere @kreishin

masterlist.

requests. (including what you might want to see in the next 2 parts)

[hongcherry]

pretty please (love me) || c.sc

Seungcheol knows he can't force you to say the eight words he wants to hear, but seeing you avoid the topic entirely makes him wonder if he's done something wrong, or worse... Do you regret being with him?

🍒 Pairing: Seungcheol x Reader (f) 🍒 Rating/Genres/AUs: PG13; Angst, fluff; Established relationship, Pretty Please couple 🍒 Warnings: None, but lmk 🍒 Word Count: 1.2k 🍒 Author’s Note: Can be read as a standalone. This is just something I've had in mind after writing "rid your worries". It's short, but I wanted to give some insight on this topic 🤭 😉

pretty please masterpost | seventeen masterlist | main masterlist

this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty! (ageless/minors/blanks blogs will be blocked)

The room’s dark except for the TV.

Seungcheol has an arm around your shoulders while the other rests on your legs that are across his lap. Your head leans on his body, watching the movie fading to black and cueing the ending credits. You both sit quietly as you let the music fill the silence.

“Are you happy with me?”

Seungcheol’s abrupt question makes you shift to look at him. The TV light casts him in a glow of various colors.

“That was random,” you comment. “Did the movie make you sappy?”

Your teasing smile fades when you realize Seungcheol isn’t humoring your question.

“You’re serious?” you ask, but it’s a mix between a question and a statement.

“Yeah,” he mumbles and glances at the TV again.

“Where did that come from?” you ask.

He sighs and gently untangles himself from you, removing your legs from his lap. He grabs the remote and plunges you both into silence by muting the TV. He cards his fingers through his locks like he’s seriously troubled.

Your hand starts to lift to grab his but stops. You drop it and adjust the blanket you have instead.

“Yes, I’m happy. Are you?” you wonder, heart racing with the possibility of him feeling otherwise. Your fight or flight response tingles in your veins. Surely, this isn’t the beginning of a breakup speech. You’re just overthinking.

“Yes, but,” he starts to say. His two-second pause is enough to make your toes twitch with a need to run. Your heart clenches painfully in anticipation.

“I just feel like I’m not doing enough.”

Your lips dip down. You know you’re not the most affectionate, or when you are, it’s not normally you who initiates it, but you thought Seungcheol knows it’s just because you’re not used to it.

At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

You stare at Seungcheol and see the sadness in his eyes. You slowly realize just how much words mean to him.

You hesitantly reach out. When he doesn’t pull away, you intertwine your fingers.

“You are,” you urge. “I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way.”

“It’s just,” he trails off like he’s not sure if he wants to continue.

“What is it, Cheol?” you ask gently, still nervous for his response.

He heaves a sigh and stares down at your clasped hands.

“I love you,” he says and raises his head to meet your gaze. “I love you and it’s been nearly four months since we’ve gotten together, and I haven’t been able to tell you that. Any time I’ve tried, you’d cut me off. I thought it was a coincidence at first but even now I can see the panic in your eyes. Did I rush you into this? Do you not like me like I like you?”

You try not to avert your eyes because he might get the wrong impression, but you can’t help it. You look down at the blanket.

You can’t deny he’s not entirely wrong. It wasn’t a coincidence. Your heart would race anxiously anytime he’d start saying those three words. However, it wasn’t his fault you felt this way.

“No, and I… It’s not you, Seungcheol,” you say.

“Did someone say something to you about me? About us?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“I’m… scared,” you finally confess quietly.

“Of me?” he asks, pain in his voice that feeds the growing guilt in your chest.

“No,” you say. “Of making it real.”

Seungcheol squeezes your hand. “We are real. This is real. You, me, together. It’s been four months since making it real.”

His voice is strained from worry and confusion.

You nod and swallow the lump in your throat.

“I’m scared that if I say it, then I’ll be too attached. Too dependent,” you say.

You’re scared that he’ll leave you one day. 

You learned that depending on people only ends in disappointment. You had leaned on your mother, and she left. You had leaned on your father, and he withdrew. You had tried to lean on your old friends and boyfriends, and they’re no longer by your side. The only constant has been Dae, but that wasn’t an easy journey. For Seoah, she’s always been here but has never been close. No thanks to you. Though, you’ve been trying to change that lately. You wonder if Seungcheol will join that list in the future. It would be easier to move on if you didn’t feel so strongly about him.

But even as you tell yourself this, you know it won’t matter.

You’ve already given him a piece of your heart unconsciously. 

“That’s a bad thing?” he asks. “I want you to want me. I want you to confide in me.”

You want to do all those things. It sounds so nice to be able to rely on someone for once. Though any time you’ve nearly caved in, things would go awry. People would leave.

Seungcheol covers the back of your hand with his other. His warmth races up your arm and to your heart.

“I’m not going to hurt you or leave you. Don’t put me in the same category as them,” he says softly.

You bite your lip as you try to push past your fears to believe him. You want to, but it’s not easy to do. It’s not a switch that can be flipped.

“I’ll try not to,” you whisper.

Seungcheol takes a deep breath, then releases it gradually.

You’re not sure if he’s pleased with the answer, but it’s the best you can offer for now.

“I don't want to rush you. I know, or at least I think, you love me too,” he says, “but at least let me say it. I know it’s not easy for you to say it, and I know actions are important too, but I want to tell you it more. Please let me.”

You nod slowly. Maybe if you surround yourself with love, it’ll get easier to show and say it. Even if you try to deny it, you know you love him. And while that scares you, the severity of which you love him scares you more.

Seungcheol lifts your chin so he can see your face.

“I love you, Cherry,” he murmurs.

Your heart flips at his sincerity. It still makes you nervous, but there’s also a bubbly feeling that you focus on instead. While he looks so honest, there’s a hint of desperation. He wants to hear it. 

Your eyes drop down.

“I love you too,” you say quietly. 

Seungcheol exhales almost a sigh of relief. He raises your chin again with a smile.

“Wanna try that again and look at me?” he asks, a little playfully to calm your nerves.

You fidget under his stare. Shaking your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and burrow your face.

“Maybe next time,” you mumble. “For now, it’s just I love you.”

Seungcheol chuckles and engulfs your body in a tight hug. He pulls you into his lap and gently rocks you back and forth.

He kisses the side of your head tenderly and says, “I love you too, baby.”

You hum, snuggling closer into his warmth. You hope his words are true. You hope one day you can give yourself fully to him—to love him without worries. You just need time.

Hopefully, Seungcheol is patient.

A/N: I've got a few more fics of this couple lined up that I'm eager to share with you all! I don't want to post them all at once, but know they're on the horizon!!! 💗 hehe

Taglist: @musingsofananxiouspotato, @christinewithluv, @lockburn-castle, @iammisstora, @maknae00, @morklee02, @kittyhui, @aeerio, @cherrylovescheol, @ellllsia, @gyuguys

©️hongcherry // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

[dixieconley]

How did Obi-Wan not notice the thing with R2D2?? And what if he did?

Obi-Wan: We need to talk about your issues with attachment. Anakin: ::panicking, thinking Obi-Wan's found out about his marriage:: You had a relationship with Satine Kryze! Obi-Wan: … And Ki-Adi-Mundi is married. Jedi can have relationships, Anakin. We've talked about this. Anakin: … I think I would have remembered that.

[Many many past conversations: Obi-Wan: ::lecturing:: Attachment… the code… meditation. Anakin: ::busy tinkering:: Yes, yes, master. Whatever you say, master. Obi-Wan: This is fine. This absolutely will not come back to bite me in the ass later.]

Obi-Wan: Regardless, we need to talk about your attachment issues. Anakin: What issues? You just *said* marriage is okay. Obi-Wan: ::derailed:: What's that about marriage? Anakin: This isn't about me and Padme being married? Obi-Wan: … Obi-Wan: No. Anakin: This is about what I did when my mom died then, isn't it? Obi-Wan: … Anakin: ::getting defensive:: They deserved it! Tuskens are animals. Obi-Wan: ::rubbing his nose:: Anakin. Stop guessing. You're literally making this worse with every word out of your mouth. There happens to be a Tusken Jedi. You've *met* him. Anakin:: ::sheepish:: Oh. So, um, what's this about then? ::finally listening for the first time in the past three years:: Obi-Wan: I came here to talk to you about the salvage operation you ran to rescue R2D2. Anakin: ::puzzled:: Master? You ordered me to go on that mission. Obi-Wan: ::pinching his nose:: Anakin, you do realize that the mission would have been completely unnecessary had you just wiped the droid as per procedure? Anakin: But R2's my buddy. I wouldn't do that to him. Obi-Wan: You got all but two of the men who went with you killed in an attempt to rescue a droid! Anakin: So? I would have done the same for Padme. Or Ahsoka, Obi-Wan: … Obi-Wan: You see no issue in trading sentient lives for an inanimate object. That, Anakin is the very definition of attachment and why you either see a mind healer or go to Jedi jail. Anakin: What? You can't make me see a mind healer! Obi-Wan: You're right. Jedi Jail it is. Anakin: Noooo! I'm gonna tell my good friend the Chancellor on you! Obi-Wan: ::fed-up with everything and feeling both sassy and sarcastic:: Oh, and what's he going to do, order the clones to turn on us and massacre all the Jedi right down to the initiates in the creche? The Force: ::shouting:: YES!!! Obi-Wan:: ::facepalm:: That absolutely came back and bit me in the ass.

Later: Cody: You have a Jedi jail? Obi-Wan: No. Cody: Sir? Obi-Wan: Seemed like a safe bet. ::bitter: He obviously ignored everything else I tried to teach him. Cody: Jedi can marry? Obi-Wan: Yes. Cody: Jedi. As in you. Obi-Wan: As in... Cody: ::suddenly two inches closer:: Obi-Wan: ::squeaking:: Me? Cody: ::smoulders:: Obi-Wan: After the war. Chain of command. Would be inappropriate. Because reasons. Cody: I see.

Two days later: Fox: ::eyeing the assortment of munitions Cody's just laid on his desk, including, but not limited to, slug throwers, thermal detonators, a handful of droid poppers and a rotary cannon:: So you say that the chancellor's a direct threat to the military command of the GAR and that I get to kill him if I agree to mute my external audio pickup and follow your orders? Cody: Yes. Is there a problem? ::looms menacingly:: Fox: ::jumps up:: No takesies backsies! Thorn! Thire! It's Lifeday and Cody's just got us all a present!

~~~

Palps gets wrekt. The Corries have the Best. Day. Ever.

Cody and Obi-Wan swear the riduurok. No one is surprised.

The mind healers ending *building* a Jedi jail just so they don't have to listen to Anakin whine any longer. (R2D2 has the option of joining Anakin. Which, no. C3PO is welcome to that. R2D2 is having none of that shit. Time to head back to his original family -- the handmaidens of Naboo. Who will let him have a little murder. As a treat.)

[vxiphoid]

EXIXIR OF EMOTIONS

❨ summary ❩ genshin › more than friends? moments. is he feeling too much or too little?

tags ✧ gn!reader, fluff, modern au (?), friends to lovers, y’all are dorks, the sweetest of feelings.

amanuensis’ message ⊹ y’all are not just friends babes, smooch.

⌜ O.7+ ⌟

♫ lover boy - phum viphurit

genshin masterlist

CUDDLING.

“you’ll put me to sleep at this rate.”

“its not like i’m going anywhere anytime soon. i like you here, in this moment. just sleep.”

— there’s absolutely nothing better than hearing your beating heart while he rests over you. no better feeling than your hands carding through his hair, braiding a few small pieces he was sure not to remove. he listens to your absentminded humming, your muted whispers about how soft his hair is, and the delighted thrum of your heart. his hand finds your unoccupied one and you were quick to interlock fingers, a reassuring squeeze following shortly after. maybe a small nap wouldn’t be so bad, little did he know you weren’t that far behind him.

AETHER, kaveh, WANDERER, zhongli, shikanoin heizou, BAIZHU, ayato, gorou, venti.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ─ ╴⋯ ⟢

LATE NIGHT TALKS.

u up? ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀2:23 am (read)

been up ever since i heard your ringtone, are you alright? ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ 2:23 am (read)

— you have a different ringtone from everyone else in his contacts for times like this. honestly, it doesn’t matter if you want to rant, call, or even plan something like going for a walk, his answer will always be yes. its the yearning need to hear you laugh over the phone, even if he did see you three hours ago. babble on about the first thing that comes to your mind, watching you light up as you spoke. he’s sure he has heart eyes as his pupils as he takes you in for the umpteenth time tonight.

XIAO, DILUC, childe, kaedehara kazuha, shikanoin heizou.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ─ ╴⋯ ⟢

LISTENING TO HIM GEEK OUT.

“sorry, i’m talking your ear off.”

“no, keep talking. i love your voice. what happened then?”

— its the complete adoration and love swirling in your eyes that makes him lose his train of thought. he notices when he turns to see if you’re still following, the smile adorning your face spreads wider under his gaze. what are you trying to do? give him a heart attack? don’t look at him like that (please do, he’s literally in shambles.) you’re so willing to listen to him even when you dont understand the topic. give me a night, ill have it all memorized and we can talk about it together, you’d say. how could you be so perfect?

ITTO, KAEYA, thoma, ALHAITHAM, tighnari, CYNO.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ─ ╴⋯ ⟢

D.I.YING CLOTHES TOGETHER.

“and then the needle goes through here…”

“please don’t poke yourself—”

— you texted him about some moss embroidery on a sweater you had saw on pinterest and he was already on his way to pick you up and run to the nearest store for yarn and string. he found two old similar sweaters in the depths of his drawers and you were quick to get to work. he could barely pay attention to his own stuff because your shoulder kept brushing his… by the end of it, made with your hello kitty bandaged fingers, on the very end of his sleeve was his own embroidered moss and your initial.

AETHER, BAIZHU, albedo, VENTI, kaveh, zhongli.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ─ ╴⋯ ⟢

DANCING TOGETHER.

“no but, what if i fall? that would be embarrassing.”

“i would catch you. always.”

— having his hand interlocked with yours has never felt so faultless, he’s been close but never this close. the amount of times he’s wanted to play with your hands but refuse because of the fear of making you uncomfortable yet you seemed so at ease grabbing his hands to mess with his knuckles at any given time. your hand that was splayed out on his chest traced little hearts into the fabric while you studied his face. for a second, he swore you leaned in.. that was until you stumbled on his foot. instincts kicked in quicker than he could react, tugging you flush against him. well that was embarrassing… even then, both your laughter, firstly stiffed, echoed throughout the atmosphere.

ALHAITHAM, ayato, DAINSLEIF, tighnari, KAEYA, THOMA.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ─ ╴⋯ ⟢

KISSING HIS SCARS.

“why do you do this?”

“i want you to know i accept every part of you.”

— weither that be his hands, his arms, back, neck, waist, there’s no place that your lips don’t leave a tingling feeling upon his skin. it’s how you say hello, its how you say goodbye, it’s so frequent he finds himself counting the mere seconds of the intimate interaction. how you lingered for a second longer one day or a second less the next. you’ve found scars on him where he didn’t even know he had-including the invisible scar you insisted he had on the corner of his mouth that you’d pecked last.

AETHER, albedo, childe, CYNO, dainsleif, DILUC, gorou, itto, KAEDEHARA KAZUHA, XIAO, WANDERER.

[littlereddream]

Biomimicry, anyone?

Reader is gn in this one, little coffee shop meet cute with Jason and reader. I didn’t even know biomimicry was an actually major prior to looking a few things up for this fic. The more you know!

Click.

Click.

Click.

Scratch.

Nope, no good.

Riiiippp.

One more try.

Scratch.

Pause.

Shhhhk!

With a groan, you fall back in your seat at the booth, hoping the paper you’re glaring at can feel enough of your frustration to suddenly supply you with all of the answers to your problems. It wasn’t like you wanted to be sitting in an empty cafe close to midnight working on homework for a class you don’t even take. You thought you’d be done hours ago, the assignment seeming so easy when your friend initially begged you to do it for her so she could attend her sister’s wedding.

Said friend fully neglected to let you know that the assignment required detailed notes from the related four hour long lecture. The same notes she forgot to give you before apparently losing all signal that would allow her to send them to you.

So.

Teaching yourself the lesson from a class you’ve never even considered taking isn’t the easiest task. It’s time consuming, exhausting, and, most of all, boring. It’s what has you offhandedly doodling alternative ideas for your celebrity signature in the corner of your page. At least, that’s what you were doing before you pressed the pen into the page too hard and tore half of it apart.

The old woman who runs the cafe took pity on you ages ago, supplying you with an endless amount of white macadamia cookies while you work. On the house, she insisted. The green discoloration on the edge of the cookies told a different story of her reason for giving them away so easily.

You pick up the pen to try again, this time turning your attention back to the assignment directions sitting on your laptop screen, when a bell chimes into the otherwise quiet space.

The later the night, the fewer customers visit the shop. Most people don’t dare tempt the idea of walking this end of the city, especially not when it’s this dark out. The civilians feared the criminals, the criminals feared the Bats. It’s that same, seemingly endless food chain that has every sensible person who can help it steering clearly of nightly escapades.

Clearly, the man who just walked in has just as poorly sensible as you.

He’s the typical, shady Gotham figure. Thick jacket, hood turned up, hands stuffed into pockets, and head angled down. He’s either about to pull out a weapon to threaten Miss. Aublergine with or demand a pre-agreed upon payment from her.

Neither of those possibilities warrant the old woman’s response. It’s enough to ease your tension, the way she lights up entirely upon seeing him.

You’re sat close enough to hear most of their conversation, abandoning the tricky assignment in favor of listening in.

“You! I’ve been wondering when you’d stop by this week,” she scolds, pulling out a small paper bag from under the counter to drop fresh, warm chocolate chip cookies into.

You can’t really see the man’s face from where you’re sat, but you can make out the minute shrug of his shoulders.

“Got busy,” he says.

You can see him pull out a leather wallet, but Miss. Aublergine is quick to slap away his hand from dropping cash into the tip jar.

“I’ve told you, I don’t want your money. If you really want to pay me back, get the loner sitting back there out of my shop so I can close already.”

She’s leveling you with a knowing look, hands on her hips and a single brow raised, and you drop your gaze back to your laptop. Either you were too obvious of an eavesdropper or she had the eyes of a hawk. Probably a mix of both.

“Yes, okay, message received. I’ll head out now,” you mumble.

While you’re busy gathering all the papers in a neat stack, you can just barely make out the muted conversation happening some feet away. Not enough to understand what’s being said, unfortunately. A few seconds later, footsteps echo over tile to where you’re sat, and worn out boots enter your field of vision. Hoodie dude.

You look up, right into alert green eyes. Green eyes that are focused on the laptop still out on the table.

“Need any help?”

Huh?

Oh.

“Not unless you happen to know anything about biomimicry,” you huff.

He smiles, and what a sight it is indeed. “I do, actually. Mind if I…?”

Too late, you realize that he’s gesturing to the empty seat next to you. At your nod, he lowers himself down.

With his help, the missing lecture notes suddenly don’t seem all that important anymore, every gap in your resources filled by the knowledge he just happens to have. He seems engrossed in the work, hardly paying attention to you next to him as he explains everything. At some point, his hood comes down. At another, your shoulders relax.

Somewhere between both of those points, you’ve both inched a little closer.

No one else enters the cafe for the entirety of the time you and him are sat together. It’s like the world around you has gone silent, sound itself pausing to give the both of you space to breathe.

And then you’re shutting the laptop with a relieved sigh, paper written and assignment finished. Neither of you move right away, but soon enough you start to pack the laptop away with the rest of the papers. It gives him an opening to stand, and when you look back up, the hood is back on.

“Thank you,” you say.

He seems genuinely surprised that you’re still talking to him, enough for his response to take a second longer than it should.

“It’s no problem. Glad I could help.”

He steps back a little, giving you enough space to slide out of the booth yourself.

“You really did. I have no idea how I was gonna get that done myself. Before this, I had no idea biomimicry was an actual major.”

He angles his head to the side a little. “Not your homework?”

“Nope. Friend of mine needed help.”

He gives an understanding nod, and the two of you are thrown back into silence. With a glance outside, it seems the night’s only gotten darker.

“I gotta head out, thanks again.”

Slinging your backpack over your shoulder, you’re stopped by his hand around your wrist. It’s instinct to snatch your arm back, but by the look of his face, the way he’s staring at his hand like it doesn’t belong to him, he hadn’t even realized he’d done it.

“Sorry. I just- sorry. Um.”

Somewhere outside, far off into another block entirely, a car alarm echoes down the street.

“You’re walking home?” He asks.

To give the random, still suspicious stranger who helped you with homework the answer to a possibly identifying question, or not.

“Yeah?”

He looks uneasy at that, eyeing the street outside the glass windows like they’re personally whispering threats into his ears.

“It’s late.” He points out.

“I noticed.”

“Dangerous neighborhood.”

“Noted and confirmed.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes in a way that suggests he’s seconds away from dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m saying, you shouldn’t be walking alone.”

Suspicious, suspicious man.

“Walked here just fine, didn’t I?” You reply.

He gives you an unimpressed look. “At a much earlier time, I’m sure.”

Finally, you decide to do you both a favor and beat at the bush instead of around it.

“If this is you trying to walk me home, I think I’m gonna pass. I appreciate the offer and all your help, but I don’t even know your name and I’d rather take my chances walking alone.”

Too harsh? Maybe. Possibly. He did just help you. Should you take it back? Say something else to soften your words? He doesn’t give you the chance to.

“Oh, right. I got it, no problem. Sorry. Be careful, no shortcuts,” He rambles, sincere and apologetic. You almost feel bad, if not for the fact that Gotham’s taught you how much better it is to be safe than to be sorry.

Just as you’re about to leave, a cough rings out from behind the register. There’s the old lady, hacking up a storm and making odd flapping motions with her hands. What- oh. She’s waving you over.

It takes five seconds for you to cross the distance over to the counter and one second for Miss. Aublergine to pull you closer by the arm to where you can just barely hear her whisper.

“Jason has been coming here almost every week for the past few months. He always tries to tip me extra, sometimes comes in with his brothers or sister,” she trails off, taking a second to return to her original thought. “Point is, I know him. He’s a good kid, not a single bad intention in him. Let him walk you home,” she hisses.

You falter, looking behind you to where the man—Jason, apparently— is closely examining the specks of dust on a nearby table. His gaze lifts to catch yours, then immediately returns to the table. He’s as bad at hiding his eavesdropping as you are.

You trust Miss. Aublergine. You know she wouldn’t throw you to the wolves if she knew better.

One last encouraging look from Miss. Aublergine has you turning back and walking over to where Jason is now overwhelmingly interested in the marble tile. You stop in front of him, aiming for an easy smile.

“Still up to walk me home?”

With a matching smile, though it seems like it takes a little effort, Jason nods.

“Of course.”

[colorfulbard]

Sacrifice

‿︵‿꒰͜͡ ♡ ͜͡꒱‿︵‿︵‿︵‿꒰͜͡ ♡ ͜͡꒱‿︵‿︵‿︵‿꒰͜͡ ♡ ͜͡꒱‿︵‿

Summary♥︎ A forced visit to Whole Cake Island takes a turn for the worst when Big Mom is experiencing hunger pangs while Katakuri is away on a mission.

Pairing♥︎ Katakuri x Fem!Reader

warnings♥︎ Reader has kids with Katakuri, angst at the end

a/n♥︎ I've been starving for some more Katakuri fics so I had to take matters into my own hands. I put that warning because I know some people don't like reading fanfic where the reader has kids. Don't worry there will be a part 2!

‿︵‿꒰͜͡ ♡ ͜͡꒱‿︵‿︵‿︵‿꒰͜͡ ♡ ͜͡꒱‿︵‿︵‿︵‿꒰͜͡ ♡ ͜͡꒱‿︵‿

People always say, "practice makes perfect". That means, the more you do something, the better you'll be. Like baking, for example. If you practice making the same for over twenty years, you would be considered an expert. You might even be running through the steps on autopilot.

But, no matter how many times you've dealt with this scenario, it never became easier. Honestly, it felt harder to deal with each time.

An easy going saying like, "practice makes perfect", doesn't apply when dealing with a tyrannical emperor with deadly hunger pangs.

The steps taken when it began never changed. All high ranking officials were to report to the surveillance room, turn on the video snails, and give orders to anyone available at the Chateau.

Those down at the Chateau were to remain clear of Big Mom and evacuate any and all innocent citizens.

After many, many years, those steps were done in no time at all. And yet, the sick feeling of fear in your stomach never subsided. Your hands were pinned under your arms to keep from biting your nails. Too bad that didn't stop you from biting your lip instead.

You truly hated traveling to the main island for this reason. You longed for your home, back at Komugi island. The one you shared with your husband, Katakuri, and your fifteen children. Peace and quiet may be impossible to come by, but dealing with a child's temper tantrum was preferable to Big Mom's.

Having to deal with this on your own only made your bitter feelings towards the Whole Cake Chateau grow. The initial plan was to travel together, you and Katakuri. He knew how nervous being alone with his mother made you. But those plans were squandered when Big Mom ordered all ministers gather ingredients for her blasted wedding cake. Then, to make matters worse, he was called away on another mission.

Now, because of that string of unfortunate events, he somehow convinced you to bring your two oldest sons with you, Warabiko and Manju. For some reason, you had said yes. Probably just to ease his mind. In return, your mind was not at ease. It was filled to the brim with anxiety.

You took a slow, deep breath. "And we're sure it's not possible to catch the croquembouche that checked out this morning?" You asked slowly to keep your voice steady.

"It doesn't seem plausible. Either way it'd be a half hour."

You wanted to open your mouth to argue, but it was too difficult. The screams of the terrified homies made it impossible to focus. Those screams were keeping you in a continuous state of unease. You couldn't be selfish and mute the video feed. It was imperative for everyone to hear what was happening.

Big Mom was getting further away from the current video snail. It was time to play the waiting game and see when the feed would switch. You looked down at the floor for a moment of respite from staring at the rampaging Emperor.

You clenched your eyes shut. The screams were distant now, but you could still hear them. Your mind unwillingly imagined it as your sons. You knew they were somewhere safe, away from harm. You made sure of that before you reported to the surveillance room. Even so, as the screams continued, your mind took you the worst possible scenario.

You let your head tilt down to face the floor. At least then, if you somehow managed to open your eyes, you wouldn't be facing the screen.

'Kata... Please, come back to me soon..' Tears began to form behind your eyelids when you thought of him. You needed him to be here.

A hand softly landed on your shoulder in an attempt to not startle you. You took that as a nonverbal sign that the video feed switched. You glanced over your shoulder to see Tamago's hand, but he wasn't looking at you. His eyes were locked onto the screen, his mouth agape.

Your brows furrowed, he always seemed much more coolheaded than you in these scenarios, so, why did he look so spooked? Before checking the footage, you glanced at everyone in the room. Their expression matched Tamago's. The air in the room was tense, as if your anxiety had seeped out of your body and infected everyone else.

You finally looked towards the screen. The scene was the same except Big Mom was getting further away. Homies were still trampled and distant screams could be heard as she trampled over more. But you didn't even notice any of those things.

When you spotted what everyone else was staring at, you froze. Your muscles were locked.

Right there, where Big Mom was stomping through moments ago, stood your eldest son. You couldn't see his face, his back was facing away from the snail. He held onto his sword tightly. It was a gift from you and Katakuri on his eighteenth birthday.

Your hand moved on its own to cover your mouth in shock, the other moved to your stomach. Were you breathing? You couldn't feel anything.

Your head shook from side to side. "No." You whimpered.

Static flickered through the screen and then showed an enraged Big Mom rampaging. You breathing hitched when the sight of your son was gone. The silent scene of your son's determination was replaced by helpless homies getting eaten or stomped on.

Every second that was wasted staring, your son was getting closer to Big Mom. Without wasting anymore time, you pushed Tamago's hand from your shoulder and ran out of the room.

The state of the room remained the same as you left. Everyone stayed silent as they continued watching the footage. Too anxious to see what might happen next.

~

When Warabiko finally reached Big Mom, he was horrified. All of citizens of Whole Cake were terrified, running for their lives lest they be squashed under her heel. He had never seen this happen. He now understood why his family's trips to Whole Cake never lasted more than a day.

He remembered that whenever a tea party was held for one his newest siblings, you demanded to leave as soon as it was over. No matter how much his siblings whined about being tired and wanting to sleep on land, you put your foot down. This was his first time being here for over a day, much to your chagrin.

When he grew older and more mature, you told him stories of his grandmother's famous hunger pangs. The stories were short and brief. He could tell you didn't like talking about them. He finally understood why as he watched Big Mom rampage with reckless abandon.

Something in his gut told him to turn back now and hide with his brother. He ignored that feeling. He couldn't stand by and do nothing. With his father away on a mission, the duty of evacuating citizens and calming Big Mom fell on his shoulders. He was going to make his father proud.

Fighting her was out of question, but he could try and reason with her. She had to be willing to listen to his first grandchild, right?

Her path of destruction was never-ending as he got closer to her. He had to be careful. It was clear that when she's this hungry, all of her sense was gone. She didn't care who or what was in her way during her search.

It didn't even matter if it was an innocent little girl. She hadn't even tripped over the rubble, she had tripped over her feet trying to keep up with her mother. The mother hadn't even noticed, too terrified to look back.

The girl shakily stood on her feet and rubbed the debris from her knees. Her heard swayed from side to side to try and spot her mother. She had no idea Big Mom's foot was inches away from crushing her.

Warabiko immediately lunged towards Big Mom's feet and grabbed the girl. He landed on his feet and placed the girl on the ground.

The girl looked up and smiled up at her savior. "Thank you so much!" She cheered, "that was fun!"

She acted like she wasn't just moments away from being killed. Warabiko smothered his feeling of shock down and sighed. "Run away from her and find your mother. It's not safe," he instructed.

The girl nodded with a giggle and ran off, far from Big Mom.

Whilst Warabiko had dealt with the girl, Big Mom had busied herself with eating any homie or building in her way. Her anger grew as each thing she shoved down her throat tasted nothing like her craving.

"Where is it?!" She whined, "where is my croquembouche?!" She punched another building. Nothing but croquembouche could placate her.

"Mama, please! You just have to wait! The chefs will be here soon!"

Warabiko recognized the voice as one of his uncle's, Mont-d'Or. Another one of his uncle's and aunt led citizens away in the opposite direction.

Nothing Mont-d'Or said got through her to her. He was too far away for her to care. Warabiko's jaw clenched and he ran to stand in front of her, arms out. "Grandma, please! You have to stop!" He pleaded.

Big Mom paused and locked eyes with the source of the sound. She snarled and clenched her fist, "who's there?" She questioned.

Warabiko's brows furrowed and he could feel himself grow warm. "I-It's me! Grandma, it's Warabiko!" His voice grew higher in pitch, his hands began to shake, "don't you recognize me?" The question was practically a whisper.

Big Mom growled and swung at where he stood. Warabiko was able to dodge, but not without losing his footing. He fell onto scattered rubble and grunted when it dug into his back.

Mont-d'Or's mouth was open wide in shock the moment he saw Warabiko enter the fray. "M-Mama! Wait!" He pleaded, coming closer. "You have to stop! It's Warabiko! Your grandson!"

Big Mom paid Mont-d'Or's pleading no mind. She was still infuriated that her search for croquembouche was interrupted. "Where is my croquembouche boy?!" She demanded. "All I want is my croquembouche!" She swung at the building next to Warabiko and ate the contents she managed to grab.

The remnants of her snack flew all around. Warabiko turned over on his side and cradled his head. He could hear it land all around him.

Mont-d'Or clenched his jaw as he watched Warabiko cradle himself. He couldn't go over there and try to save him, he'd end up dying too. He just hoped Warabiko was a fast runner.

"Warabiko, you have to run! You can't reason with when she's like this!" He yelled.

Warabiko lifted his head and looked towards his uncle. Judging by the way Mont-d'Or stared at him, he was sure his terror was plain as day. He couldn't move thanks to that terror gripping his muscles. It was affecting his brain, not allowing him to choose between fight or flight. Maybe Big Mom wouldn't pay him any mind if he stayed silent.

She was still there, right behind him. Warabiko didn't have to turn his head to know that. He could practically feel her breathing down his neck. The only part of his body that managed to move was his spine as shivers went down it. She wasn't moving away from him. Her gaze was burning into his back.

Big Mom's breathing grew stronger and he could smell the sweets emanating from it.

Warabiko somehow willed his head to move back to look at his grandmother. His next breath was caught in his throat when he locked eyes with her.

Her scowl was gone. In its place was a sickening grin. Her eyes were unrecognizable, they were glazed over and crazed. Drool was dripping down her chin and she stared at him.

She leaned closer to his face. "Life..." She whispered, giggling like a mad woman, "or treat?"

Warabiko couldn't answer even if he wanted to. The words were caught in his throat, choking him. He could only watch as his grandmother raised her first high in the air.

He knew what his grandmother's fruit was capable of, his father had told him. His father had probably hoped he would take it as a warning to stay away. Too bad he didn't listen.

Everything began to slow down. His mother's first was taking minutes to reach him and Mont-d'Or's yelling was indistinguishable. Typically, these were the moments where one's life would flash before their eyes. Oddly enough, that didn't happen. He only saw one thing. It was you. His sweet mother, smiling down at him. Your eyes crinkled as you smiled. They were the same color as his own. That was the only feature you two shared.

From his point of view, he could see his hands attempt to grab your face. They were so small here. He must've been a baby. This was a memory he didn't even realize he had.

You were giggling at his futile attempts. You brushed his cheek with your finger and began to sing.

La la lu

La la lu

Oh, my little star sweeper

Your voice was so soft and sweet. His eyes began to droop as your singing lulled him to sleep. The warmth of your arms was seeping through the soft blanket touching his skin. He recognized the blanket. It was his favorite, handmade by you. Each of siblings had one similar to it, a different color for each one.

He could feel you moving him about the room, swaying him. Through his half lidded eyes, he could see his father standing at the corner of the room. The scarf was gone, and he was smiling.

It was such a nice, warm memory. It was perfect for falling asleep. Warabiko kept forcing his eyes open to stay awake, but your voice was so comforting. It reminded him of the warm donuts you made, fresh out of the oven on a quiet morning.

There was no harm in closing his eyes, he'll see you again when he woke up. His small body went limp in your arms as his eyes began to close without fight.

His body was mere milliseconds away from relaxing into a comfy sleep. Until a sharp jab at his side forced him awake. The warmth of the memory was gone. Whatever it was that hit him launched far from where he previously was.

Warabiko was on high alert now. Big Mom was still angry, still searching for croquembouche. He shakily stood on his feet with a hand on the side where he was jabbed. He glanced back to where he remembered seeing his uncle's and aunt.

Physically, he could see they weren't hurt. But their faces held a different story. They were terrified, all color was drained from their faces. It was odd considering Mont-d'Or and Opera's skin tone.

Warabiko dared follow their gaze and he soon wished he hadn't. His heart stopped and ice filled his veins, making him freeze in place.

He didn't even notice nor hear Big Mom stomp away in the opposite direction, demanding croquembouche. In that moment, in his mind, everything was quiet.

A mirror image of his eyes was staring straight into his own. That familiar color he always saw in the mirror was drained away, and only white remained.

The only movement that was seen wasn't a sign of life. It was just your body falling to the ground. The sound of it reverberated throughout the whole Chateau.

Warabiko would hear that sound in his nightmares.

[wndaswife]

be my baby

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

tags: smut, d/s, infidelity, dumbification, strap-on, masturbation, manipulation, possessive & jealous behaviour, fingering, overstimulation, somnophilia, degradation, praise, mommy kink, dom!stepmom!wanda maximoff, sub!stepdaughter!reader. MINORS DNI.

word count: 12 505

summary: despite her controlling nature and possessive behaviour, your stepmother has always cared for you, and she'd do anything to show you just how much she does.

a/n: this gif makes me feel things

gif credit to creator.

Your stepmother had always been a bit controlling. Your father had never had an issue with it because he saw his wife’s ceaseless coddling of you to be a sign of the two of you getting along. 

You had no real problem with her. She was touchy and, at times, overbearing, but she was more concerned with you than your own father, or anyone else, had ever been. Several times during the day when you were doing work in your room, Wanda would come upstairs with a plate of cut and peeled fruit, dinner you hadn’t come down for, cups of freshly brewed tea and coffee. She truly did care for you.

Although completely capable of paying for yourself, Wanda would buy your food and all your things when you went shopping with her. She picked out clothes she imagined you’d look nice in. Once, she held up a skimpy two-piece bikini for you to try on. You flushed bright red and tried turning your focus away from the woman who responded by repositioning the swimwear in front of your face.

She ended up buying it for you anyways when you were looking around the other side of the store.

What was initially seen by you as entirely too questionable and intrusive was eventually meshed into sweet, considerate gestures that made your heart swell and turned your limbs into jelly. It was normal to feel this way, Wanda had told you when you shied away from her wandering hands. This was a typical relationship for close stepmothers and daughters, and you knew nothing else but what Wanda told you when she whispered it softly in your ear as if it was an intimate promise between the two of you.

Wanda would place her hand on your leg under the dinner table, squeezing your thigh occasionally to remind you that she was holding you. The warmth of her curious hands grew to be a comfort, massaging your shoulders while you studied, pulling you backwards against the curve of her body by your hips while you washed dishes.

Despite her evident fondness for you, you tiptoed around your stepmother as stepdaughters often did. 

On the night of your friend’s birthday party, you crept downstairs to the living room where you could hear your father and stepmother watching television together. You eyed the front door and all but slithered towards it, your steps muted and your breathing at a halt. 

Then, a reprimand from behind you that caused you to restrain a groan, “Is this what you’re wearing?”

You turned slowly, trying to hold on to the little hope you had left that your presence would slip from Wanda and your father’s minds within the next several seconds. When you faced your stepmother from across the living room, her expression was cold and wildly judgemental, the corner of her mouth twitching as she held back further criticism that was no doubt sitting on her tongue, ready to be spat out.

Humming cautiously while you looked down at yourself, you answered, almost too quiet to hear, “Yes…?” But Wanda heard it. Of course she did. You looked back up, every movement slow and careful as to not rile her up. When your eyes found her, she had looked away from you. She was watching television again, your father’s arm wrapped around her shoulders as he called something over to you about being safe when you went out for the party. 

But your eyes were on Wanda. Her expression and body language seemed all but docile, but the clenching of her jaw and the tapping of her fingers on the side of her thigh indicated that a significant portion of her previous disagreement towards your outfit remained.

Deciding that you didn’t want to deal with her anger, even if you could push it back for when you came home, you headed back upstairs, trying not to make your contempt evident in the way you dropped your bag right onto the floor before you went to change. 

Wanda watched as you went back up to your room, eyes narrowed at your clenched fists. “I’ll talk to her,” she muttered to your father before standing up and following after you. She picked your bag up from the ground, eyes pinned on the stream of light coming from your ajar bedroom door. Once arriving at the top of the stairs, Wanda eyes landed on your undressed body beyond your slightly agape door. Her eyes flashed with mirth before she backed out of sight.

You were in a pretty lace set that Wanda got for you. When she gifted it to you for your birthday, she ensured that she had only wanted to make you happy, and despite your stubborn timidity, you couldn’t hide the way you loved how she took care of you. Wanda took her phone from her pocket and took a few photos of your cute little body, zooming in especially on your ass and the perfect swells of your breasts. Her pretty girl.

Once you had slipped on a black long-sleeved dress that reached your knees, Wanda stepped into your room with your bag in hand. You were standing in front of your vanity, bent over slightly to put new earrings on in the mirror to match your dress.

“Thank you for changing, lyubov,” Wanda said, placing your bag down on your bed. You watched as Wanda approached you from behind through your mirror. Her hips were pressed against your ass and you flinched forward, but your stepmother was quick to place your hands on her waist and pull you upwards so your back was flush against her front. The swift movement made you gasp and Wanda ran her hands up and down your sides soothingly in response.

With her arms still around your body, she slipped a few of her rings from her fingers. Rings held into one hand and her other holding your wrist up, Wanda began sliding her rings onto your fingers, slow and tantalising. Arousal grew within you, you causing you to buck your ass back into her hips. She switched to your other hand, your newly ring-clad fingers holding onto her wrist loosely. When she was finished, she lifted your hands up to kiss your knuckles. “Home by eleven, sweetheart,” Wanda reminded you, her hands returning to your sides as she looked at you through the mirror.

Wanda had set a curfew for you when she married your father. She laid down a lot of rules once she became part of your small family, and your father cared little to pose any arguments to her sudden possessiveness over his daughter. You had initially protested when she enforced things like curfews as you were a college student, and not even your father had set one for you since you were thirteen. But she always found a way to convince you. 

Your shoulders relaxed entirely when she cupped your face with her warm hands while you had your foot down in adamant disagreement. She stared down at you tenderly before pulling you into a tight, protective hug. ‘I’m only worried for you, angel,’ she had told you. ‘You’re such a delicate, pretty thing. I’d never be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you.’ You closed your eyes once she finally convinced you, letting Wanda hold you while you finally conceded.

You nodded and turned your head to look at her. Wanda smiled down at you, pride growing within her at your submission evident in the way her eyes ran down your face. 

“Come home early, baby. Let’s watch a movie together when you get back. It’s your pick tonight,” Wanda told you. When you nodded again, she let go of you and headed back to your bed to pick up your bag and hand it to you. You missed the warmth of her body, but her arm was soon wrapped around your waist as the two of you left your bedroom to walk downstairs. 

You exchanged quick goodbyes with your father before Wanda led you out onto the front porch. She tucked your hair behind your ear and you tensed. Wanda giggled at your timidity. You were so cute.

“Do you need me to give you a ride?” she asked you, running her fingers through your hair. Your eyes avoided Wanda’s as her undivided attention was retained on you.

“Um,” you hesitated, “I’m okay. I’m going to walk to the store and Monica is going to pick me up from there.” Wanda never liked when you brought your friends up around her. You weren’t sure why she detested every friend you’d brought up around her, although you never asked, but she bristled visibly whenever you mentioned them and often snuck in snarky remarks about them at any given opportunity.

“She’s not just going to pick you up from here? She’s making you walk?” Wanda asked, eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed. Her blatant bewilderment at the idea of someone having you walk instead of offering you a ride spread warmth throughout your body. You almost hoped Wanda would pull you into her chest again and comfort you about the smallest things, including having to walk to the convenience store.

‘Oh, baby, it’s going to be okay. You’re a big girl, aren’t you? You can do it, sweetheart,’ she would say, petting your head and muttering sweet things into your ear.

It was normal to fantasise about those things about your stepmother, wasn’t it? Wanda always assured you that it was.

You tried to explain, mentioning your friends as little as possible, “I think I just want to bring a few drinks since I’m coming in a bit late, and Monica won't be able to pick me up for another ten minutes.”

“Let me drive you instead. You don’t have to wait for Monica,” Wanda insisted. There was something possessive about her offer, but you disregarded it.

“No, it’s alright, really,” you replied. “I need the walk.”

She raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. Fine,” she gave in. “Text me the address of the party, please. Now. So you don't forget to do it later.”

You tried to restrain your fingers’ trembling as you acted quickly in response to Wanda’s demand, taking your phone out of your pocket and opening your conversation up with her. You typed in the address and you could feel Wanda watching you as you did. Once it was sent, your stepmother pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“That’s a good girl,” she praised. You blushed and hid your reddened face from her. Wanda cupped your cheek. “Be safe. Text me if you need anything.”

Monica picked you up at the store after you bought a case of beer. The party was as good as parties typically were when you met up with your closest friends. You had a fun, easy time with them, dodging needy men and drinking enough that the hours slipped into minutes. Wanda’s curfew sped past you, forgotten in the myriad of flashing lights and perpetual movement that meshed together in the pocket of time that was a party. 

Pulling you back down to the ground where time suddenly returned to existence, Wanda forced her way through the party you were at. The moment she stepped through the crowd and laid her eyes on you, you were circled by familiar and unfamiliar faces and a man feeling you up. His hand was placed on your knee, slowly pushing his way up your thigh and under your dress. 

Scattered wolf whistles went unnoticed by you as Wanda pushed through several more people and wasted no more time in storming forward and taking your wrist in her hand. She forced you up and dragged you out of the house. You were being forced away from the man and your friends before you could even protest. Several drinks spilled from the sudden aggressive action until you were finally out of the house and in front of Wanda’s car down the crowded street. 

“Wanda? What are you doing here?” you asked, finally coming to your senses and now able to question what was happening. 

She opened the car door and shoved you in before getting into the driver’s side. Once slamming the door shut, she took hold of your jaw and forced you to look at her. “I’ve told you that you aren’t permitted to stay out past eleven, and you’ve blatantly disobeyed me. It’s one in the morning and you smell like booze. I come to pick you up, worried for you, and there’s a man sitting next to you with his hand up your dress. First, you won’t let me drive you, and now, this? How am I supposed to react, Y/N?” She lets go of your jaw and she cups your cheek softly.

“Is this what my little girl’s become?” Her very stare is condescending as she looks down at you, eyes narrowed as if she was scolding a child. “I expected to see my sweet angel when I came to see you tonight, hoping that you had just lost track of time like the little bimbo you are, and what I saw was you whoring yourself out like some needy bitch. Is that what you are? Hm?”

“No, mommy, please,” you begged, leaning up to hug her, begging her for her forgiveness. She loved when you called her that, and that was often her weak spot, but Wanda was persistent tonight.

“That’s not what I saw, sweetheart.” Her thumb stroked your cheekbone. “Have any of those men fucked you?”

You shook your head so hard you became lightheaded.

A small gratified smile formed on Wanda’s lips and you felt the weight in your stomach lift. “That’s what I like to hear, baby.” Her hand left your face and she started the car. 

“Are you still mad at me?” you asked, your voice just above a whisper. 

Both of Wanda’s hands found the wheel and she drove down the street, heading home. “Yes. But I know you’re just an idiotic, brainless girl. I’ll find a way to expect less of you next time.” 

You sunk down in your seat dejectedly, the heavy feeling of having disappointed your mother outweighing any concern of the scene that happened at the party. You hardly thought about it at all as you stole a few glances of Wanda throughout the ride, her expression stone-cold and still. “Do we still get to watch a movie?”

Wanda shook her head and you watched intently as her eyes were focused on the road home. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Not only do you not deserve time with me anymore, but you need to get your sleep,” she told you.

Even while angry with you, and disappointed, even, your stepmother was still thinking of you. A small smile pulled at your lips as you turned to look out the window, now comfortable with the feeling in Wanda’s car. Things were always better around her. Sometimes, you wondered why you ever chose to do anything but be by her side, to allow yourself to be shaped in her preference- in her hands. Everything was warmer there.

Perhaps, if they heard about it, your friends would ridicule your relationship with Wanda, but you couldn’t find yourself caring about what other people might think of the way she cared for you like you were her little pet. If Wanda asked for it, you’d make her your entire world without a second thought to it, doing nothing without her permission, your head filled with only the warm thoughts she put there.

When the two of you got home, the lights in the house were completely dimmed, making you think about how Wanda must’ve been waiting for you to come home at the curfew time you’d agreed to. You ducked behind her guiltily as she took her jacket off and locked the front door. As if you were a lost puppy, you trailed behind her as she headed upstairs, and eventually, to your bedroom.

“Where’s dad?” you questioned quietly, simply watching as your stepmother dug through your dresser for your pyjamas. 

“Sleeping. Where else?” Wanda answered dismissively, tossing your clothes on your bed. She put her hands on her hips and glared at you. You shied away under her stare. If he was asleep, it meant that she had truly been waiting for you, for two entire hours. She really did like spending time with her precious girl. “You need to change,” she told you before leaving your bedroom. “Then come to the washroom.”

You did what she asked of you as quickly as you could, not wanting to keep her any longer than you already had tonight. By the time you joined Wanda in the washroom, you were in the pretty nightgown she chose for you, bought by her a few weeks ago, your hair brushed through. You stepped forward cautiously, but Wanda was quick to put an arm around your shoulders and pull you into her. 

“Open,” she commanded simply, looking down at you as your head laid against her chest. You parted your lips immediately and a toothbrush was pushed into your mouth. Wanda began brushing your teeth for you, ridding you of the scent of booze that your stepmother hated when you’d been drinking around anyone other than her. “Since you can’t do anything on your own, mommy has to brush your teeth for you.” Wanda’s words were reprimanding, but the tone she took was soft. Her eyes, looking over your sleepy face as you were hugged against her body, were warm in admiration. 

What sounded like an apology was muffled out of you, but Wanda clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, silencing you.

Wanda continued to coo soft praises as she brushed your teeth gently, her arm wrapped around your shoulders securely as your body was hugged against her. “Doesn’t it feel better to be here with mommy, baby?”

You nodded.

She pouted in feigned sympathy, her eyebrows furrowing together as she nodded in response. “See, you’re not so dumb. My pretty princess can be smart, too.”

Wanda pulled the toothbrush from your mouth and rinsed it under the running sink. She leaned you forward, instructing into your ear, “Spit.” You did while Wanda took a makeup wipe from its package and pulled you upwards with an arm around your waist. The cold wipe was pressed to your face, and you realised that Wanda was taking your makeup off for you. You smiled at the realisation and an overwhelming urge to fall forward and lay your head on her shoulder came over you. But you wanted to be good for your stepmother, so you stayed still and closed your eyes while she removed your mascara, her other hand angling your head up with her finger hooked under your chin.

When she was done taking your makeup off, she threw the wipe out and entrusted that you could wash your face on your own. You promised her that you could. She slipped off her rings that you had borrowed from your fingers as slowly and tantalisingly as she had put them on, then left to head into her bedroom.

Everything was excruciatingly silent after that. You turned off the washroom light and stood in the dark hallway, your eyes darting between your bedroom and the other as you wrung your nightgown between your fingers. Taking your bottom lip between your teeth painfully, you took shaky steps forward into Wanda’s and your dad’s bedroom. Your father was sleeping soundly in his bed, shrouded by dark shadows as you crept into the room’s washroom. 

Wanda was brushing her hair when you stepped into the washroom. She turned her head to look at you, her eyes running down your body now that she had her first glimpse at you wearing the dress she had bought for you. “What is it, darling?” she asked before looking back over to the mirror. She was wearing a wine red silk slip. You had seen her wear this one before. It wasn’t tight-fitting, but the way the garment fell over the curve of her perfect ass was hard to pull your eyes away from.

You approached her and wrapped your hands around her forearm gently, tugging lightly. “Can you sleep with me tonight, mama?” you requested before resting your cheek on her shoulder and watching her brush through her long hair. She smelled so good. Wanda had slipped into your bed before, the first time being when you had been stressing over an exam. She was holding you against her as you cried, and before you knew it, you had fallen asleep in her arms. After that, it had become a habit for you to ball up in her arms on some overwhelming days, laying your head against her chest as the two of you cuddled together in your bed.

Uttering out a soft ‘mama’ was all that Wanda often needed to be convinced to fall asleep with you, but tonight, she was stubborn. You must have sincerely offended her when you didn’t come home.

“No, baby. Not tonight,” she told you, putting her brush down and twisting open a translucent royal blue case of white cream that she rubbed into her face with her fingertips, then repeating the same motions down her neck. You watched her slender fingers run across her taut skin, the smell of her facial cream making you all the more sleepy. It was always Wanda’s mildly sweet scent that helped you fall asleep when her arms were wrapped around you during thunderstorms. It was also the pressure of her hold, possessive and ever tight. Her soft breathing as she exhaled against your shoulder as she slept. You never realised how dependent you were on her, how vulnerable you were when you were with her. 

You tugged on her arm. “Please? I’m sorry for being bad. I just want to spend time with you. Please?” you pleaded, on the tips of your toes as you whined into her ear, watching her expression as she continued with her nighttime routine. You twirled a soft lock of Wanda’s long hair around your finger. “Please?”

Wanda exhaled through her nose and you lifted your head from your shoulder to look at her face. She uttered out a resentful, “Fine.” You wrapped your arms around her shoulders and bounced against her excitedly. Wanda shushed you quickly and you shrunk against her, eyes on her accusational expression and sharp gaze. She was still angry at you, after all, and you were behaving carelessly with your father still sleeping in the other room.

With both your arms dependently wrapped around Wanda’s right upper arm, she led the both of you out of the washroom, turning off the light and stepping out. You ducked your head beyond her shoulder as you crept across the bedroom with her. Both you and your stepmother padded across the room, although she seemed much more nonchalant about it. How many times had she had to do this, you wondered- leave her husband’s side to join you in your bedroom?

Still trailing behind her with your arms wrapped around one of your stepmother’s, she led you into your bedroom and closed your door. You removed your hold from around her gingerly as she shut your bedroom light off, one pretty dim light on your nightstand illuminating your bedroom with warm brilliance. Shuffling against your bedroom floor quickened as you sped-walked to your stepmother and wrapped your arms around her from behind.

“Are you drunk, malysh?” Wanda asked you as she leaned over to pull the blanket of your bed back.

You buried your face in her hair. “No,” you lied.

Your stepmother only hummed sceptically in response. She straightened and allowed you to slip into your bed first. You took Wanda’s hand and tugged her in bed with you. She let you pull her in, her sweet scent gusting against you as she moved in beside you. You wrapped your arms around her immediately while Wanda pulled your blankets over both of you. 

“Mommy,” you uttered out happily against her chest. After Wanda reached up to turn off the lamp by your nightstand and got herself settled with her arms around you, you looked up, your head laying between the valley of her breasts. “I’m sorry for making you mad. I just got caught up in the party, mama. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

A hand raised to the back of your head, scratching at your scalp soothingly. “I like to hear you apologise, sweetheart. You’re so cute with those pretty words coming out of your mouth,” she told you, a soft, proud smile beaming down at you. “I don’t want to see you disobeying me again.”

You shook your head. “I won’t,” you promised confidently. When Wanda told you she forgives you, you reached up to rest your head on her shoulder, your hair tickling her neck as you hugged yourself close to her.

Within half an hour, Wanda was holding you from behind, your back hugged flushed against the front of her body as you slept soundly in her hold. After some amount of time, you groaned softly as you began to wake up, eyes fluttering open at the rapid movement behind you.

“Yes!” Wanda hissed out, her breath ragged and her movement tremulous as you felt her jerk behind you, the mattress dipping uncomfortably. Your heartbeat quickened without reason as you listened to your stepmother’s exclamations.

You tried to shut your eyes, to sleep through whatever it was that was happening behind you and never bring it up again, but it was impossible to ignore, much less fall asleep during it. 

“That feels so good, puppy. Ah! My pussy is so wet for you,” she mumbled as you listened to the filthy squelching of her pussy. Your chest tightened as the realisation set in that your stepmother was masturbating right behind you, her fingers fucking in and out of her tight cunt as her arm was pressed up against your back. “Y/N, I love how you fuck me,” Wanda groaned, her slip hiked up to her hips and her legs parted.

Your name, as you have heard her say hundreds of times before, was being moaned from beyond her lips as her fingers were buried deep inside of her pussy. You felt pressure build between your thighs the longer you listened to your stepmother masturbate. You debated whether or not it would be better to shift slightly, signalling to Wanda that you had woken up. Would she stop touching herself if you did? Would she continue without a second thought? 

Not ready to find the answer, you laid still, silencing your shaky breaths. You wondered how many other times Wanda had masturbated behind you while you were sleeping soundly.

Unbeknownst to you, Wanda’s head was lolled to the side, watching your body tremble as you willed everything in you not to squeeze your thighs together and out at the very feeling that listening to your stepmother fuck her pussy planted within you. She was sure to curl her fingers, parting her digits inside of her so you could hear how wet she was for you.

When she finally reached her hilt, her back arched from the bed, an unstrained cry leaving her as her orgasm washed over her in heavy ripples. You screwed your eyes together tightly at her uninhibited moans and desperate squeals. Her body fell back onto the bed as she panted. It didn’t take long for her to wrap her arm around your waist again, pulling you against her like you had been before. Wanda kissed your shoulder and then your neck, taking your earlobe between her lips and sucking softly. Her hand reached up to grope your breast, kneading her warm palm against you. Her glistening fingers, coated with her juices, tugged at your erect nipple before she pulled your ass against her hips.

Your thighs squeezed together inadvertently and Wanda smirked against your neck before burying her nose in your soft hair and closing her eyes again. As you took in the indistinct scent of Wanda’s pussy, you felt as if though you were embraced by your stepmother in a way you hadn’t ever been before, and you fell asleep once more. Even if she had stuck her own fingers in your cunt, fucking you while you slept, you’d still be able to fall asleep in her arms. You loved your stepmother, and you’d need her no matter what she did.

You woke up without her the next morning, which you realised when you expected to lean back into her warm body and ended up laying back onto an otherwise empty bed. The smell of fresh breakfast filled your room, the soft sizzle of the kitchen stove from downstairs reaching your ears. With an urge to wear your pretty nightgown Wanda had bought you in front of her only, you changed into different clothes before you made your way to the kitchen downstairs.

Wanda was standing in front of the stove, spatula in hand, the smell of bacon and eggs growing stronger as you stepped further into the kitchen. Your father noticed you first with an overjoyous, “Y/N! Good morning!” Your stepmother turned at the mention of your name, a smile forming on her pink lips at the sight of you. 

“Good morning, Y/N,” she greeted, her voice smooth as nectar and just as sweet. Her dark brown hair was tied up, stray strands falling down the back of her neck and around her face. She was also wearing different clothes- a loose shirt with black yoga pants. Her attention was turned back to the breakfast on the pan in front of her before recollections of last night came flooding back to you, prompting you to redirect your focus onto something else.

After mumbling out a ‘Good morning,’ in response, your father returned to Wanda’s side, wrapping a hand around her hips and lifting up an empty plate for her to place the freshly cooked eggs on. They looked okay for each other. They always have. A demure couple, ordinary and traditional. Maybe you could rid yourself of the memories from last night, to forget it had ever happened and continue your relationship with Wanda as it had always been. 

But the way your name had left her that night. It was your name, not his. Your name in its entirety, every rise and fall of her tongue as she pronounced it without equivocation, without hesitation. Even in trying your hardest to forget what had happened, to chalk it all up to some hallucination, the feeling that bloomed in your chest as you recalled the way Wanda had uttered it out in the way that she did was indelible. The feeling that your name had only ever been composed to exist for Wanda Maximoff to call it out in the dead of the night, her fingers deep inside herself as she allowed her mind to be encapsulated by the thought of you.

You took a seat at the dining table and your dad began placing down the glasses and utensils while Wanda set the plates up. She made your eggs how you liked them, scrambled with peppers and herbs. She came with your plate first, reaching over your shoulder and placing your breakfast on the placemat in front of you. A soft kiss was pressed to your temple before she pulled away to get the other plates, leaving you with shivers running up your body at her gesture.

You poured yourself a glass of water to keep yourself occupied as Wanda prepared the table. She squeezed her husband’s shoulder gently before taking a seat beside you.

“Wanda tells me you had quite the nightmare last night,” your dad noted aloud as he sprinkled salt onto his eggs.

Your teeth bit down on the inside of your cheek to restrain the satisfied moan that you nearly let out as you chewed a forkful of scrambled eggs. Wanda was a great cook. You only had to tell her how you preferred your food once for her to remember it for every home-cooked meal afterwards. “I did, a little,” you answered briefly.

A hand was placed on your knee under the table. When Wanda looked over at you, eyes crinkling slightly with a sweet smile, you knew it was hers.

“I miss when your stepmother hadn’t yet taken my place as your favourite parent,” your father teased. But neither you or your stepmother were listening to him.

Your eyes were focused on the dish in front of you, forking scrambled eggs and bacon into your mouth as modestly as you could with your stepmother’s hand still on your knee, slowly inching up your thigh. She squeezed your upper thigh and laughed richly.

“Y/N’s just a mommy’s girl. So sweet to me,” Wanda giggled, running her hand up and down your clothed thigh. She squeezed harshly suddenly, forcing your eyes to dart up to her. You were greeted with one of her saccharine smiles, eyebrows furrowed with condescending sympathy. “Isn’t that right?” 

You nodded silently and went back to eating your breakfast. Pleased with your submission to her, Wanda ceased teasing you for the rest of breakfast apart from her hand being placed on your upper thigh throughout the entirety of the meal. 

Wanda was upstairs with your father when breakfast was over, helping him get ready for his late-night shift. For the first time, you wondered what they might be doing, why Wanda had to stay up there with him for so long while he was doing something as trivial as getting ready for work. He was a grown man, wasn’t he? He didn’t need her help.

During your sudden spark of debilitating spite, the knife you were washing slipped from your fingers, nearly slicing the heel of your hand before you recoiled suddenly. Your elbows came into contact with something firm and with one swift movement, Wanda’s arms were wrapped around your waist. She pulled you into her, humming satisfiedly into your ear. You tensed, your shoulders raising to your ears before Wanda pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“Did you enjoy breakfast?” she asked you, her voice a low seductive purr despite simply asking about a meal you shared. 

You nodded and Wanda laughed, seemingly quite pleased with your answer. Wanda was a talented cook. She baked on the weekends, catered for special events, and cooked for every meal whenever she was home. She remembered your every preference for every dish, your favourite colours for icing she would decorate your desserts with. Everything Wanda touched in the kitchen would turn into something as delicious as it was beautiful. 

You had cooked with your stepmother a handful of times, and it was no less than enchanting; the closest the real world would ever have to real sorcery. You made many of your favourite dishes, as Wanda had insisted you do together, along with several others she believed you would love, which you did. There was something so intimate about spending time with your stepmother, who asked things to have your answers, who listened to what you said to remember each word, who took the time to be with you.

“Wanda…” you whimpered, inhaling sharply as you settled your nerves. 

Wanda loosened her hold around your waist to tip her head to the side and meet your eyes with hers as she continued to hug you from behind. “What is it, zaya?” she asked. 

Zaya. It meant ‘little rabbit’ in Russian. Wanda told you what it meant when she used the term while picking you up from campus one afternoon. You shrunk in her arms, melting in her hold at the pet name. 

You twisted your lips around, directing your focus on the pressurised stream of the hot tap water as you washed the dishes. You had a few glasses left to wash, and you knew you wouldn’t have anything else to distract yourself with once you finished. You tried to get your words out, but you were never the confrontational kind. “Last night-”

Wanda’s eyebrows arched upwards. “Yes?”

“Last night, um… I thought you were… But it could’ve been my mistake,” you hesitated, scrubbing at the rim of one glass with the soapy sponge for far longer than necessary.

“Use your words like a big girl, Y/N,” your stepmother reprimanded. Her hold on your waist tightened as she ran her hands down your sides supportively until her hands were on your hips. She sometimes spoke to you like this, as if you were simply a child in need of discipline. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. Even a little.

After rinsing the last glass, you placed it on the rack by the sink and dried your hands. “I sort of- I woke up in the middle of the night last night and I thought you were…” 

Wanda laid her head on your shoulder, looking up at you. “You thought I was what, sweetheart?” she asked you.

You laid your hands on the counter, playing with your fingers. You avoided eye contact with her, knowing that if you had met her eyes, you wouldn’t be able to find words within you to say anything at all. “Thought you were doing something weird,” you replied.

“Weird?” Wanda repeated with a chuckle. With her hands still on your hips, she spun you around so you were facing her, your lower back pressing into the sink. “What do you mean, moya lyubov?” She stared at you for a few moments, her thumb rubbing against your hip. Her eyebrows furrowed together and her head tipped to the side curiously. “You thought I was doing something… dirty?”

Your face flushed and you looked away from her, the pressure of her hands on your hips suddenly overbearing as you squirmed between her and the counter. Wanda pushed herself against you, confining you in your spot.

“Oh, is that it?” your stepmother purred, eyebrows quirked upwards.

On the tips of your toes, you tried looking over Wanda’s shoulder at the staircase in the hallway, the idea of your father coming down to see his wife pressed up against his daughter looming over you dangerously. What you were doing with her wasn’t wrong, was it? But you felt so worried about being caught. 

Wanda cupped your cheek with her hand, bringing your attention back to her. “I would never take advantage of you like that, baby,” she cooed. She pulled your head against her chest. Her reaction was overly comforting perhaps, but you closed your eyes anyways, letting your stepmother pet your hair and kiss the top of your head. “It was just a bad dream, sweetheart,” Wanda murmured, “just a dream.”

Your stepmother spent the rest of the day doing errands after she dropped off your father at work. The house was barren and deafeningly silent while you were home alone all day without Wanda; a stark and lonely transition from the night and breakfast you had spent together.

Before she had left, Wanda reminded you that you weren’t allowed to have friends over or leave the house as punishment for your behaviour last night. When your stepmother took your chin in her fingers and pressed a kiss to your forehead before she left, you accepted that you had to atone for what you had done. You wanted to make it up to her.

You could only hope that Wanda came home as soon as she could.

At around five in the evening, you sped down the stairs after you heard the doorbell ring. You opened the front door to see Wanda holding several grocery bags, and you took a few into each of your hands. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Wanda said behind you as she locked the front door and followed behind you to the kitchen. You placed the bags beside hers on the kitchen counters. 

“Have you been good?” she asked you, taking your chin in her hand and rubbing her thumb against the corner of your mouth. You nodded with a proud smile. “You didn’t have anyone over, darling? And you didn’t leave the house?” You shook your head. Wanda smiled and pulled you in for a hug. “That’s my good girl.” She kissed the top of your head and spoke again, “I bought condensed milk so we can make kartoshkas this weekend.”

Along with making your favourite dishes, Wanda had introduced you to some meals and desserts she had as a child in Russia. You found that your stepmother was more eager to share things she held dear with you rather than with her own husband, especially when it came to her life in her home country before she immigrated to America.

One afternoon while you were making blinis with her, she told you stories of her life with her late parents and twin brother for hours. She hadn’t visited Russia in years, and she promised when she got the chance to, she would bring you to see her hometown, all the places she’d been missing, the best restaurants and places to sightsee. Your father wasn’t brought up once during the conversation.

Once you put away the groceries, Wanda was pouring herself a glass of merlot while you were warming milk up for your hot chocolate. What you had planned that night was a long evening of studying and catching up on assignments until your stepmother suggested something otherwise. 

“Do you want to have that movie night we were planning for last night, detka?” she asked you, lifting her wine glass up to her lips to take a sip.

Nearly burning yourself on the hot mug as your eyes found your stepmother’s, you choked out, “We should.” 

Wanda hummed in agreement as her eyes narrowed slightly, watching you closely while you stirred in a few spoonfuls of hot chocolate powder into your hot milk. You headed into the living room first, Wanda trailing behind you, her eyes falling to your ass as you walked ahead of her. She sat by you when you took a seat on the couch and she turned on the television with the remote. “What are you interested in watching tonight, moya lyubov?”

My love. You searched up that definition on your own. You leaned against Wanda and a sudden warmth blossomed in your chest. She wrapped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you close against her so you were tucked against her chest, your mug of hot chocolate balancing in your lap.

“Practical Magic?” you suggested, looking up at her with your cheek squished against her shoulder.

Wanda laughed and you heard her flick through the movies on the television while you continued to look up at her, her eyes crinkling as she laughed. “Good choice, zaya,” she complimented, making you blush and look down to take a drink of your hot chocolate. 

When the movie was put on, Wanda set the remote down and wrapped both of her arms around your shoulders. She squeezed you and kissed your forehead. A giggle escaped you and Wanda looked down to grin at your scrunched up nose. She pressed another kiss onto your forehead and her hold on you relaxed before taking her wine glass from off the coffee table to take a sip of it. She rested it on her knee, her fingers wrapped around the glass delicately.

“I’m so glad we could spend this time together, sweetheart,” she told you. You conceded immediately, squirming in your spot as you moved in closer to your stepmother.

An hour into the movie, Wanda placed her second half-empty wine glass on the coffee table along with your mug. She pressed a kiss to the side of your head and placed her hands on your hips. “Come sit on mommy's lap, baby,” Wanda told you, pulling you up before you could comply.

When you were settled on her lap, Wanda’s hands squeezed your hips, then ran down your legs gently. Your hips shifted atop of her when pressure grew uncomfortably between your thighs. “Comfortable, malyshka?” she asked you. Your shoulders raised to your ears at the proximity of her lips to your ear and Wanda kissed your neck in attempts to soothe you, which only tensed you further. Her hands ran up your sides. 

“Relax, baby. It’s just me, right?” she cooed into your ear. “Just mommy.”

You nodded, taking in a breath as you leaned back. Your head laid against her shoulder and Wanda smiled.

“That’s right,” she purred. Her hands came dangerously close to your breasts before she wrapped her arms around your waist. 

After several minutes of listening to Wanda’s steady, quiet breaths while you watched the movie, her hands suddenly groped your breasts, causing you to gasp and attempt to sit up. Rather roughly, she pulled you back down against her, hushing you softly. 

“Just be good and let me play with your pretty tits, baby,” Wanda said, making your entire body freeze as you tried to process the wild throbbing of your cunt while your hips struggled to restrain their bucking, your clit craving friction. “Watch your movie.”

Your nipples were pinched abruptly, a moan leaving you as Wanda tugged at them teasingly. She leaned down, her lips finding your neck as she began peppering sloppy kisses up your skin. Your hips became unrestrained as you started humping your stepmother’s lap, desperate for the icky feeling in your pussy to go away. A hard bulge pressed into your ass when Wanda’s hips bucked upwards, making you whimper.

“Mama, this feels weird,” you mewled as you continued to hump against her leg, her strap pressing into your clit and drawing out moans from you.

Wanda started trailing her kisses up your jaw before she started nipping at your skin, her tongue darting out to run flush up your cheek. “Oh, I know, baby,” she whispered. “But all mommies do this. It’s normal.”

She always knew how to convince you. You shut your eyes, moaning out helplessly as your stepmother continued to grope your breasts and pinch your erect nipples. Her hands slipped under your shirt, her fingers running up your bare stomach before taking your breasts with her hands again. You gasped at the feeling of her hands against you, your nipples pressed up against her palms as she massaged you harshly. Your head lolled to the side, moaning out into Wanda’s chest as you tried to hide the blush of your cheeks.

You’ve been wiggling uncomfortably on top of her strap for the last few minutes of the movie, but mommy kept convincing you to just relax. You weren’t sure what it was that you were humping down on, but you didn’t think much about it while you were rubbing your icky parts over it. 

She ran her hands down your arms and you assumed, with a pout, that she was just going to stop touching you all at once, but without warning, Wanda pulled your sweatpants down and pulled your panties to the side, then her yoga pants down to her thighs. The action was so swift that your dumb little bimbo brain could barely register that it was happening until Wanda pushed her cock into your hole. 

You cried out, throwing your head back to lay on Wanda’s shoulder as your back arched, simultaneously pulling away from the contact and grinding down into her lap. Her hands were placed on your hips, the heels of her hands pressing into your lower back as she lifted you up and down her strap, each impact grinding the strap’s base into her clit. 

Through soft grunts, Wanda husked out into your ear, “Don't fight me, baby. Just be good and let mommy use your tight little pussy.”

You willed everything in you to be mommy’s good girl and take her cock, but you were hanging off the precipice of pain and pleasure, gratification seemingly only reaching you quicker the more you moaned out. Your walls parted as Wanda’s cock slid in and out of you, each buck of her hips into your ass meeting no resistance despite the painful stretching within you as you slowly became accustomed to your stepmother’s size. 

The curious thought of where she might’ve kept something like this while sharing the same room with your father was short-lived when Wanda’s hands came up to pull your shirt over your head. Her bucking hips and your arched back maintained the rhythm of the thrusts as your nipples hardened in the living room’s air.

Wanda watched your breasts bounce with each of her thrusts, the impact of fucking her stepdaughter observable in your rhythmic squeals and moans as her cock penetrated your tight cunt. Her hands squeezed your breasts, the harshness of her grip making you whimper. 

You couldn’t have ever guessed Wanda would be this rough, even in your deepest of fantasies where your stepmother was fucking you from behind with languid thrusts of her hips. Even in the way her fingernails scratched at the sides of your breasts while she pumped her thick cock into your wet hole, your heart swelled at being Wanda’s only girl. Her pretty, good girl sitting in her lap getting fucked stupid. She loved you with her arms wrapped around you while you slept, while she cooked with you, while her cock was eight inches in your pussy while her teeth sunk into your neck deep enough to bruise. 

Mommy loved you. 

“My baby is so pretty,” Wanda grunted against your cheek, her breath warm and smelling of merlot. You were completely naked in her lap, your panties hanging loosely around your ankle. Your sweatpants pooled at the foot of the couch, your shirt thrown somewhere across the living room. Wanda couldn’t get enough of the idea of her agreeable little girl bouncing on her cock as her hands fumbled while holding herself up. You were trying to steady yourself with your arms reached back and your hands on your hips.

You whimpered out, “Thank you, mommy.” You felt all warm being complimented by your stepmother. It felt so good to be framed through her eyes, being her pretty agreeable slut just because she wanted you to be. You supposed that if Wanda had bent you over the kitchen table earlier, groceries tumbling to the floor as she pulled your pants down while she spread your pussy lips apart before forcing her cock into your tight pink cunt, you would’ve let her. You would’ve let her bury her fingers in your hole at breakfast under the table, sit her wet pussy on your face while you slept- anything to see her gratified grin as she was able to make you hers in a way no one else could.

Wanda let go of one of your breasts, her hand running down your stomach until her fingers made contact with your clit. Your back arched, a cry leaving you the moment she pressed the pads of her fingers into your swollen nub. With your head having fallen back onto her shoulder, Wanda leaned down to capture your lips with hers. Although she had pecked your lips a handful of times in your sleep, the allure and fascination of kissing you was alike to yours, as for you, this was your first kiss with her. You straightened, trying to bring yourself as close to her as possible.

Her tongue pushed past your lips, exploring your mouth as muffled moans left you. She groaned into your mouth as your hips began jerking forward helplessly once her fingers found a circular rhythm against your clit, causing the base of her strap to grind against her own bundle of nerves harshly.

She pulled away from the kiss and looked down at your face with a proud smile as she watched screwed-shut eyes, your nose scrunched up as your mouth hung open, melodious moans spilling from beyond your soft lips.

“Zaya…” Wanda purred. You hummed shakily in response, opening your eyes slightly to meet a deep moldavite stare as Wanda looked down at you. “I’ve dreamt of fucking this tight little cunt for years, even before I married your father,” she confessed, her hips bucking up into your sore ass with increasing vigour the more she delved into her lewd divulgence, which made it increasingly difficult to keep your eyes open.

Her hand switched breasts and took your nipple between her thumb and forefinger before pinching down and tugging at it. You squirmed and groaned, your teeth clenched as your hips ground down side to side, whimpering at the way Wanda’s cock spread your walls apart even further. “With these tits, you must’ve known that it was only a matter of time until mommy slid her cock in your little pussy, right?” she cooed, her words condescending and sickly sweet as she pounded into you.

You hadn’t known that your stepmother was going to fuck you, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been anticipating it somewhere within you. You’d wake up sometimes with your inner thighs slick with your sticky juices, having dreamt of being bent over and fucked by your stepmother while you slept. But ever since last night, you’d been curious about whether or not Wanda had ever had a part in how icky you woke up feeling sometimes.

Wanda pushed your hips up suddenly to slip her cock out of you. You groaned uncomfortably as you felt empty without her strap in you. Her fingers slipped down from your clit, running through your sopping folds to push before pushing them into your hole. Wanda laughed when your walls clenched around her fingers, your hips immediately grinding down on her hand as you desperately craved more friction from her.

She was quick to appease; the heel of her hand was pressed against your clit to allow her fingers more leverage to fuck into you. You pulled away instinctively at the sudden rough contact against your clit, but Wanda pinched your nipple again, making you fall back down into her lap.

“Does this feel familiar, puppy?” she asked you, a grin pulling at her lips.

You shook your head immediately. “No, mommy,” you insisted. She was asking if you had ever been fucked like this by anyone else, wasn’t she?

Wanda’s eyebrows furrowed together in feigned curiosity. “No? Mommy’s fingers fucking your pretty hole doesn’t feel familiar to you?”

Your eyes fluttered open and you tried your hardest to maintain eye contact with her while you tried to decipher her expression. Her knowing gaze, the small smile on her soft lips. Your eyebrows stitched together as you nearly attained clear realisation before Wanda curled her fingers inside of you, making your eyes shut again as you moaned out.

Wanda hummed, leaning down to nip at your earlobe and press wet kisses to your neck. “That’s right, baby,” she said after catching a glimpse of your expression. “It hurts my feelings that you barely remember your special times with mommy,” murmured Wanda. She kissed your cheek. 

You had never seen yourself like this. You nearly couldn’t even recognise yourself while you were crying out for Wanda, your pussy so sloppy around her that both of you could hear every entry of her fingers into your tight hole.

“But you remember a little now, don’t you?” Wanda spoke into your ear. “How I slid my hand through your pretty thighs while you slept before pushing my fingers into your cunt?” You reflected on it through your clouded mind; your sticky parts when you woke up in the morning, the throbbing of your hole even after having been asleep for hours. “And don’t try and pretend you didn’t like it, malysh. If you really didn’t like the way mommy licked your pussy in your sleep, you wouldn’t have came as much as you did. Your cute little moans gave it away, too.”

“Mama…” you whimpered out, suddenly overcome by the warm idea of being Wanda’s even in your sleep. Your cheeks flushed and you turned your head to lay against her chest. 

Your stepmother watched as you became embarrassed, finding consolation in burying your face in her chest. “You taste so sweet, don’t you know that, sweetheart?” she pressed on, amused by the way your flushed cheeks peeked out even as you tried your hardest to bury your humiliation. With her hand that had been groping at your breast, she cupped your cheek, forcing you to look up at her with your glassed over eyes and flushed cheeks from the overwhelming jumble of pleasure and humiliation that filled your empty head. Wanda thought you were so cute when you looked like that.

“Why are you embarrassed, baby?” she asked, her fingers’ speed not ceasing for a moment, and if anything, they were quickening. It seemed that Wanda was purposely trying to ask you such loaded questions while being all too aware of how difficult it was for you to answer them. “It’s just me. I love you more than anyone. You don’t have to be all shy around mommy.” Her arm rounded your shoulders, pulling your body against hers. Her gestures were swift and self-assured while you were a mewling mess on her lap, your juices trickling down to Wanda’s wrist and undoubtedly ruining her yoga pants.

You slurred out an apology and your attempt at speaking decently despite being filled by three of Wanda’s fingers pleased her. 

“Give mommy a kiss, detka.”

You attempted to lean up and kiss her, but your frail body could barely hold yourself up largely due to how Wanda purposely pushed the heel of her hand into your clit when you were demanded to do things like answer her questions or move your body on your own. Wanda leaned down halfway to meet you and you whimpered into her mouth, struggling to keep yourself from falling back down against her chest simply.

Wanda’s fingers quickened once more. Not only were her fingers picking up speed, but the palm of her hand began pounding against your cunt as she fucked your hole ceaselessly. You had no choice but to fall back down against her chest, your body physically recoiling from the harsh impact against your pussy, but Wanda always caught up with you, disallowing you to part from her contact. 

She put her hand on your shoulder unexpectedly and flipped you over, her fingers leaving your cunt momentarily. You were laying over her lap, your ass sticking up in the air. You squirmed, pulling yourself up into your elbows to sit up and reposition yourself from the humiliating pose. Wanda’s hand was suddenly placed against your upper back, the heel of her hand pressing painfully into your spine so you fell forward, your bare breasts pushed flush against the couch cushion.

Three fingers slammed back into your cunt with one swift moment, Wanda’s knuckles coming into painful contact with your folds. You wailed at the contact and gripped the edge of the couch with your hand. You could hear Wanda chuckling cruelly at your cries behind you as her fingers picked up speed, quicker than it had before. Her fingers were twisting inside of you as she entered you, curling periodically as pulled out and making you push your ass back into her hand while she brushed over your special spot deep inside your cunt.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” Wanda spat, her other hand coming down on your ass, making you flinch and try to pull back from her. She put her hand on your hip, digging her fingernails into your skin and pulling you back onto her lap. “My poor, innocent girl pretending her worthless hole can’t take it, but look at this, hm?”

Her fingers sped up momentarily to emphasise the sloshing of your pussy as she fucked you with her fingers. 

“What do you think that means, puppy?” your stepmother inquired, looking over at your expression, face reddened and your eyes screwed shut as you moaned, unrelenting, like the whore you were, your body finally being put to use with your pussy being stuffed with mommy’s fingers. When you didn’t respond, Wanda spoke again, “It means you’re a filthy little bitch who likes to get her pussy fucked. I thought you were my innocent little girl, but I suppose I was wrong.”

You shook your head in immediate protest. “No, mommy,” you whimpered, opening your eyes to look back at Wanda. You continued to whine, “I’m your good girl. I’m… I am!”

Wanda raised her hand to interlace her fingers with your hair, scratching your scalp soothingly; a stark contrast from the way she was fucking you with her other hand. “Oh, baby, hush now. I believe you,” she told you, her gaze soft as she looked down at your face pressed down against the couch.

“I wanna prove it to you, mama,” you insisted.

Wanda hummed, reaching her other hand to tuck between your thighs and rub at your clit. “Then cum for me, puppy,” she answered.

You pushed your ass back into Wanda’s hand and she reciprocated by pounding into you ever rougher, making you whimper helplessly as you gave yourself to your stepmother completely. You were entirely at her mercy, and you would be her good girl by letting her do whatever you felt like, and happily, you welcomed it. You had never felt more special when you were making mommy’s fingers all sticky with your cunt juices as much as you did tucking your face into the crook of her neck while you fell asleep in her arms.

Her other hand circled against your sensitive nub harshly, and despite your whining and the way your body squirmed on Wanda’s lap, you continued to take her fingers like the perfect girl you were.

You mewled, screwing your eyes together tightly as you felt yourself closing in on your climax. “Mommy, I feel weird,” you whimpered. Wanda watched as you began riding her fingers, your hips grinding forwards and backwards shakily. 

“I know you do, malyshka,” Wanda comforted as your hips began to thrash backwards. To both her surprise and thrill, you reached back and placed both your hands on either side of your ass. Fingers dug into your skin painfully as you pulled your pussy’s folds apart, allowing your stepmother more room to finger you harshly. With the stretch, more of your cunt became exposed to Wanda, causing her to moan out at the sight. She leaned down and ran her tongue down the sides of your stretched out hole. “Cum for mommy, baby. Make me proud,” she said against your pussy.

You inched closer to your hilt, the coil in your lower stomach growing ever tighter, and tighter, until it finally snapped, the feeling of Wanda’s dirty words being spoken out against your cunt helping you get there. A prolonged cry escaped from deep inside you and Wanda grinned, pressing a kiss to your ass as your soft walls clenched around her fingers. Your hands tightened their grips around your ass, your body tensing harshly as your orgasm pushed through you in harsh waves. Wanda continued to finger you, albeit slower, as you came down from your high, and once you did, she slipped out of you carefully, sticky ropes of your juices connecting to her hand as she rubbed your ass soothingly. 

You were panting against the couch, your body shaking with occasional tremors as your orgasm’s last waves crashed against you. Your hands were limp by your hips, fingers twitching and your body rising and falling irregularly with your trembling breaths.

“How are you feeling, sweetness?” Wanda asked, leaning to the side so she could kiss your cheek. You nodded, mumbling out something imperceptible. She laughed and raised her hand to hook a finger under your chin, tipping your head to the side to kiss your lips. The faint flavour of your pussy coated the kiss.

You closed your eyes for what felt like several seconds before you were pushed forward against the couch, your ass being stuck up further in the air. Wanda hands were on your waist. “Mama…?” you mumbled, struggling to open your eyes to look back at her. “What are you doing?”

Your stepmother only hushed you in response, her hands smoothing over your ass for a moment before her hands gripped your hips and pulled you against her. Her cock was thrusted into your swollen hole, making you cry out and jerk your body forward, desperate to soothe yourself from the sudden sharp pain. But Wanda was faster, her fingers digging into the hollow spaces by your hips to pull you back into her. 

“Ah! Mommy, stop! It hurts, that’s too much!” you pleaded, reaching back to push her hips away. The orgasm Wanda had given you was the first in quite awhile, and the strongest you’d ever had, and she had only been using her fingers.

Wanda leaned forward so her front was cocooning your back, the contact making you feel the slick coat of sweat that had enveloped your body. “I thought you wanted to prove to mommy what a good girl you are,” she reminded you. Her hips had begun to slow to allow you to answer her properly. She reached one of her hands up to move your hair to your other shoulder, allowing her to see your fatigued expression.

You hesitated, “Y-Yes, but-”

“Yes, but what?” Wanda hissed, suddenly impatient as she watched you struggle to form words. “Suddenly you don’t want to be my good girl?” She cupped your cheek, running her thumb over your cheekbone.

“No! I want to-”

“Then let me fuck your pussy the way I want to.” 

Wanda watched you a little while longer as you nodded. She softened at your obedience and kissed you. “That’s right. Mommy loves you so much, detka,” she whispered against your lips. You had been told by your stepmother that she loved you countless times before, but it held a different weight now. You smiled into the kiss, happy to be hers.

“I love you too, mommy.” You saw a flash of Wanda’s pretty smile before she straightened and positioned her hips against your ass again.

Her thrusts picked up speed. The pressure of having her cock being buried deep within you was completely different from the feeling of her fingers. Wanda took your hand with hers, placing it on your ass as she continued to use the leverage to fuck you against her strap. She squeezed your hand supportively and tried your best to squeeze back in response.

Wanda’s moans were louder and more frequent than before, and you knew she was grinding her clit against her strap’s harness as she fucked you. The realisation made you all the more wet thinking about how she was just using you as an object to get herself off. “You feel so tight, malyshka,” she told you, her head thrown back as she fucked into your pussy, hands still on your hips. 

The sensitive pain that had been shooting up your body was long dissipated into white-hot pleasure, as if your entire body was aflame, every inch of your skin incandescent as you lay limp, every thought you could ever think and anything you could ever feel being placed in Wanda’s hands. It was her authority that rained upon you, her very word that was, and would forever be, your law.

“I’m the only one who’s ever allowed to touch this pussy,” Wanda said. Her hand rounded your hip to rub her fingers against your clit. “Do you understand, Y/N? Repeat it to me.”

You groaned, willing everything in you to answer her. Several seconds was too long of a response time. Wanda slapped her hand down against your ass, making you yelp and jerk forward. She brought you back up to her, the impact of being pressed back down against her hips propelled you closer to your second orgasm. Wanda must’ve caught on because she started thrusting faster, her fingers’ contact against your clit becoming harsher. “You’re the only one allowed to touch my pussy,” you whimpered out finally, a proud chuckle coming from the woman behind you. “Mama, please…”

She squeezed your hand. “Oh, my sweet girl. What is it?” she asked. Although her words were indicative of concern, the way she patronised you was all too audible, and the way she got off on it was even more evident.

“Gonna cum again, mommy,” you cried. You buried your face into the couch cushion, your forehead pressed against the soft fabric. Opening your eyes, you could see Wanda’s knees from between your thighs and the hard work she was putting into fucking you. To think she cared so much about making you feel good made your head all fuzzy and warm.

“You are?” Wanda questioned, her tone alike to that of a preschool teacher talking to a child as they feigned interest in their droning. One of her hands was placed on your thigh, lifting your leg up as her other hand let you lay down onto the couch carefully so your stomach was flush against it. Your body was limp, simply a marionette at the feet of its puppeteer as Wanda turned you around so you were on your back. She let your other leg down, her actions careful so her cock didn’t accidentally slip out of you.

Your arms raised to your stepmother and she placed a hand by your head to lower herself down to your face. You kissed her as if it was an inherent desire to feel her soft lips against yours when she was this close to your face. Wanda parted from your lips to pepper kisses across your collarbone, all the while your legs lifted to press your thighs against her sides.

An erect nipple was taken into Wanda’s mouth. The feeling of her lips wrapped around you, her teeth raking down your bud carefully, forced a long moan out of you. Her hand cupped your cheek gently and you looked down to find your stepmother’s eyes piercing into yours with surprising focus despite the rapid thrusting of her hips and the maintained contact with her fingers against your clit. The sight was that of a woman you had not known before tonight, one who craved you like one did oxygen, a woman, who in desperate desire for your entire being and very soul to be one with hers, suckled at your breasts and fucked herself into your cunt. She switched breasts and licked the long stripe up the other before kissing you again. 

Without uttering a single word, Wanda pressed another kiss against the shell of your ear before exhaling breathy moans and grunts against the side of your head as she grew closer to her own high. 

Having not enough strength to hold yourself up any longer, your ankles rounded Wanda’s lower back as she rutted into you, crossing them to hold your legs up and pull her closer. 

The familiar coil in your lower stomach tightened, stronger than it had before, painful and unbelievably pleasurable all at once. You blabbered out partially-completed words declaring your proximity to your orgasm. 

The whole universe dissipated into nothingness when your stepmother whispered into your ear, “Let go.” 

You clenched around Wanda’s cock as you came for the second time, every inch of your body locked into tight tremors. Your back arched into her, your breasts pressed against hers, as your orgasm lit you ablaze like Icarus’ zenith atop of the world, enveloped in your wax wings as Wanda held you close, her own orgasm coming over her.

When your body fell back into the couch, shaky pants leaving your lips, you watched your stepmother as her head was thrown back, her body arched atop of yours like a great lioness in a grand stretch. Her moans were long and raspy. Strands of her dark hair stuck to her sweat-slicked forehead. Wanda was the most beautiful woman you had ever known.

Although you had never turned to watch her, what was above you now was wildly different from what you had only heard last night. What used to be a creeping presence, hardly there and nearly chalked up to delusion, was now a mighty force towering above you, indelible once it bled through you and tenacious when it had chosen its target.

Wanda plummeted from her hilt, her forehead resting against yours as she caught her breath while her eyes fluttered shut. Her hands found your arms, gripping tightly. When she opened her eyes, she smiled down at you and you felt as if you had melted into the couch. “My pretty girl. So good to me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and her throat raw. Wanda slipped her cock out from between your puffy reddened pussy lips and unfastened her strap from her hips. You heard it tumble to the living room floor. 

“Can you tell me you love me again, mommy?” you asked.

Wanda’s smile widened as she lifted you onto her lap, reaching down to pick your shirt up from the floor. You raised your arms for her and she put your shirt back on. “I love you so much, puppy,” she said, pressing a kiss to your nose when your head popped out from your shirt as she pulled it down your body.

“More, please,” you requested. Your voice was so tiny, your mind all clouded by fuzzy-feeling thoughts. Your body was tired and happily used by mommy.

Your sweatpants were picked up from the floor after you watched Wanda pocket your panties slick with your icky juices. You slipped off of mommy’s lap to stand up. Wanda lowered herself to between your hips and pressed a gentle kiss just above your sensitive little princess parts. “I love you,” she uttered against your skin, looking up at you from between your thighs. The sight made you all blushy. Wanda grinned and kissed your lower stomach. You stepped into your sweatpants and Wanda pulled them up to your hips.

“All mommy’s, right?” Wanda asked after you sat back down in her lap and nuzzled your face into the crook of her neck.

“Right,” you answered proudly. “All mommy’s.”

Wanda felt you smile against her neck and she kissed your forehead, leaning forward while you hung to her like a young koala to its mother. She picked up her glass of wine, taking sips of it while she played a sitcom on the television. You snuggled closer to her, turning your head to watch with her. Your stepmother placed a hand atop your head and scratched at your scalp gently.

"I love you so much, Y/N," she said.

You’d never belong to anyone else.

[lovinglokilaufeyson]

The Devil You Don't - A.A

Pairings: Spawn!Astarion x Fem!Reader (Mephistopheles Tiefling! Raphael’s Daughter)

Warnings: 18+, Abandonment by parent, Discussion on Loss of a Parent, BG3 Spoilers (set sometime in Act 2), Mutual Pining, Fluff, Angst, SMUT (P-in-V, Fingering), Past Trauma, Not Proofread

Wordcount: 1,971

Summary: You are Raphael’s daughter, who he disowned for her good nature. You are abducted from Baldur’s Gate and receive a tadpole in your head. You have bonded with Astarion, but you are not about to let him ask your father for help. As a reminder, Tav has just revealed to Astarion that she is Raphael’s daughter.

A/N: This is part 2 of “A Devil You Know” as was originally requested in my inbox for Raphael’s daughter reader, who comes off as naïve and innocent, despite a tragic past. If you haven’t read part one, and would like some more context to the story, please feel free to do so here.

Astarion stared in absolute disbelief as you revealed this information to him. “Darling, you can’t possibly be serious” Astarion attempted to brush off your declaration to him, but the glow of your eyes and the gritting of your teeth said otherwise. For the first time, Astarion was able to sense true, deep pain surging through you. It wasn’t something that he often saw coming from you. He had just been told some of the most heinous information in his life, and yet – here he was, more worried about you, presently. If he hadn’t known any better, you looked on the verge of transforming into a dangerous creature.

“Darling, I-” Astarion began to speak, moving closer towards you subtly. “Astarion, I get it. I understand if you don’t want me here anymore, I know I’m his daughter, but you have to know that he has completely and entirely disowned me. I am fairly convinced that the only reason he is following us around is to spite me, I don’t know.” You sputtered on, with Astarion cutting you off a moment later. “Hush, my love.” He was closer to you now, allowing him to place a finger against your lips so they would purse together and mute your words. “There are no explanations needed from you on this.” He released his finger, although you yearned for the fuel of his touch once again.

“It seems to me that my making a deal with Raphael would be the equivalent of you making a deal with Cazador, and darling, I could never let you do that. I’m not usually impressed by people, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” He spoke, seemingly retracting his previous statements about your naivety. “I’m so sorry, my love.” The care in his heart had grown for you substantially within the last few moments. Astarion had judged you incorrectly upon first meeting. Yes, you were a ray of sunshine for him (although without destroying him) you were also that, but in spite of all of the struggles. He admired you for that, greatly.

Astarion lifted you with ease, carrying you to his tent. Although you initially thought that he wished to bed you this evening, his mind was far from that kind of intimacy. Astarion faced away from you on the bed roll, and you traced the vampiric scars that seemingly sealed his fate, while he asked you a variety of questions about your life, and a few about the ritual too. “How did you ever end up in his hands?”

“Well, it’s quite simple, really. My mother passed away, and Raphael was there, ready to take me with him. I know now that it was more than just a mere coincidence that he was there. He wanted to collect what was ‘his’ in order to render himself more powerful.”

“How did your mother die?”

“He killed her.” Astarion’s heartstrings were tugged instantaneously from the thought of you, a young girl, witnessing her mother’s death, before being scooped up by your devil father. “He wanted power and thought that his child would give him the potential for more.”

“So, why did he leave you at that orphanage? Abandon you like that…” Astarion pondered.

“Well, it’s quite simple really. I was too good for him. Too naïve, too inexperienced, too… happy. He didn’t like that I didn’t want to be evil. That I couldn’t be persuaded to be, either.” Astarion peered back at you, enjoying greatly the way that your hands played along his back. “You know, initially I didn’t like that about you either” he joked, teasingly.

“Correct, but you didn’t abandon me at an orphanage.”

“I think I underestimated you, my dear.”

“Perhaps you did, Astarion.”

You switched sides now, cuddling into Astarion’s chest as his arm was wrapped around your form, tracing swirls into your arm with his delicate fingertips. You used your free hand to trace along his chest in various motions. “This is nice.” Astarion spoke suddenly, before clamping his hand over his mouth in embarrassment, his bloodless cheeks turning as red as they possibly could.

“It is nice, Astarion. I agree.” You spoke in a reassuring tone. “However, I think perhaps you’re deflecting from your issue at hand.”

“Oh, the whole, imminent death via a ritual by my evil vampiric master Cazador, that will kill me and my brothers and sisters and grant him godhood? Haven’t thought about it. Darling, he is very powerful.” Astarion spoke, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“I believe in us, more than anything, Astarion. We have overcome great things. We can overcome terrible ones, too. Cazador included.” Your hopefulness on the subject did have some effect on him, but despite that, he still felt sadness from what he had learned. Astarion was merely a pawn to Cazador, but there was a distinct difference now that he had a tadpole lodged in his cranium. He was the missing piece to Cazador’s puzzle.

And you were the missing piece to his.

You slid around, no longer facing him, but he kept his presence known, snuggling up against your backside, his torso flush against your back as he held you closer than he had ever held another. Subtly, you pressed your bum against his pelvis, ever so slightly. “Darling, are you teasing me?”

“Always.” You muttered back, pressing the slightest bit harder. “You cheeky little-” were the only words he used to respond, before nearly instantly slipping your nightgown over your butt. “No underwear either, pet? I know it’s been a while, but you truly are desperate, aren’t you?” He teased, tutting after he spoke.

“Only for you” you answered, which seemed to make Astarion quiver slightly. Only for him? He hadn’t ever had someone that was “his” before. If he was honest, he became jealous when you would stay up late studying with Gale. You said that Gale helped you perform your spells at an advanced level, and that it was for improved accuracy. Typically, these sessions with Gale would come after some sort of catastrophic failure during battle, when you would wound one of your own or the spell would fizzle out soon after casting. He also helped you maintain your concentration spells by testing you.

But confirmation that you were his? He could barely handle it.

“For me?” He spoke, with relative disbelief.

“Of course” you responded, leaving a delicate peck on Astarion’s cheek. The subtle tingling sparked by his nerves left him in awe. You two had been intimate before, but never in such a way. Astarion felt himself becoming timid, especially as the words left his lips “please, let me make love to you.” A small part of him internally cringed, but the other was proud of himself. Astarion wasn’t one to beg, but he had never wanted anything more.

You turned from your previous position so that you could face him. You brought a hand up and through his delectable pale curls, gazing longingly into his crimson irises. “I would love nothing more” you pecked his lips again, letting them linger this time, validating his wishes with your own.

You pulled away and merely nodded, ushering him to move forward. Almost hesitantly, Astarion persistent forward. You leaned upwards in order to slide your nightgown over your shoulders and across the tent, landing on the other side of the bedroll that you shared. “You look delicious, my love.” Astarion remarked, taking in the full experience of your form. He hadn’t truly realized how beautiful you were until this moment. He was so dissociated with his previous sexual escapades with you that he didn’t take the time to admire what was really in front of him.

“Darling, my Gods…” he muttered out as he nearly brought himself to pounce on you, quickly removing his own garments, kissing you feverishly. He broke the kiss a few times to undress, but he kept his eyes on yours persistently. He was with you, and he felt safe. He was so grateful for you. And as far as he was concerned, Raphael needed to watch his back. Any attempts for contact, he would regret.

Astarion focused his attention back to you now, rather than the destruction of the very man who you shared genes with. Astarion felt himself stammering around slightly, anxious to feel you around him again. Somehow, he felt like it would be different this time. His clothes were now scattered atop yours; his hard member being revealed teasingly. “Please, Astarion.” You moaned out, begging for his entrance inside of your canal.

Although he could hardly wait to be inside of you once more, he was also eager to tease. He pressed his index finger against your heat, moving it inside of you gently. He brought his thumb to flick against your clit, and you writhed in pleasure from his actions. “Fuck-“ you groaned as he flicked your nub once more, as you became even wetter than before.

“Astarion, please get inside of me” you begged. With this, he pressured his index finger in you further, and you groaned in response, looking up at him with a subtle smirk on his face. “Your dick, please.”

Astarion removed his finger now, understanding your eagerness. He took his erect member in his hand, guiding it to your vagina. At first he merely prodded the entrance, swirling his tip around it teasingly. Then, he pressed it within, and you gasped “I forgot how big you are.”

“It seems that it’s been far too long, then, my love.” With these words, he slid further in, until his tip reached the end of your canal, osculating your cervix. To this, you mewled from the pleasure. He made a similar groan in from the pleasure, as he felt your passage tighten around him. You took a breath, before he pulled out and pressed inwards again. He brought a finger downwards to play with your clitoris, hoping to provide more pleasure.

“Gods,” you pled once more, and Astarion began pumping in and out of you further, deeper, and faster than before as he felt his own climax building. You squeezed around him tightly, and he gazed down at your bouncing bosom before lifting his head upwards as his eyes rolled to the back of his head with ease from the sensation. He stared back down at you, watching as you panted, but looked back up at him with so much love and adoration in your eyes.

“How close are you, my sweet?” He pondered, and you frantically nodded back at him “so so close.”

“Me too, my love. Cum with me.” Astarion pumped in and out for a few more rounds, before the warm fluid coated your canal, with you squeezing around him, shaking, your own climax approaching steadily.

You writhed with pleasure as Astarion played with your bud still, the feeling of his juices flowing inside of you driving you over the edge. Your lips were soon met with Astarion’s, and you felt your heart flutter as he released, speaking those three little words, everyone’s favorite: “I love you.”

But he truly did mean it. He had never made love to someone before, nor feel so much for another. With you, he did. You felt the same as he did, so you repeated them back to him, “I love you, Astarion.” His name in your voice, following those words? He could’ve sworn he was starving all of his life before he met you. Like he had not truly lived.

You laid down in each other’s arms as you were before, left with slightly more marks from one another than you had previously. He brought another kiss to your lips, and you spoke after releasing “you just can’t keep your hands off of me, can you?”

“Never, my love. Not when you’re you, darling.”

[rey-jake-therapist]

Ok, here am I again posting another TROP/Haladriel meta... Feel free to mute me if you can't take it anymore, these are gonna be two long weeks as there are still two episodes left...

We're having a lot of discussions about what we'll get to see in Episode 8 (maybe even a bit in episode 7??), and it's really great and exciting to speculate about what will happen when our two love birds mortal enemies finally meet again.

It seems to be the general consensus that Sauron will try again to convince her to be his queen. Now I may be the dissonant voice, but I personnally don't think it will be that straightforward.

Charlie said several times that Sauron was pissed that Galadriel rejected him, but that it wasn't the end of the world, for him. Meaning: he totally believes he can make it without her.

To the Nerdist, he said :

"Speaking of your old screenmate, Sauron asked Galadriel to be his queenOpens in a new tab at the end of season one of The Rings of Power. How much, if at all, does he still want that by this point? And does he think it’s a possibility? Vickers: I think he probably does think it’s still a possibility because he has this hubris and this self-love. He thinks he’s really cool, and he thinks, “Well, she rejected me once, but next time I come back for her, she won’t reject me again because I’ll be so powerful she won’t be able to.” But I don’t think he necessarily wants that. I think his initial proposal to her was to join him, and they could be king and queen of Middle-earth, but really, he would’ve been king, and she would’ve been his righthand woman. Any kind of dreams he has involve her being number two and him being number one."

(I would love to see him try to submit Galadriel to his will, btw. I mean, c'mon man)

To Collider, he said,

"His getting rejected definitely leaves him with this sour taste in his mouth, and he goes away thinking, “I can make this right.” Whatever that means to him. That's one of his throughlines in terms of his motivation or goals for this second season is how much he's driven and how much this relationship gives him a sense of purpose."

And to Schön:

That connection will endure as long as the show endures because although they might not be together in proximity when we pick it up, he’s pissed off that she has turned his pitch down [laughter]. That drives him to think, I can make her join me, or I’ll make her pay for this.

Here, there's also an interview he gave for Total Films, where he reveals that there's a "huge amount of urgency in each of them trying to obtain what they want in that situation": https://x.com/totalfilm/status/1830244276539654595

I'm sure I've read an interview where Charlie said that Sauron would probably want to taunt Galadriel with what they could have done together had she said yes. Edit : found it! Interview for TV Insider.

Second to his lust for more rings is Sauron’s desire to get the Elven rings back. “While he didn’t directly touch them, which is a big thing this season, [Galadriel] has this ring that he put all this effort into, and he wants that back,” Vickers admits. Sauron “covets” these jewels, “and particularly hers,” he explains, “because he knows what they represented when he was making them.” Sauron feels “taunted” and “pissed off” that Galadriel rejected him. That makes getting her ring back personal, but Vickers insists that “he’s past ruling with her.” That won’t stop him from showing her “what could have been, what you could have had,” Vickers teases.

Of course Charlie can't give much away. But so far, it matches with what we saw in season 2 : he's in Eregion, forging his rings of power with Celebrimbor, he's visibly happy (just kidding, the man looks exhausted and depressed), but sometimes he can't help but think of Galadriel.

I love how the experience is completely different for him, from it is for Galadriel: while she had a bittersweet flashback of her and Halbrand in the Southlands, he gets lost in the contemplation of Mirdania's hair because she reminds her of Galadriel, and manifests images in his mind palace that also remind him of her (there are several posts about all this on Tumblr, including one of mine... I won't enter into the details again).

It would be very OOC of Sauron to display an outright nostalgia for the time he spent with Galadriel as Halbrand, imho, even if it was only for the audience to see. He's not supposed to be sad and nostalgic, but pissed at her for rejecting him, and determined to move on and to obtain what he wants without her in the picture. He's probably annoyed af to see his thoughts shifting towards Galadriel while he's in the middle of something very important. He's in his "the fuck with her" phase of the breakup, which pretty much matches what Charlie said. In his hubris, he believes that once he has his rings, he will be so powerful that Galadriel will have no other choice than joining him. She hurt his pride, so now he wants to relish the sight of her submission to him.

Regarding the mind palace scene, precisely the one where the guy tells the Galadriel look alike he wrote a poem : it probably remained unnoticed by most viewers, but I think it's very significant that this scene arrived at THIS moment. Let me explain:

To convince Celebrimbor, Sauron first assures him that when the story of this age is written, the Silmarils will be "no more than a whisper". Of course it's meant to motivate Celebrimbor who always wanted to create something that would be remembered, like the Silmarils. But it can be interpreted as a personal goal for Sauron as well :

1) Morgoth found the Silmarils so beautiful that for weeks, "he could do nothing but stare into their depth".

2) Fëanor admired Galadriel's hair so much it gave him the idea of imprisoning and blending the light of the Trees, and three times requested a tress of hers (she always said 'no').

The two people he loved/admired but hurt him the most are connected to the Silmarils in a way, so he could see the creation of something "more precious" as a personal challenge. After he promises Celebrimbor that his rings of power will be "deemed the most precious creations in all Middle-Earth", and Celebrimbor returns to his workshop, his attention is caught by the sight of a couple. The man (whose face remains unseen, because he's a just a self-insert) tells the Galadriel look alike :

"I've written a poem, but I fear your beauty still overshadows anything I could possibly write."

Of course we joked about Sauron's pathetic attempt at poetry (it's terrible lol), but imho there was a deeper meaning to this scene. I think it was his subconscious manifesting what he already knows deep inside of him : that without Galadriel's light, there will ALWAYS be something missing. That what he told Celebrimbor was a lie, no matter how much Sauron wants it to be the truth. The Rings of power are his poem, but Galadriel's beauty/light will always overshadow it.

Hence why it's pretty much granted that he will try to "get Galadriel back". He'll show her how powerful he is now that he has the Nine rings, and his proposal will probably not be as charming as it was the first time. I think we should prepare ourselves to a lot of gaslighting and threatening from his part (he's still pissed off, guys). He'll surely tell her that Eregion is burning because she refused him, that kind of thing. He will definitely use her memories of Halbrand (it's pretty much confirmed by the presence of Halbrand's theme within The Temptation music, and maybe Galadriel's vision of Halbrand enters that scheme too), but will it be to show her what they could have had if she had said yes the first time, or what they could still be? It remains to be seen.

We probably shouldn't forget that in his mind, it happens like this: "she joins me, or I'm making pay for it".... It should be pretty intense.

Then we've got what Charlotte Brändström revealed about Sauron (bless her heart) :

"I think Sauron even really loves Galadriel and you will see that at the very end”

There are already several threads discussing how Sauron will show his love for Galadriel... Will he spare her? Save her in one way or another? Heal her because she's hurt? Prove her in some way that what he said he felt as Halbrand was real? Something entirely different? Anyway, it will be something that can't be confused with manipulation.

There, I said my piece. Why isn't it next Thursday yet?

[dream-with-a-fever]

harry potter movies and how accurately they portrayed the character of ginevra molly weasley

philosopher’s stone: 8/10 book accuracy bc my girl is barely in this movie but she nailed that 2 seconds of screen time in her cute little pastel coloured outfit! but lost points bc we didn’t get to see her again at the end nor did we see the twins promising to send her a hogwarts toilet seat (comedy GOLD i tell you)

chamber of secrets: 7/10 because yes we got to see a few cute moments where ginny got to shine (like ‘leave him alone!’ ate that) but would’ve loved to see her trying to tell harry about the diary and the running joke about percy and his new girlfriend, and where was the singing valentine???? c’mon??? everyone sing it with me ‘his eyes are as green-’ ALSO when she’s sobbing at the end about how she’ll having to leave hogwarts and she’s just this tiny scared little girl and i just want to hug her like we deserved those scenes!!:!:! and harry not telling anyone the details of what happened to protect her (bc he worries she’ll be blamed entirely for the incident like he’s too pure i swear????)

prisoner of azkaban: 8/10 as ginny is not really featured much in this book at All but was still bummed we didn’t get that scene on the train when she accidentally sits on harry’s lap and we see that she is the only other person as badly affected by the dementors as harry

goblet of fire: 11/10 book ginny energy is STRONGGG in this film even tho she’s barely present in the book! her snarky comments and attitude was Perfect but still bummed we didn’t see the scene where ron almost gets her to go with harry to the yule ball and she refuses (like the angel she is) and sticks w neville

order of the phoenix: 1.5/10 honestly that might even be too high bc literally WHERE WAS SHE??? she gets a couple points for the reducto curse moment but that’s about it. no hint of personality, still openly crushing on harry (even tho she has a boyfriend and is able to be herself around harry now HELLO this was major character development) no ‘lucky you’ scene, no library scene, no ginny stepping in to play seeker for harry and WINNING, no bickering at the DoM, no impressions of umbridge, no joking around with her brothers and harry, like we were ROBBED

half-blood prince: -100/10 because what the FUCK? shoelaces? hidden random kiss in the RoR? zero interactions and suddenly harry is In Love? ginny saying about 5 words in the entire film? ginny is the LIFE of this book, harry spends page after page obsessing over her, where’s them playing quiddich at the burrow, joking around after practise, ginny crashing into the commentator’s booth, ginny defending harry about the potions book, harry KISSING her in front of the entire common room after SHE won the quidditch cup playing his position because his dumbass got detention like?,!:?! harry wanting to save his liquid luck to have a chance with ginny?? ginny and ron’s big argument? harry and ginny’s break up after dumbledore’s funeral?? instead we got ginny being a mute with zero personality, who feeds harry christmas pies, wouldn’t know a joke if it hit her in the face and initiates everything despite harry being the one making the moves in the book?!??!??! just abhorrent. ginny weasley i am so sorry for what they did for her.

deathly hallows part 1: -45/10 okay ginny was done so dirty, ginny kissing harry as a birthday present, like a GOODBYE kiss??? as a i-don’t-know-if-i’ll-ever-see-you-again-but-please-know-that-i-love-you kiss???? harry calling ginny the most real thing in the world? ron snapping at harry for leading ginny on? harry almost accidentally telling ginny his plans for hunting voldemort bc he always lets his guard down around her? harry getting jealous when krum shows interest in ginny at the wedding? harry staring at her dot on the marauders map and making sure she’s safe????? instead we got.. an awkward kitchen kiss with george present (um?), zero interaction at the wedding, neville standing up to deatheaters on the train but ginny sitting pretty next to him and saying nothing when SHE WAS LEADING THE DAMN RESISTANCE???????:?:?:?: give me a fuckin break

deathly hallows part 2: -75/100 so! much! wrong! with her portrayal in this film. not to mention she’s barely in it, but when harry comes back to hogwarts, they have that one moment where they stare at each other and that’s it???? that’s all we get?? the rushed kiss on the staircase was lowkey cute but without all the build up from previous films it was just like..? ok? in the book we get ginny pushing to stay and fight and no one can convince her to do it, except harry. he’s the only one she listens to. we get harry saying ginny has somehow gotten more beautiful since he’s last seen her? we get jealous ginny when cho offers to show harry the diadem? we get harry walking to his death and seeing ginny crouched over an injured child, trying to calm the girl down despite her own world having fallen apart and one of her brothers already being dead, we get harry nearly changing course and going for bellatrix instead of voldemort when he sees ginny in trouble? also the entire epilogue??? basically cut… like that scene was so wholesome and funny, and getting to see harry and ginny as this family unit was so nice?? a ROBBERY i’m telling you.

[nalyra-dreaming]

I so want to know more about the nature of vampire bond as well. Especially on the maker's end. Louis didn't get to open up on it more but I could feel the weight of it.

(You guys saw my tags on the gif set, didn't you^^)

Okay, so... the vampire bond.

The vampire bond in the VC is not binding. It does not make slaves out of fledglings. It does not enforce anything.

It does mute the mental connection between maker and fledgling, though Lestat theorizes in later books that they might be simply running interference, because they're too close (in the blood).

A bit of lore:

The vampires in the VC were initially created by a spirit (Amel) fusing with blood (Akasha's). This fusion causes the cells to mutate, that is where the blood hunger comes from. The mutation turns the cells more and more into luracastria, a kind of plastic. That's why their skin goes more pale over time, too, and turns translucent when they're killed and the blood is removed. (But that just as a note)

This spirit, Amel, is like a gigantic web. When a vampire makes a fledgling, they pass on a "tendril" of Amel with their blood. The blood itself already would transform, but since Amel is in the blood...

So that is... the literal "vampire bond".

But... that isn't what Louis is talking about :) Or, I sincerely doubt that is what he talks about^^.

Louis... elevates the "vampire bond" to a status that defies mortal definition. No equivalent.

"It's a bond that can never fully be severed. A bond like that makes you believe there are only two of you on the planet."

True. It can only be severed by death, because of the tendril that connects them. But that is not why he thinks there's only two people on the planet :)

I think Louis used the "vampire bond" for himself as an excuse. As a shield. He held it before his heart, telling himself he felt like that because of it.

But then, why didn't Claudia feel like that? Or Antoinette?

Which brings us to Louis cutting open his veins after Madeleine, and the scene in the restaurant.

The show gave us an extremely beautiful and harrowing little glimpse at the bond there, and I love it, even though it is extremely bitter.

Because by turning Madeleine... Louis realized that the "love" did not come with the turning, nor did his heart beat in sync with hers. He realized that he was now connected to her, yes, but he did not want to be. He did not want to feel the feelings Madeleine felt for Claudia. (And which likely echoed what he and Lestat had shared before!) He did not want to be reminded of what he would never have again. He did not want the connection.

And so he wanted to be rid of it, he opened his veins, in vain, because the tendril... had already been passed on.

The vampire bond is for Louis this mind-altering and literally life-altering experience of being reborn through marrying Lestat. Kissing Lestat on the altar. Meaning it. That is why the floor always feels liquid. That is why their hearts sync up. That is why the emotions coming from Lestat always managed to reach him, and why it felt like it was only the two of them.

It was not the same for Claudia.

That was also something Louis realized there, I bet.

Also.

He likely felt Lestat "die" in 1x07. Just as Lestat... likely felt him suffer and slowly wither when Louis was locked up after the trial.

And Louis felt Madeleine's death.

And he knew Lestat felt Claudia's.

In the VC... and imho in the show... fledglings are made from different intents, which shapes the relationship. I talked about that a bit here. A fledgling, a turning does not equal the "big love"...

But if it does... then it fuses obviously with that love. And elevates the bond to an experience that Louis... obviously does not want to sever. And misses, terribly.