#might make another one of these for her later

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Four

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well. make out with conner, a bit steamy.

word count | 6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch

previous. next.

Cassandra has always spoken a language sharper than words.

It weaves in the crook of a wrist, in the subtle twist of a shoulder, in the precise slope of someone’s spine when they think no one is watching. Where others stumble over syllables, Cassandra reads the sentences of bodies with ease. Your discomfort? It screams at her. Louder than any broken sentence ever could.

You stand by the bar, your weight shifted onto one foot, arms crossed in a deceptively casual way that only someone like her could recognize for what it is: armor. You laugh in measured bursts, calculated, like the sound is another layer of silk draped across your ribs to hold you together. Your eyes? They dart, tracing the exits, the shadows, the spaces between your siblings like you��re searching for gaps in enemy lines.

You are a castle made of glass. Polished, glittering, beautiful. But one good stone, one poorly-aimed word, and you’ll crack.

She sees it. She always has.

Your weight shifts slightly, never fully planting your feet, like you’re poised to bolt the second the walls breathe too close to you. Like you’re still half feral. Like you never came back to stay.

And yet, she doesn’t move immediately. She watches instead — the way a panther observes a wounded sibling, patient, waiting for you to settle, to understand that the threat doesn’t lie here. Not tonight. Not with them.

Because you are theirs.

Even if you’ve forgotten how to speak that language.

Cassandra approaches quietly, her heels barely clicking against the marble, her mask a delicate thing that frames her sharp eyes without hiding them. You’ve never been good at reading people the way she does. You speak in music, in color, in the stretch of silk across muscle as you soar on aerial ribbons. She speaks in the curl of a lip, the tremor of a hand, the tension braided tight across your shoulders.

When she stops beside you, you don’t flinch. You never flinch for her.

You glance over, your expression smooth, carefully blank behind the pearlescent lace of your mask.

“Cass.”

Your voice is cool. Detached. But there’s warmth coiled underneath, the remnants of late nights spent side by side as teenagers, both of you tucked into the shadows of the Manor, too aware of your ghosts, too quiet to disturb them.

Cassandra studies you for a moment longer, reading the precise angle of your spine, the tight pull of your knuckles as your hand curls around your drink. Her own mouth tilts in the smallest, subtlest of smiles.

“You hate it here.” The words are low, soft, unassuming. Observational, not judgmental.

You huff a breath, the corner of your mouth twitching faintly. “I’ve always hated galas.”

Lie. You both know it.

You loved them once. You loved the attention, the glint of curiosity in strangers’ eyes, the performance of perfection. You loved the music, the cold crystal glass against your palm, the fleeting illusion that maybe, maybe tonight, your father would look at you the way he looked at Dick or Jason. That he’d see you.

But years carve new truths out of old bones.

You swirl the remnants of your drink, voice slipping into dry amusement. “I hate this gala.”

Cassandra tilts her head, raven-dark hair brushing her shoulder, eyes steady. “Because we’re here.”

It isn’t a question.

You don’t answer immediately. Your gaze drifts across the room — the swirling crowd of Gotham’s elite, your siblings clustered in their careful constellation. Dick standing close, just not enough to hear. Jason watching with guarded eyes, Tim already halfway buried in his phone, Stephanie laughing too loud, Duke leaning into every conversation, Damian glaring possessively from a corner like he owns the air around you. Bruce… distant, observing, a stone sentinel no mask can soften.

They are a pack. A unit.

And you? You’ve been orbiting too far for too long.

You shrug, the movement delicate, brittle. “I don’t belong here.”

“Wrong.” Cassandra’s voice is gentle, firm. A blade wrapped in velvet.

You meet her gaze properly then — your sister, your shadow, the girl who speaks better with her hands than her tongue, who reads the battlefield written across every tendon and muscle like scripture.

For a moment, the noise of the gala fades — the hum of music, the click of heels, the soft murmur of old money exchanging lies. It’s just you and her. Two daughters of a man too broken to love properly, two women who know the ache of silence and the sharp edges of being overlooked.

Cassandra reaches out, fingers brushing lightly along your wrist — a question disguised as touch.

You let her.

Her hand settles briefly against your forearm, steady, grounding. “You are uncomfortable.”

You exhale, a soft, rueful laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to me.” Her mouth quirks faintly. “They don’t see yet. Too… distracted. Too loud.”

Your eyes flick back to the others, their orbit still spinning, conversations layered over possessive glances, overprotective edges buried in strained smiles. You recognize it now — the panic beneath their excitement. The desperation coiled beneath their bravado.

They want you back. They need you back.

And Cassandra can’t help but think maybe you don’t know yet. Maybe you don’t understand how needed you are. How tightly they are tethered to you. How much of their lungs you quietly occupy.

So she waits.

Because you will learn. Slowly. Gently. When they wrap around you tight enough, when they stop letting you escape between the cracks.

You can claw, you can bare your teeth, you can run.

But you are still theirs.

Cassandra’s fingers press lightly against your wrist, pulling your focus back to her.

“You’ll get used to it,” she says simply. “When you remember.”

You arch a brow. “Remember what?”

Her eyes soften, unwavering. “How much we love you.”

The words land with more weight than they should.

Love.

The concept coils around your ribs, unfamiliar, half-withered, like a foreign language you used to speak fluently before neglect turned your tongue to stone.

You scoff, half-bitter. “You all have a funny way of showing it.”

Cassandra shrugs, the movement small, unapologetic. “We’re not good at… showing.” Her gaze sharpens, reading every flicker of doubt in your posture. “But we feel.”

You hesitate, the words lodging like splinters in your throat. You want to believe her. You do. But years of silence, of invitations unanswered, of milestones ignored, of empty chairs and colder rooms — they weigh heavier than sentiment.

“We hurt you,” Cassandra says quietly, reading the protest in your stance before it leaves your lips. “But we didn’t stop loving you.”

You hate how easily she strips you bare, how precisely she deciphers the language you’ve tried to bury beneath silk and sharp words. Your walls — glass. Your armor — transparent.

You hate how much you missed her.

“Cass…” Your voice falters, softer now, the facade cracking at the edges.

She leans in slightly, her touch still featherlight on your wrist.

“You’ll get used to it,” she repeats gently. “When you see it.”

You glance back at your family — their glances lingering, their conversations fractured, each of them orbiting you even when they pretend not to.

Possessive. Broken. Desperate.

But love? Love might still linger beneath the wreckage.

Cassandra steps back, her hand slipping away, her posture loose but coiled, patient as ever.

“We’re not letting you disappear again,” she says simply.

You huff a breath, wry. “Is that a threat?”

Her eyes glint, the faintest smirk curling her lips.

“No. Promise.”

And the worst part? You almost believe her.

And it sends a shiver down your spine. 

You glance at her, eyes half-lidded behind your mask, glass tapping against your bottom lip.

“I don’t like performing,” you say simply.

“You’re not performing.”

You scoff lightly. “Aren’t I? Look at me, Cass. Look at us. Look at this.”

You motion vaguely toward the room — the golden pillars, the chandeliers heavy with old money, the sharp black suits and sparkling gowns, the curated smiles and the clink of crystal.

“This is a stage,” you murmur, voice tasting like a distant ache. “It always has been.”

Cassandra tilts her head slightly, absorbing the cadence of your words, the small tremors in your throat when you swallow.

“But you love the stage.”

Your lips twitch faintly. “I loved my stage.”

She steps a little closer, a pulse of gravity pulling her to you like an orbit she can’t escape.

“This can be yours again,” she says, voice steady, smooth.

Your shoulders stiffen, but you don’t pull away. Your body betrays you though — your heartbeat hiccups, the shallow breath slipping a fraction too quickly.

“Why now, Cass?”

Cassandra shrugs lightly. “Maybe it’s because you came back.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe you had to.”

You look at her fully now, studying her calm posture, her hands resting loosely against the bar, her gaze unwavering. “Did they send you?” you ask, the bite in your tone dulled by exhaustion.

“No.”

You quirk a brow. “Not even Dick?”

“He knows I see things he doesn’t.”

You hum. “I’m not staying.”

“You will.”

You laugh, dry and low. “You’re sure of that?”

“Yes.”

Her certainty is a strange comfort and an irritation all at once. The music swells, the floor shifts, the lights catch on the curve of your mask.

You don’t run. Not this time.

And maybe — maybe — you’ll let yourself stay, if only for a little while longer.

The song changes. Slow, heavy. Something old and familiar that wraps around the ballroom like velvet, soft and suffocating all at once.

You’re still on the floor with Cass when you feel it. The shift. The ripple of eyes turning, attention coiling tighter, a new presence anchoring itself to your space.

You don’t need to look to know.

But you do.

Bruce stands at the edge of the dance floor, dark and polished in that way only he can be, mask settled over sharp, unreadable eyes, jaw clenched faintly beneath the shadow of his cowl.

He’s watching you.

Your heartbeat falters for half a second, years of muscle memory and buried instincts prickling under your skin. You see the faintest crack in his armor—the tightness at the corner of his mouth, the stiffness in his stance that tells you this isn’t Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, standing before you.

It’s Batman.

And yet, tonight, under the golden haze of the chandelier, pressed into a suit and bowtie, that armor looks laughably thin.

Cassandra follows your gaze, her eyes sharp and knowing.

You feel her hand brush your wrist, a subtle pressure of comfort, but she doesn’t say anything when Bruce takes a slow step forward, cutting through the crowd with the quiet command of a man who has never been denied a thing in his life.

The orchestra’s strings hum, the floor parts, and your shoulders pull taut without your permission.

“May I?” His voice is low, almost too steady, a thread of tension buried beneath each word.

It’s not really a request.

There are eyes on you.

Of course there are.

The Gotham elite never miss a Wayne. Never miss a show. Never miss the subtle shifts in power or affection or loyalty written in these carefully curated performances.

It’s all a performance, isn’t it?

So you swallow the knot in your throat, force your expression flat, and nod.

“Of course, father.”

The title tastes foreign, jagged, but it rolls off your tongue with the grace you’ve spent years cultivating.

Cass slips away, melting into the crowd like smoke, her dark eyes lingering on you one last time before vanishing into the sea of black and gold.

Bruce’s hand hovers, waiting, and you place yours in it with reluctant precision.

His palm is warm. Familiar. Calloused from years of work that only you and a select few will ever know. The pressure firm but not crushing, guiding you to the center of the dance floor with the kind of confidence that has always belonged to him. He was never unsure in these spaces. Not in the boardroom, not in the battlefield, not in a waltz.

Except maybe now.

Maybe here, with you, there’s a tremble under the armor he forgot to shed.

The other hand settles lightly against your waist, and you suppress the instinct to tense again.

You’ve danced with him before. Countless times. Gotham galas, charity benefits, stiff family events when you were still young enough to believe you had his full attention. 

But nothing ever felt like this.

The music pulls you into motion. You fall into step without thought, the years of training, of posture, of silent grace slipping over your bones like muscle memory refusing to die.

It’s almost funny. You’ve fought beside him more times than you can count. Shadow to his shadow. The Huntress at Batman’s side.

Your blades carving through alleyways, your fists silencing threats, blood escaping villain's noses, mouths, always respecting your father's code, your shared glances in the dark. The quiet, unshakable language of partners.

You remember the feeling of your boots scraping against wet gravel, the sweet sting of exhaustion in your muscles after nights chasing Gotham’s monsters, the brief flashes of pride you used to catch in his eyes when you landed a perfect strike, when you solved a puzzle before he could.

Those memories burn, bright and cruel.

Because no one here — no one but this family — knows the truth of who you were, of what you meant to this city in the shadows.

You have always been his sharpest blade. Always been the daughter who bled to be seen.

But here, in this room? Under the crushing weight of crystal chandeliers and champagne laughter?

This is where the cracks show.

It’s not your territory. Not really.

“I forgot how heavy your hand is.”

His grip eases immediately, his jaw clenching. “Sorry.”

You don’t offer comfort. You never learned how.

“You didn’t have to come,” Bruce says, his voice low, carrying only to you beneath the hum of strings.

You let out a quiet breath, eyes fixed over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to invite me. Well, Dick did. Suppose you don't have anything to do with that.”

His hand tenses fractionally at your waist, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.

You catch everything.

“I wanted you here.”

You arch a brow, letting your gaze drift back to him, sharp and cool behind your mask. “And now that I’m here, what? We pretend everything’s fine? You smile for the cameras, I play the good daughter, and we dance for the press?”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking at the corner of his cheek. “It’s not for the cameras.”

“No?” Your voice lowers, bitter amusement coiling under your ribs. “Then who’s it for?”

He hesitates. That alone is rare enough to sting. “I wanted to dance with my daughter,” he replies finally.

The words are quieter than you expect. Honest. Stripped of performance.

And you hate how much they twist something in your chest.

“You remember how to call me that?”

His gaze flickers briefly to the crowd, to the watchful vultures pretending to sip champagne while their ears sharpen like knives.

“Lower your voice,” he murmurs, guiding you into a smooth spin.

You want to look away, to sneer, to cut the conversation off at the knees, but the pressure of his hand guiding you into the next turn forces you to stay.

The crowd around you blurs. It always does, when it’s just the two of you.

The same way it used to blur when you stood shoulder to shoulder on Gotham’s rooftops, cape and cowl shrouding you both, the city sprawling beneath your boots, yours to protect, yours to conquer.

But those nights feel like a lifetime ago now. Like someone else’s memories.

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t do this,” you whisper, voice cracking despite your best efforts. “Don’t pretend.”

“I’m not.” His eyes soften, only a fraction, but it’s enough to rattle your defenses. “I’ve made mistakes.”

You scoff under your breath, bitter and brittle. “That’s one way to phrase it.”

“I should’ve been there.”

Your steps falter for a heartbeat, but he adjusts, guiding you seamlessly back into rhythm.

You hate how easy it still is. How perfectly you move together when words fail you both.

“I waited,” you murmur, the confession slipping free before you can stop it. “I waited, and you were always looking somewhere else.”

“I know.” His voice is tight. Heavy. Guilt coils between you like smoke. You feel the weight of it, old and sharp, pressing against your ribs.

“For them,” you continue, unable to stop now. “For the city. For your mission. For your sons.”

Bruce’s grip doesn’t waver, but the cracks show in his eyes, stormy blue flickering with regret.

You almost laugh.

“But never for me.”

The words settle like ash between you, bitter and final.

You expect him to deflect. To deny.

But he doesn’t.

“I failed you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not grand. But it’s the closest thing to an apology you’ve ever heard from him.

Your fingers curl faintly against his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The music carries you through the dance like nothing’s wrong, like your skin isn’t itching to pull away, like your heart isn’t clawing at your chest, desperate and aching for something you lost years ago.

And yet…

Part of you—small, foolish, feral—still begs for him to look at you the way he did when you were a child.

When you were his. Before the missions. Before the masks. Before you became just another soldier in his endless war.

You swallow hard, blinking away the sting in your eyes.

You speak low, your voice coated in something sharp. “You only see me when I’m useful.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

His hand shifts slightly, tightening at your waist like he can anchor you there, keep you from slipping through his fingers again.

“You’ve always been important to me.”

Your lips twitch into something faintly cruel.

“‘Important’ isn’t the same as loved.”

His steps falter for half a second — a crack in the perfect choreography — but he catches it before the crowd can notice.

“You think I don’t love you?” His voice dips, lower now, rougher, threading frustration and something dangerously close to desperation.

“I know you don’t know how to.”

Your body stays cold, distant in his arms, your eyes catching the flicker of your brother's at the edge of the floor — Dick’s frozen stare, Jason’s clenched fists, Tim’s worried glances, Damian’s livid, possessive glare, Duke on full alert. Cassandra is the only one who just expects, knowing what could and possibly would come out of all that.

They can’t hear you. Not fully. But they feel the tremble in the air.

The weight in your throat thickens.

“You loved the Huntress,” you murmur, your fingers curling tighter in his. “You loved the soldier. You loved the weapon. But me? The daughter? You didn’t see her.”

“I did,” Bruce says, barely breathing.

“You weren't there.”

“I was—”

“Busy?” Your teeth flash, sharp and humorless. “I know. Saving Gotham. Carrying the weight of the world. I know.”

His silence cuts deep.

Your chest tightens as the music sways around you, your steps precise, your face carefully unreadable for the vultures still watching.

But inside, you ache.

You ache like you did as a child, waiting on cold marble steps for a father who never showed.

“You don’t get to show up now,” you whisper, your throat thickening. “You don’t get to pretend this is normal. You don’t get to waltz me around like you remember who I am.”

“I never forgot you.”

Your laugh is low and cold.

“I forgot me.”

His brow furrows, his grip firm but not suffocating.

“You’re still my child.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

The desperation flickers again, barely restrained under the mask.

“I missed too much,” he says, the words pulled from somewhere raw. “But I want to—”

“To what? Make up for it now?” You sneer softly, the bitterness clinging to your ribs. “You want to be my father again? You want to start over? You can’t.”

His chest rises and falls slowly.

“I want to know you.”

“You knew me.”

“I didn’t know enough.”

“You didn’t want to know.”

“I was afraid.”

That — that makes your breath catch.

You hadn’t expected that. You glance at him, really glance at him, your mask a faint shimmer against your skin. For the first time, he sees your shiny eyes, full of tragic tears. 

“Of what?”

“Of what I’d see.” His voice is quiet, honest in a way that strips you bare. “Of the cracks. Of the things I couldn’t fix. I didn’t want to fail you.”

You shake your head, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “You did anyway.”

His throat bobs with the weight of what he can’t swallow.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t shatter the fragile picture they’re all watching, but you don’t soften either.

“You missed so many things,” you murmur, gaze slipping to the golden chandeliers. “You missed the shows. The exhibits. The nights I sat at the piano because I thought maybe this time you’d come in and just… just sit. Just watch me be something that wasn’t a weapon.”

“I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“I can be now.”

You close your eyes briefly, the music pulling you through the motions like it always has.

“You don’t know how to love people who don’t fight for you.”

“I love you.”

You breathe out, trembling, trying to keep the cracks from surfacing.

“You love the version of me you built in your head.”

“I want the real you.”

You look at him finally, fully, the aching part of you — the part still thirteen, still small, still desperate — begging to see that spark in his eyes again. That warmth. That father.

You search his gaze. You search it like you’re searching for a home you locked yourself out of.

“You don’t know me,” you whisper, your throat tight.

“Then let me try.”

The song fades.

The silence between you doesn’t.

But you don’t pull your hand from his.

Not yet.

Not until Clark Kent appears, accompanied by the one and only Wonder Woman.

You spot them weaving through the crowd like gravity itself parts the air around them. The gods walking among mortals, and everyone in this room knows it — though most pretend otherwise, lifting champagne flutes with tight smiles and practiced indifference. The only ones foolish enough to believe they belong in the same echelon.

But you? You’ve seen them without the glamor, without the press conference glow. You’ve seen them bone-tired after fights, bruised, battered, laughing softly under dim Watchtower lights, their capes draped over chairs like discarded armor. You’ve seen the cracks beneath the myth.

And they’ve seen you too.

Their eyes light up the moment they spot you, their smiles — honest, unfiltered things — cracking through the heavy air you’ve been drowning in all night.

You remember the warmth.

And you remember how you clung to it, how you were always orbiting their presence like a child desperate for gravity.

You straighten your shoulders as they approach, brushing your fingers along the edge of your mask like it could shield you from the sudden, raw tenderness that swells in your throat.

Diana is the first to reach you. Her hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers warm and strong, curling around yours like an anchor.

“You look breathtaking,” she says, her voice low and velvet-smooth, like the steady hum of storm clouds promising rain. “Though, I expected no less.”

A faint, genuine smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “Flattery from a literal goddess? Dangerous territory, Diana.”

Her eyes sparkle, amusement clear as water. “You’ve always been dangerous. Even at twelve, shadowing the Watchtower halls, wearing that Huntress suit far too big for you.”

Your cheeks flush lightly at the memory, and Diana’s thumb brushes the back of your hand, soothing, familiar.

“I thought it made me look taller,” you murmur.

“It made you look fearless,” she corrects, her gaze softening with something achingly maternal, threaded with pride. “You were always curious. Always watching. Always so sure of your place, even when the rest of us weren’t.”

Clark joins the circle then, his presence as gentle as it is commanding — all broad shoulders and boyish charm wrapped in the mild-mannered facade that never quite hides the steel beneath.

“You’ve grown,” he says warmly, eyes crinkling at the edges as they sweep over you. His voice is the same — low, steady, threaded with the kind of fatherly concern that makes something tight coil behind your ribs. “Not that I expected anything less. You were never exactly… subtle.”

You raise a brow. “Says the man who wore his underwear over his pants.”

Clark chuckles, the sound low and familiar. His hand settles briefly on your shoulder, grounding, gentle, the kind of touch you always wanted from your own father and never quite managed to receive.

“I see your sense of humor’s still sharp,” he says. His eyes soften as they linger on your face, quiet memory flickering there. “I remember when you were shorter than my belt.”

“I remember tripping you in the Watchtower training room.”

“Still have the bruises to prove it.”

The easy banter slices clean through the weight pressing against your chest, letting your lungs expand for the first time tonight.

It’s Diana, though, who reaches deeper — always has.

Her hand brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, her thumb grazing your cheek, her expression so openly fond you almost flinch.

“You used to cling to my lasso,” she teases gently. “Tug at it during debriefings. Sit beside me while I braided my hair and begged for stories.”

Your throat tightens. You remember that. Too vividly.

You remember curling at her side, wide-eyed, marveling at the myth spun from her lips — Amazonian battles, distant islands kissed by gods, the weight of justice worn like a crown.

She had made you feel seen. Small, yes, but capable. Curious. Full of fire.

You clear your throat lightly, swallowing the ache. “You never made me feel like a kid.”

Diana smiles, radiant and proud. “You never were.”

And it doesn't feel good hearing it.

Clark’s gaze lingers a little longer, soft, reflective, and then — a glint of amusement sharpens his expression.

“Conner’s around,” he says casually, but his tone carries the weight of knowing, the faintest nudge hidden beneath the words. “Have you seen him?”

Your brows lift, the reaction too quick to mask entirely. Your lips twitch in betrayal of your cool facade as the memory of the bar — the sparkling smirk, the teasing words, the shameless flirtation — slides uninvited through your mind.

You nod slowly, fingers wrapping around the stem of your forgotten glass.

“Briefly,” you say, careful, measured.

Clark’s smile deepens, equal parts teasing and gentle warning — the same look he used to shoot you when he caught you dangling too close to Conner’s orbit as teenagers.

“Good,” he says simply, but the implication curls around the space between you.

Diana chuckles under her breath, her sharp eyes not missing a thing.

“I see some habits are hard to break,” she muses, arching a brow at you.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Some people grow up,” you counter lightly. “Some people…”

Clark’s chuckle interrupts. “Conner still hasn’t figured out how to act his age.”

“He’s Kryptonian,” Diana adds. “Time never sits still for them.”

Your lips curve, the weight on your shoulders easing slightly under their warmth.

The conversation drifts, gentle, filled with quiet stories, brief updates, subtle glances that reassure and ground you. You listen, you smile, you let the nostalgia curl around your ribs like soft smoke.

But even as they speak, even as Clark’s familiar cadence fills the space, as Diana’s hand rests lightly at your arm, your father's voice turning serious once again, your gaze slips.

Across the room, past the glint of crystal chandeliers and silver-threaded gowns, you catch sight of him. Leaning casually against one of the marble pillars, drink in hand, eyes fixed unashamedly on you. His mouth quirks into that cocky, knowing grin that always made your pulse skip when you were younger — the same grin that’s sharper now, older, more dangerous in its charm.

Clark follows your gaze, hums softly, and doesn't say anything. But he smiles once you slip, orbiting towards Conner without a warning behind.

Conner stands there, smile curling lazy and confident at the corner of his mouth — but there’s something else, too. Something softer tucked behind the bold lines of his expression. Familiarity. Nervousness. The quiet sting of unspoken years.

“Could’ve sworn I saw you hiding,” he says, voice smooth as aged bourbon, that small Kansas lilt still lingering beneath the practiced ease. “But you? At a Wayne gala? Hiding? Doesn’t sound like the girl I used to know.”

Your brow arches automatically, muscle memory pulling the teasing into place. “Maybe you never knew me.”

“Unlikely,” Conner says, taking a slow step closer. His gaze sweeps over you, not leering — just… cataloguing. Memorizing. Like he’s re-learning old territory. “You were everywhere back then. Practically glued to my side.”

You roll your eyes lightly, but the ghost of a grin betrays you.

“You were lost,” you counter. “I’m a sucker for lost things.”

His smile deepens, warm and genuine, softening the edges of his sharp jawline.

“You were a sucker for projects,” he corrects, gesturing to the bar with his drink. “Wanna make me one again? Come grab a drink, Birdie.”

The nickname, stolen right from Dick’s vocabulary, makes something twist low in your stomach. From anyone else, it’d be obnoxious. From him? It rolls easy off his tongue. Teasing. Comfortable.

For a moment, you hesitate.

But it’s Conner. And with Conner, it’s always been different.

There’s a rhythm there. A flow. A space that never quite closed, even when distance, time, and your own stubbornness shoved everything else to the side.

You sigh dramatically, feigning reluctance.

“Fine,” you relent, brushing past him with enough proximity to let your shoulder graze his arm. “But only because I pity you.”

“Pity,” he echoes, falling into step beside you as you approach the bar. “Harsh.”

“True.”

The bartender barely blinks as you order — your drink, crisp and familiar, sliding across the marble with ease. Conner orders the same, his grin cocky but his eyes never straying far from yours.

“You clean up nice,” he says after a beat, his gaze drifting, lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip. “Not that I didn’t know that already.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Bold of you to assume I need help.”

You snort softly, sipping your drink, the burn a welcome distraction as you tilt your head, studying him properly.

It’s unnerving, almost, how little he’s changed — and how much.

The broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, the easy charm that never fully disguised the insecurity curled behind his bravado — it’s all there. But there’s more weight now. More quiet steel in the way he carries himself. The recklessness tempered, if only slightly, by time.

“I thought Smallville boys were supposed to have manners.”

Conner grins, sharp and easy. “I was born in a lab. I missed the memo.”

You click your tongue, feigning disapproval.

And it’s too easy, slipping into the old rhythm, the way your shoulders settle, the way your tongue sharpens, how the years between you flicker and collapse like they were never there to begin with.

You remember the early days — how quickly you let him in, how you made it your mission to make him laugh, to teach him that he didn’t have to be a shadow of someone else.

You remember sitting too close on rooftops, fingers brushing when you passed him comms, pretending not to notice the flush that followed.

You remember wishing for something to happen. You remember how nothing ever did.

Until now.

Until you find yourself backed against the cool marble of the bathroom door, his breath warm and unsteady against your mouth, his hands splayed against the dip of your waist like he doesn’t quite know how to hold you but refuses to let you go.

It spiraled so quickly you barely remember leaving the bar.

One look, one lingering touch, one too-long stare that told you both exactly where this was heading.

Your fingers knot in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, daring him to press in like you’ve wanted him to since you were both kids playing dress-up in a world that always asked too much.

His mouth is rough against yours, all heat and unspoken years crashing together in the sharp clink of his belt against the counter, your breaths coming too fast, too close.

You bite his lip, hard enough to make him grunt against your mouth, and he laughs through it, a low, breathless sound that sends heat crawling up your throat.

“You kiss like you fight,” he mutters against your jaw, his hands sliding up your back, pressing you closer, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

You tilt your head back, breath ragged, the faintest smirk curling your lips despite the heat twisting under your skin. The mask not longer in your face, neither the one in his. Both of them thrown in the counter.

“And how exactly is that, Kent?”

His mouth finds your pulse, the scrape of his teeth making your knees threaten to buckle, the low rumble of his voice vibrating against your skin.

“Sharp,” he breathes. “Stubborn. Dangerous.”

Your laugh catches, breathless and sharp, your nails scraping lightly along the nape of his neck, threading into the short, slightly curled, dark strands of his hair. 

Conner’s body hums against yours. His hands shift, one trailing up your spine until his palm corners around your shoulder blade, the other sliding lower, anchoring against your hip. His grip is neither timid nor assured — more like remarkable desperation distilled into two hands trying too hard not to let go.

“I should be offended.”

“You should be flattered.”

You don’t get a chance to retort — his mouth captures yours again, more certain now, like the floodgate’s been ripped off its hinges and he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

The kiss is everything it shouldn’t be.

Messy. Unrestrained. All teeth and tangled promises never spoken aloud.

His hands skim your ribs, the warmth of his palms steady through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers spreading along your sides like he’s trying to memorize every inch, every curve, every soft line you’ve spent years perfecting beneath layers of distance and pride.

You fist your hand in the collar of his jacket, dragging him impossibly closer, your teeth catching his lower lip again — softer this time, deliberate — and the sound he makes is nothing short of sinful.

“Years,” he mumbles against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours between rushed kisses. His voice is rough, strained, frustration bleeding through. “Do you have any idea how long—”

“Yeah,” you interrupt, breathing hard, your other hand sliding along his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I do.”

You kiss him again before he can speak, shutting him up with the easy, reckless confidence that’s always defined your connection — all edges and unspoken history threatening to spill over.

His tongue traces yours, exploratory, familiar and new all at once, the kiss deepening with every second you let yourself sink into it until you’re dizzy from lack of air, from the heat coiling low in your belly, from the years of pretending this didn’t simmer beneath the surface.

The marble at your back is cold. His hands are not.

One slips to your lower back, the other tangling in your hair, and he pulls you to him with that careful, near-desperate possessiveness that makes your chest ache in places you thought you’d fortified long ago.

You break apart for air, your foreheads pressed together, your breaths tangled, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth — smudging lipstick, maybe, but you don’t care.

“God,” he breathes, grinning despite the mess of you both, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “You’re… still impossible.”

Your lips quirk, your fingers lightly tapping his chest.

“And you’re still predictable.”

He chuckles, the sound soft, his thumb ghosting along your cheek.

“Wanna do something predictably stupid and kiss me again?”

You don’t answer.

You just yank him back down, mouth slanting over his with practiced ease, your teeth nipping playfully, your laugh muffled against his lips as he groans, his grip tightening just enough to remind you exactly how much he could crush you if he wanted — how much he doesn’t.

Because with you? It’s always been careful chaos. Messy, reckless, but never cruel. Never careless.

He kisses you like he’s spent years waiting to.

Like he’s making up for lost time with every scrape of teeth, every hurried press of lips, every breathless noise that slips between you.

It’s addictive — the weight of him pressing you to the wall, the warmth of his hand at your hip, the certainty in the way he moves now, all hesitation stripped away.

And for all your bravado, for all your practiced indifference, you let yourself sink into it — let yourself feel him, familiar and dangerous, the one person who ever made you forget the Huntress mask and the Wayne name and the fractured pieces that came with both.

Your fingers slide along the edge of his jaw, memorizing, grounding, your nails scraping lightly along his skin as you pull back just enough to breathe.

His eyes stay locked to yours, intense, blue, unwavering.

For a beat, neither of you speak.

Then, softer, quieter, his thumb brushes your cheek again.

“Missed you,” he says, the words slipping out like confession, raw and honest and untethered.

You swallow hard, throat tight, years pressing heavy against your chest.

Your hand curls into his shirt, fingers tightening slightly.

“Don’t make this complicated, Kent.”

His smile is small, but it never reaches his eyes.

“With you?” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the words a ghost of a promise. “It’s already complicated.”

You don’t kiss him again.

Not yet.

But your hand doesn’t move. And neither does he. And the space between you? Still dangerous.

You don't think you care.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ old habits

➤ summary: you call Rafe out when he acts disrespectfully

➤ w/c: 1.5k.

➤ warnings: themes of toxic masculinity, emotional confrontation

➤ a/n: really wanted to be a part of @zyafics campaign, and I hope that other writers will consider doing it too <3

masterlist

The thing between you and Rafe was still new and fresh—only a few times going out on dates, lingering touches, and way too many moments that were more than just friendly.

Since the first time you had met him, you thought that he had grown to be a better person. He tried to change some of his old habits to become more mature. And you truly saw that, and it was a reason why you even started to catch feelings. But there were still times when he struggled, when some of the traits of that old toxic Rafe were slipping through, either because it was too hard to control things that he had been taught from a young age or because he truly didn’t see himself being in the wrong. 

That day he invited you to the new cafe near the beach on the mainland, saying that it was the best one. For you, Rafe was a gentleman. He picked you up, helped you to get in and out of his truck, complimented your dress and your hair, and let you hold his upper arm when he was leading you to the entrance.

He opened the door for you, and the place was dimly lit with yellow tones and just radiated warmth. It was a little bit too loud with people sitting everywhere, but if the place was good, you didn’t mind that one bit. You looked back at Rafe, sharing a smile, until the young hostess stepped in front of you. 

“I’m so sorry, but as you may see, we’re full right now. You may sit here until one of the tables is free.” With a polite smile, she gestured to the side. “The waiting time will be around fifteen to twenty minutes, if that’s okay with you.” 

You nodded to her words without hesitation. “That’s totally fine.” 

But beside you, Rafe let out a small breath. Not quite a sigh, more like a scoff. He raised an eyebrow and looked the girl up and down with something colder in his expression than you would’ve preferred.

“You’re telling me you can’t fit two people in? It’s not even full in here.” She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, briefly looking at you to figure out how to react. Rafe’s voice wasn’t loud, but you knew how intimidating and cold he might be, especially to people who were not used to it.

“Rafe.” You said his name sharply, tugging his bicep once in hope that he would let it go. 

He glanced at you, then back at the hostess, not getting the problem that you seemed to have. “We’re literally standing here, dressed nicely, just asking for a table. I’m not trying to be a dick. I'm just saying, you could make it work if you actually wanted to.” You didn’t wait for her to respond. You took a step back, slowly removing your hand from his arm.

“I’ll be outside.” You said. No emotion in your voice, hands already folded across your chest. 

You sat at the bench outside, one leg thrown over another, looking at the ocean and debating just simply going back home. Rafe walked out a few minutes later, with hands buried in the pockets of his pants, looking at you like he genuinely could not understand your behavior. 

“Are you seriously mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” You said calmly, not even sparing him a glance. 

“For what? I didn’t even say anything bad. She was the one who couldn’t do her job properly.”

Your head snapped towards him with eyebrows raised in surprise. “No.” You said sharply, taking him aback. “You were being an asshole because you didn’t get what you wanted. She was doing her job, Rafe.” 

His brows knit. “Jesus, I wasn’t an asshole—I was just calling her out.”

“Calling her out for what, Rafe? For not breaking policy? For not giving you special treatment?” He looked away, jaw clenching. His hand reached his head to rub over his buzzed hair in frustration, while you simply looked at him, seeing the conflict that he had. Part of him clearly knew you were being reasonable, that he might’ve stepped over the line, but the rest of him, the louder part, wanted to be right. Wanted to win.

“I’m not dating someone who thinks talking down to people makes him important.” You said firmly, your voice low and calm but hard to let him know how serious that situation was for you. “That’s not cute. That doesn’t make you look cooler or whatever. That’s not something I tolerate.”

Rafe exhaled hard through his nose, briefly throwing his head back in frustration. “You’re making it sound like I screamed at her or something. I was just—I don’t know—frustrated.”

“Yeah, and she was working. Probably scared of losing her job because of kooks who talk down to her every day. Probably already dealing with a bunch of other men who think that they are better than everyone and that other people owe them something.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

You stood up, stepping closer with your heels softly clicking against the wood. You squinted your eyes slightly, tilting your head to the side now that you were almost the same height. “Do what?”

“Make me out to be some kind of monster.”

“I’m not.” You shot back. “But if you don’t like how I make you sound by just talking about your actions, maybe ask yourself why instead of getting defensive.”

The silence that followed stretched long between you. You crossed your arms tighter, mostly to keep yourself from softening, because, God, you wanted to. Because part of you knew that he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but still addressing the problem was important to prove to him that the said problem existed. 

You watched the gears turning behind his eyes, jaw tight, hands buried deep in his pockets. He looked off toward the ocean like maybe the answer was out there, like it could help him to understand how to break the default settings that were engraved in his brain. 

“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Rafe admitted finally, his voice quieter now, and you could hear the edge of hesitation. “I didn’t even notice I was doing it. That I was acting like…” He trailed off, and you knew what he meant. Like Ward.

“That’s the problem, Rafe.” You said softer now, but still steady. “You don’t even notice when you slip. I know that you’re trying to be better. I see it, but I also need you to acknowledge that sometimes you can still be mean, that sometimes you’re in the wrong. Otherwise we won’t work out.”

He looked at you then, as if hurt for a second, because for the part of him, it sounded like a threat or like a challenge that he didn’t want to accept.

“I don’t want to be that guy.” He said after a moment. “I’ve been trying. You know I have.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still standing here and not leaving.” You stepped closer, but you didn’t reach for him.

“But I’m not going to coach you through being a decent person every time you slip. You have to want it for yourself, not just to keep me happy, because I’m telling you right now, Rafe…” You met his eyes, staying your ground. “If that’s the man you choose to be, I will walk away. Even if I don’t want to.”

His throat bobbed in a nervous swallow, his eyes darted away, then back to yours, as if he was trying to measure if you were bluffing. And when a few seconds passed, when you looked at him steadily, waiting for an answer, he turned and walked back toward the café.

You watched him through the front windows when he hesitated near the hostess stand, tugging awkwardly at the expensive watch on his wrist, and then leaned in to speak to the girl. Her face was surprised at first, then softened as he continued to talk, before she nodded a few times, still slightly hesitant, and said something back to him. 

When Rafe returned back to you, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little bit, though his jaw clenched when he rubbed the back of his neck and stopped in front of you like he wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I apologized. Told her I was out of line.”

You gave him a small nod. “Thank you.”

He shifted on his feet, nervous. “She said the table will be ready in ten.” You nodded again, waiting for him to continue. “You still wanna eat with me?” He asked, almost hesitant, like a boy who'd just been scolded.

“I do.” His lips stretched in a small smile, eyes glimmering with something like surprise and maybe a bit of shyness that you caught every once in a while. Rafe stepped closer, offering you his hand, and you playfully rolled your eyes, smiling back and interlacing your fingers. “Now I’m about to order the whole damn menu, Cameron. And it better be good.” 

[carmenlikeme]

The decision to have a second child with Robby isn't an easy one.

You both want to. Your first baby was and still is your biggest blessing; you would never regret them, and there wasn't a moment when you didn't think about having another baby. At least two children. Three, if you felt like you could survive not sleeping for over 12 consecutive years.

But your first pregnancy had been so difficult for you, you had doubts.

Well, Robby had doubts.

During your first trimester, you were barely able to drink water before wanting to throw up. Dana recommended some anti-nausea medication, and Robby decided to pick up the least amount of shifts he could to make sure you were okay, always by your side, and just right behind you as you collapsed on the tiled floor.

Your second trimester was a bliss, full of cute pictures, early maternity shoots, and an intimate gender reveal where Robby cried his eyes out after finding out he was gonna become a girl dad. Endless purchases and moodboards for the nursery. You couldn't ask for anything better.

Then, the third trimester came, and with that, the early-onset preeclampsia.

You spend most of your days in bed now, just standing up to go to the bathroom, and even then, you're being looked after when you walk, even for a few steps. When you are close to 34 weeks, you both decide to admit you to the hospital for monitoring, and Robby feels so much better knowing you're only a few floors away.

That's why he looks so stressed, speaking to Dana about how you both want it, but you might consider adoption to avoid putting you at risk once more. Javadi is close by, and before she can stop herself, she opens her mouth to speak.

"Dr. Robby, did you know that 13% of preeclampsia cases are attributed to paternal factors? There's this study that says that while women's genetics are the most important, if the father was born from a pregnancy with preeclampsia. It's generally attributed to 13% from the father, there's another..."

"Hey, crash! I need your help!" Santos interjects, pulling her by her sweatshirt and dragging her away against her will.

Robby stands still next to Dana, who isn't sure if she should kill Victoria just yet. He pauses, tries to find something to say.

"Is that true?" he asks.

"What's true?" Samira joins the conversation, a tablet in her hand. "Mr. Murphy is ready for discharge."

"Javadi just said preeclampsia can be attributed to paternal factors," he says, his tone is almost sarcastic.

"Oh, yeah. There are a lot of new studies about that, also about how paternal diet, mental health, and exercise habits can have an impact on a pregnancy. There's also a greater risk of a premature birth if the father is over 45, so..."

The rest of the conversation and the day go by in a blink. Robby goes home defeated. And there you are, the TV is on, but you're fast asleep with your baby girl on your chest. He smiles, and for a moment, he forgets about the thing that almost made him spiral.

You wake up 30 minutes later. He's cleaning, and you're sure there's a new load of laundry already in the washer. You want to stand up, but your baby is just so comfortable there, you don't wanna wake her up.

"Good morning, love," he says when he walks back into the room. He leans in, careful enough not to disturb his daughter, and kisses you softly. "I missed you two."

"Thank god you have the weekend off," you whisper. "She didn't take a nap today."

"Well, she's almost one. She wants to conquer the world, but her body isn't letting her. Now that she's walking, she'll be unstoppable."

He sits next to you, and even as careful as he is, your baby wakes up. Her bright eyes open, Robby immediately grabs her from your chest and pulls her onto his.

"Show daddy your new shirt, baby," you say. She's still sleepy, but immediately cries when she is far away from you. She cries and tries to crawl back to you immediately. "This kid, she wouldn't even let me go to pee for two seconds."

She sits up on your lap, and it's only then that Robby pulls down her shirt to see it. His hand stays there, frozen, as he reads the words over and over again. He feels like choking up. It's like you're both back in your old apartment, cramped in the tiny bathroom as you wait for the pregnancy test results.

Best Big Sister.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to turn to you, but there you are, holding a pregnancy test that says "Pregnant. 3-4 weeks". You're crying, and he doesn't know when he started crying with you.

"Surprise!" you whisper, choked up. "I guess it's happening."

He kisses you again, this time he takes his time, despite how much your daughter babbles and screams. Just for a second, he kisses you like the world is about to end in just a moment.

"I guess it is."

Nothing matters, just for a second. It's just him, you and your little family.

© CARMENLIKEME 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, modify or claim as yours.

[1d1195]

Under Construction III

Read Under Construction here | ~7.8k

From Me: this is a mess but I think it's cute

Warning: like two seconds of blood and then fluff and angsty shit

Summary: “Hi, Miss Bee,” he greeted so brightly she thought she might melt. He was so happy to see her it made her stomach twist. “I was hoping you’d be gone, but s’nice t’see you anyway,” he said stepping inside.

She bit the inside of her lip. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, s’Friday,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It wasn’t lunch time, so Harry wasn’t standing by the fence like a certified creep. “Mr. Harry!” Someone shouted. He instinctively turned toward the field and found the gaggle of cuties lined up at the edge of the field. How he didn’t hear them approach was beyond him.

They were led by none other than the cutest woman of all. Today she wore a long green jacket. Black pants peeked out from it. Her coat had a tie fabric cinching her waist. Harry never paid much attention to what his date wore, but everything on her made her look three times as adorable if it were even possible.

He gave a wave, heading over to the group. “Hey everyone,” he greeted. “Early recess?” He asked.

They all glanced at her making sure it was okay to answer. “Go ahead, you know what to say,” she encouraged.

Harry remembered Amara (the little girl who bent her neck back at an incredible angle to chat with him last week) as she stepped forward to look up at him once more. “Miss Bee said our sandwich party is going to be on Halloween. So you can dress up as your dream job.”

He smirked and glanced at her. “What if this is m’dream job?” Because there wasn’t a world in which it wasn’t. Not if fate and destiny put him precisely at her side just because he got this job. It was the best job in the world.

They looked at her again. “That’s okay,” she affirmed with a laugh.

“Sometimes Miss Bee has silly rules, so we have to check.”

“I beg your pardon, they’re not silly!” She frowned with mock annoyance.

“Mr. Niall can come too!” Another one said excitedly.

“We’ve been really good in math too, so we get to ask you question too!” Kai bounced with energy that seemed quite misplaced in asking two construction workers about their jobs.

“Janie, do you want to give Mr. Harry what you brought?”

Harry watched as another little girl stepped forward. She held two folded pieces of construction paper, and she handed them up and toward Harry at the fence. “It’s made out of construction paper. Like your job,” she said explained as if Harry hadn’t a clue what it was. “One’s for Mr. Niall too.”

“Miss Bee wrote the cover part and then we all got to make a page each.”

Harry was enthralled with the cover. It had her extremely beautiful handwriting. Though he was pretty sure every little thing she did was beautiful. There were 3-D stickers of Halloween items placed sporadically across the page but still maintained a fun holiday aesthetic.

Please join us for our Halloween Sand-Witch party. Wednesday, October 31st at 11:45 AM. Please RSVP to Miss Bee and let her know if you have any allergies.

He flipped quickly seeing a variety of hand-drawn pictures. The drawings could only be himself and Niall munching on sandwiches the following week at their party. Along with a variety of varying six-year-old signatures, and so forth.

Harry smiled, his eye catching hers. This was almost as good as asking her on a date and hearing her say yes. A handwritten invitation was a dream come true. It didn’t matter to him in the slightest that the little party was going to be spent with twenty kindergarteners and his best friend either. Because she was going to be there dressed as something adorable, he was sure, and he couldn’t wait.

“We’d love t’attend,” he told them. She smiled shyly as the little ones cheered.

“Alright, Kindergarten... it’s time we head back now that the guys are invited,” she waved to Harry. “Say see you later to Mr. Harry.”

“See you later alligator!” Someone shouted, causing the rest to giggle uncontrollably.

She shook her head and smiled fondly at her group of funny children and headed back toward the school building peering back to catch Harry’s eye again.

*

On Friday, she was preparing for the following week as always. It had been raining hard all day long, so Under Construction wasn’t next door. Moreover, there was no outdoor recess so there was no way she would have seen him anyway. It made her miss Harry.

It seemed a little ridiculous that she would fall so quickly for an almost total stranger. Especially when she was so cautious about falling for anyone after Evan.

She met Evan while out with friends for a birthday dinner. He said he was drawn to her, a moth to a flame, the whole bit. He told her she was pretty, lovely, sweet, etc. Evan was handsome, talented, and funny. At first, he was excessively kind. Flowers every week, asked her to move in only three months in, told her he couldn’t live without her.

He worked for a financial company. One that made him a lot of money so he could afford a big house—bigger than two people without kids conceivably needed. But it was for their future. Evan’s job required many business meetings and parties that left her feeling completely drained socially and financially. Every party required a new fancy outfit that she didn’t want to pay for. He made her go to golfing fundraisers (even though she hated golf) and helped him with parties at his place for clients and partners alike.

All while she tried to get her bearings in her first two years of teaching.

Evan never attended a school event. He didn’t help her move her furniture in her classroom. He didn’t understand why she would go to work on days she wasn’t getting paid to set things up. He didn’t get that the magic inside a classroom happened outside of school hours, and it was well worth the time she put into it. There was no help from him putting bulletin boards together and he certainly wouldn’t be caught dead on her colorful carpet laminating on a Tuesday afternoon.

She finished her planning and clicked into another tab on her computer to look at the to-do lists that never seemed to get any shorter. She had a section for classroom improvements, stain her bookshelves, inquire about fixing the outlets, find more shelving, paint her rocking chair, and more. There was so much.

After their breakup—the one instigated by Evan because she was spending too much time at school—she moved into a tiny little house on her own. It was no more than a one-bedroom apartment. Just enough space for herself and she loved it, but it also needed so much work. There was the roof that leaked in the rain in the same spot, one of the stove burners didn’t work, one of the windows in the living room was so stiff shut she couldn’t move it. Her bedroom seemed poorly insulated and was freezing in the winter, the tile flooring in her bathroom was cracked in several places. But it was home. The cutest little place she had ever seen. The living room was filled with books, and the dining table was a spot for her tutoring sessions.

The kitchen always smelled like cookies or brownies. Things that she brought to her parent’s house on Wednesday evenings when she, her siblings, and anyone available in her family gathered for a meal together. Her sister’s fiancée begged for muffins at least once a month and she smirked at the thought.

There wasn’t enough time and there wasn’t enough energy she could muster to fix her place up. There were more pressing matters. Trying to eat well, exercise, get her master’s degree. Visiting her parents and helping her sister with her wedding. It was exhausting.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a knock on her outside door. She put a hand on her heart, not anticipating a knock as it was downpouring. It was four-thirty in the afternoon on a Friday. All her co-workers hightailed it out of there shortly after the buses had left. Slowly, cautiously, she walked over to the door seeing Harry smiling in the small window. He had a black raincoat on, the hood keeping his pretty face from getting wet.

Immediately she opened the door. “Hi, Miss Bee,” he greeted so brightly she thought she might melt. He was so happy to see her it made her stomach twist. “I was hoping you’d be gone, but s’nice t’see you anyway,” he said stepping inside.

She bit the inside of her lip. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, s’Friday,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Sorry ‘bout m’coat,” he frowned as it dripped on the floor. “S’raining cats and dogs out there,” he shrugged out of the coat and snapped it outside, a tiny little overhang keeping it the smallest bit dry. He slung it on the back of an upturned chair on one of her tables, so it dripped below to the floor. He frowned and headed toward the bathroom for paper towels. “I’ll take care of this before we leave,” he promised placing a bunch of towels below the dripping coat.

She stared at him. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

He turned slightly, smiling up at her while he knelt next to his watery mess. “S’Friday, wanted t’see what y’needed help with for next week.”

She blinked. “But... you didn’t work today.”

“As a matter of fact, I did work. I had a meeting about our progress and talked to suppliers about materials and such,” he said proudly, the dimples indenting his cheeks.

“Oh... I meant... outside,” she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

He chuckled quietly as she tried to back track. “S’fine, Bird. I knew what y’meant. Don’t worry ‘bout it. No, ‘course with the rain it puts us back a day or two, so I had t’be productive in other ways.”

There was something wrong with her, because that was one of the hottest sentences she had ever heard anyone say and he was merely talking about productivity.

“Um...” she swallowed. “I don’t need... you didn’t... you came all the way here?”

“S’not too far from m’place actually,” he said with a shrug. He headed toward her desk to see her little piles of what needed to be accomplished. He hoped to find something labeled Monday, or maybe something that needed to be cut or stapled together. Instead, he found her to-do list opened on her computer. “What’s this?” He asked, glancing at her screen.

“Oh... don’t look at that, they’re... they’re nothing. Just... they’re my to-do—”

“Your roof leaks?” He asked looking up at her in shock. He also looked completely hurt. Like it was unimaginable that she kept that from him. “Bird, why didn’t you say something? I would have—”

“Stop,” she put her hand on her chest feeling it ache with want for him. Adoration for him. Something that felt dangerously close to the feelings she had when she first started dating Evan and he brought her flowers every week. “Harry,” she said softly. “I am so appreciative of you coming down here and helping me, but you don’t have to. It’s likely I can’t reciprocate or—”

His eyes dropped to her computer again scanning the list, ignoring her and wondering what else she needed done. “Bird, you’re cold?” He asked. She felt like she was in trouble. Her throat tightening over the emotion she felt. It was a long day—but all of them were long. Her weeks felt endless. And she was cold. So lonely in that cold, damp, tiny place she lived no matter how much she loved it. “Kitten,” he whispered quietly.

“Stop,” she begged. “Please stop.”

“Bird,” he frowned. “Y’should have said something. I can bring Niall t’look at it, we can fix it up in a minute—”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Harry, I’m begging; please stop.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Y’would never let one of your students have a problem like this,” he turned from her computer, strode across the room to her, and put a hand on her hip while pulling her toward him. She looked away from him, ignored the sparks that burst from the touch on her waist. She shook her head.

“It’s not important.”

He gently touched her cheek turning her gaze back to him. His finger resting beneath her chin. “You’re not important?” He questioned. “Y’know how ridiculous y’sound, right? I’ve known you less than a month and I think y’might be the most important person I know.”

She swallowed and shrugged. “There’s more pressing matters,” she whispered. “I have this classroom to worry about and little minds to mold. My sister’s getting married, and my mom needs—”

“All that is more pressing than y’not catching a cold?”

“I-I... I’m not going to... I don’t—”

He rubbed his thumb across her lip making all of the words in her head disappear. “Bird, you’re going t’make yourself sick.”

Was this what it was supposed to feel like? In all the time she dated Evan, there wasn’t much worry about her. It was usually a worry about what she wasn’t doing or couldn’t do because she was busy. There was never a worry about stretching herself too thin or making her do more because he wanted her to be part of his stuff.

One lone tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head immediately, moving his hand from her face in hopes he wouldn’t notice. But of course, he did. “Hey,” he whispered gently. “Bird, my love,” his voice was so soft it made her feel warm again. “Hey,” he cooed, “C’mere,” he tucked her to his chest, kissed the top of her head like it was an everyday occurrence. Like it wasn’t the first time his lips touched her. “It’s okay,” he hummed. God, he was so warm. Is this what it was supposed to feel like? Was this how she was supposed to feel when someone cared about her and all the little things she neglected to speak into existence?

She sniffled, wiping at her face while Harry calmly soothed her. His hand rubbed up and down her back. The last time she remembered someone soothing her like this had to be when she was a child and her dad was trying to comfort her over a broken toy or missing her mum on a work trip.

“Sorry,” she sniveled. “I think I’m just really overwhelmed.”

“I’ll say,” he agreed.

She rolled her lips into her mouth and pulled away from him even though it was a hundred times colder than her bedroom ever could be outside the circle of his arms. “Sometimes I just need to cry and be dramatic,” she admitted and wiped her eyes.

Harry was looking at her like she was going to have a breakdown at any moment. He wanted to wrap her back up in his arms but part of him was a afraid he might not ever let her go. “I don’t think y’being dramatic, kitten,” his voice was still very soft. Like he was worried he’d set her off somehow. “Think y’might jus’ be a little too not dramatic, actually.”

She took a deep breath. “My house is fine, really. It’s not a big leak. It’s only when it rains,” as if to make matters worse it thundered loudly outside. She winced while Harry just stared at her.

“This ex of yours, was he handy at all?” He asked and moved to the table where piles were made, and he finally found something labeled Monday. He grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting the paper; sitting on the floor like he did on Tuesday. Like it was no big deal that he came out in the middle of a thunderstorm to help her on a day he didn’t work next door.

“No,” she shook her head. “He just hired people.”

But she left out telling him about only hiring when it was convenient for him. “Hmm.”

“I actually know a lot about fixing things up,” she admitted. “Not nearly to the degree that you do. I need a lot of YouTube videos and time I sincerely do not have to execute it, but I installed our dishwasher on my own. And I pulled up some carpet and put some flooring down in our dining room.

She swore Harry was smiling proudly at her. Like he had taught her or something. “S’very lovely, kitten. S’good t’know how t’do those kinds of things... but I wouldn’t have let y’lift a finger t’do it.” It was like he sucked all the air out of her body and for a moment she really felt frozen. Harry continued cutting paper and pretending like he hadn’t just rendered her lungs useless. “We still on for Sunday afternoon?” He asked.

She nodded. “You’re still going to come to the party on Wednesday even if it’s the worst date of your life?” She asked. “I will have a really hard time explaining it to the kids if you don’t.”

He chuckled. “M’certain it’ll be the best date of m’life, but yes. I’ll be there Wednesday,” he assured her.

“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered and sat beside him.

Harry wasn’t dressed in his typical construction gear. Instead, he wore jeans, a pair of sneakers, and a cozy sweatshirt. He smiled at her. “Course, Bird.”

*

The thunder was loud. Practically, shaking the small frame of her house. Sighing, she looked up at the ceiling unable to see anything in the dark until the lightning illuminated her room. Her phone said it was only after one in the morning. Much too early or late to do anything but try and fall back asleep.

Sighing again, she got out of bed and headed to her bathroom before making a stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. As soon as she stepped in the kitchen, her foot was met with a puddle.

Her heart pounded. “No, no, no, fuck,” she hissed and smacked the light switch on the wall. She put a hand to her mouth as the leak was now a definitive hole in the middle of her ceiling. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She hurried back to the bedroom grabbing her phone and dialing Louis as quickly as she could. As she listened to it ring longer than she wanted to (but couldn’t blame Louis for not answering so early in the morning), she grabbed pots and pans out of her cabinets catching as much rain as she could.

“’Lo?” he yawned. Exhausted, clearly. It was one in the morning. The poor thing probably didn’t want to get out of bed in the pouring rain, but she didn’t know what else to do... she didn’t have a choice.

“Louis, I,” she gasped. “I need help, please!”

“What’s wrong?” He asked quickly. “El, baby,” he hummed off to the side of his phone. “Get your coat,” he mumbled.

“What’s happening?” She moaned.

“Shh,” he hushed. “What’s wrong, love?” He asked. “Are you alright?”

“My ceiling!”

“Ah fuck,” he grumbled. Louis immediately knew what the issue was. “I should have—”

“Louis, I don’t have time for I-Told-You-Sos. Hurry up!” She begged and watched as another chunk of her ceiling fell to the floor. It wasn’t a huge hole, but if she hadn’t gotten up it was going to cave in her ceiling for sure by morning.

“Alright, alright, we’re on the way.”

*

Harry was dreaming. The pretty kindergarten teacher was in his house, drinking tea, and relaxing. It was adorable. Her smile was so sweet. No evidence of sadness or exhaustion on her face. He wanted to die seeing her upset that afternoon. But there was only so much he could do.

But she wasn’t upset right then. His dream made her giggly, like when her students made her laugh. She was wearing a pretty pink dress, it brought out the warmth in her. It wasn’t short, of course, but she wore leggings beneath it and she looked so cozy. “Hi Miss Bee,” he chuckled approaching her. “Did you have a good day?”

“Mhmm... come here,” she patted the sofa beside her. “I missed you.”

It was music to his ears.

“Missed you t—”

His phone nearly sent him into an early grave waking him from the dead of sleep. He slapped his hand out and smacked it off the nightstand. “Shit,” he whispered grabbing it. It was an unknown number and normally he’d ignore it, but he had never gotten a call in the middle of the night. “Hello?”

“Oh thank God,” Eleanor sighed. “Harry, I’m so sorry to bother you. Her ceiling. It’s got a hole in it and she’s freaking out and it’s raining so bad, and we have no idea what to do, can you help us?”

He knew he should have checked it out.

“Yeah, yeah, course, jus’ send me the address.”

“I already did,” Harry put the phone on speaker and checked the message while he rifled through his drawer for clothes to wear in the rain. He felt his heart skip a beat to know she was only a five-minute drive away.

“M’five minutes away once I get m’shoes on.”

“You’ll beat us there, thank you, so, so much.”

Harry called Niall immediately. “I was sleeping,” he groaned.

“M’sending you an address. Miss Bee’s got a roof situation.”

“Shit, in this weather?”

“I’ll be there in five. Bring anything y’can think of.”

*

The rain was not letting up. The thunder and lightning only added to the shitty night she was having. She ran from her house to the small shed in the back corner of her yard to find something useful. Louis would be a few minutes, and she really didn’t want to wait a second longer than she needed to.

With a small flashlight between her teeth, she found the ladder that would be large enough to get her on her roof. She awkwardly held it as she walked back toward the house, propping it against the side.

Her raincoat wasn’t doing anything. It was going to feel downright tropical in her room when she got back inside. Everything was so terrible right then, she just wanted to cry, and she couldn’t because there wasn’t even time to have a meltdown. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered to herself entering the shed once more. She found a tarp. She hadn’t a clue how she would get it to stay down but it was something. It’s not like she had time to find a YouTube video on it either.

In addition to the tarp, she grabbed a hammer, tucked it into the waistband of her pants. Then she snagged a box of nails and put them in her coat pocket before she made her way back to her leaky house. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered.

She climbed the ladder, it was slippery and terrified her, but what choice did she have. She had a flashlight between her teeth and the tarp under her arm. This was a horrible idea, but it was one in the morning and nothing made more sense than this.

The thunder was so loud, and the only light came from a streetlamp just a little too far away from her house to be useful. She slowly climbed onto the roof and felt her heart hammering hard against her chest. She took a deep breath through her nose and climbed further onto the roof. It was slippery, wet, and cold. Her fingers felt frozen as she moved her way up toward where the leak was. She unfolded the tarp and placed it so it would flip over toward the front of her house and the rain would slide over the hole and nothing would get under it. It was a little relieving to have a plan, but it was very short-lived.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

The sound of someone else shouting at her brought her practically to a stop; she dropped the flashlight and lost her footing. She grabbed at the tarp, the shingles, anything to stop her from sliding off her house and into the yard. “Shit!” She barely had time to scream while she clawed for something to get a purchase. Her roof wasn’t particularly tall (she wasn’t living in a mansion by any stretch), but she imagined a ten-foot fall in the rain would probably result in a broken bone or two. In her slide, the hammer dug into her hip, certainly it was going to leave a bruise. She was lucky the nails were in the box, or she suspected she’d have an ER trip this early morning as well as a roof to repair.

Fortunately, her hands snagged onto the gutter before she made her final descent to the ground. The metal clanging and moaning as it pulled from the house with her dead weight hanging onto it. It hurt her fingers, her left middle finger definitely felt like it was cut on some part of the metal lip she clung to. “Let go,” the voice ordered from behind her.

She gasped. Tried to turn and look at who was bossing her around in the middle of the night. “I—”

“Bird, let go of your fucking house, now.”

Her heart managed to flutter once it recognized Harry’s voice. Just his voice made her feel safe and she felt infinitely better about her situation. It was a painful realization because Harry didn’t need this. From here it was only a five to six foot drop and less likely to hurt her, but she was still exhausted, tired, and certain with her luck she’d land on a rock and break an ankle.

So, despite all instinct, she released the gutter with nothing else but hope she wouldn’t hurt herself upon her landing in her yard.

Instead, she fell into his arms. Harry caught her, cradling her briefly and absorbing the impact of her fall by bending slightly while catching her. Before she had a mere second to be in his arms and think it through, he placed her on her feet with ease.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” He snapped. “Are you insane?” His anger didn’t match his gentle touch as he cupped her face. His hands then dropped to her arms and moved further south to her waist and hips as he scanned her for injury. It was still near pitch dark if it weren’t for the headlight he had on his forehead. The light scanned her like a laser as she gaped at his presence.  “Are you okay, bird?” His voice was softer this time.

“How... how did you...?” She stared at him in disbelief that he was really truly there.

“Eleanor called me,” he stated. “What were y’doing on a roof in the rain by yourself?” He asked, his voice turning harsh again. She had never heard him sound anything but kind and sweet. The anger was almost terrifying.

“I-I, my roof—”

“You scared me t’death,” he yanked her to him, her face pressing to his chest. She swore she could feel his heartbeat through his clothes, over the sound of the pouring rain and the thunder in the distance. “Jesus, bird,” he grumbled, squeezing her tight. “I should have looked at it this afternoon, m’so sorry,” he murmured. “So, so sorry,” he repeated quietly. “Niall’s almost here, we’re gonna fix it up. Jus’... go inside and stay warm, please,” he pleaded pulling away from her, keeping a hand on her face for a moment as he scanned her once more.

“But—”

“Jus’ go inside, bird. S’fine. I’ll take care of it.”

She blinked, rain water was streaming over her face as she tried to figure out what to do next. Wincing, she pulled the hammer from her waistband as it skimmed the sensitive bruise that was definitely forming as she stood there. Then she took the box of nails from her pocket. “Not sure if these are useful,” she offered quietly.

His eyes looked so sad, so displeased. She wanted to cry. “Resourceful,” he murmured.

She nodded silently. “I’m... I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Go inside, bird, please.”

As she turned away toward her door, Niall was suddenly there. A matching headlight to Harry’s also on his forehead. “Hey Miss Bee,” Niall smirked as if this was normal to meet up with her in her backyard at one in the morning. “Having fun?”

“Loads,” Harry deadpanned. She felt flushed as she didn’t answer Niall. He winked at her and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Go inside, love. Please.”

She bit the inside of her lip and headed in. She dumped the filled pots and pans into her sink, and she grabbed towels from the linen closet. Everyone and everything was going to be soaked.

“Good morning, sunshine! Fancied a bath in the kitchen, did you?” Eleanor chirped cheerfully as she entered. Like it wasn’t one in the morning, and her house wasn’t falling apart. But her smile quickly morphed into a frown at the sight of her wet friend dripping, cold, and so completely defeated in the eyes. “Aw, sweetie,” she whispered.

A lone sob escaped her lips, and she covered her mouth, except she forgot about the cut on her finger. She winced at the slight pain and sting. “Goddammit!” She snapped and dropped her head to her other hand and cried.

Eleanor made her way to her, gently tugging her coat off her body. “It’s alright,” she promised. “You’re okay, babe,” she reminded her. “It’s just a little hole... Harry and Niall will take care of it,” she brushed her hand over her hair soothingly.

She sniffled. “Today was not a good day,” she whispered.

“Well, technically it’s tomorrow, and I imagine at one in the morning, it can only go up from here,” she said positively. She snorted and shook her head.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Eleanor smiled. Above them she could hear the muffled sounds of Niall and Harry working together to repair her roof in the rain. The thunder and lightning didn’t change pace. “You clean up your hand, I’ll take care of the kitchen,” she said softly. “Go change, clean up, and brush your hair. He may be in love with you, but you would kill me if he saw you with your wet, rainy bed head,” she teased.

She snorted again and even though she didn’t want to trouble Eleanor, she listened and headed to the bathroom.

*

Louis wasn’t as helpful as Niall and Harry, but he was able to hold an additional flashlight and hand items to them as needed. Once the tarp was in place (with an added piece of rubber over top of it that Niall had brought from home) Louis helped clean up their tools and materials. He brought the ladder back to her shed while their belongings went back to their cars. Once everything was cleaned up and they were confident her roof wouldn’t leak for the remainder of the night, Louis guided them inside the small house of his best friend.

“Thanks boys,” Eleanor smiled happily in the kitchen. She was by the sink drying off pots and pans that she clearly washed.

But Harry was scanning for the pretty kindergarten teacher, clearly. Eleanor glanced down the hall suspiciously and Harry followed her gaze. “You okay in there, babe? The guys are inside, now!”

“Just trying to get my band aid to stay,” she called back.

“Niall, can we get you some tea?” Louis asked while Harry moved toward the sound of her voice. He knocked quietly on the only closed door in the little hall assuming it must be her bathroom.

“Bird?”

There was a quiet sigh from inside. “Crap,” he heard her whisper. But then the door opened.

God, she was pretty. Even sad. Even a little banged up, wet, and tired, she was gorgeous, really. Harry was in awe of her.

“Can you—” she sighed heavily. The cut wasn’t just to her middle finger as she thought but across her index and ring fingers too. Harry gently pushed inside the bathroom, holding her shoulders and guiding her to on the closed toilet lid as he looked at the array of band aid wrappers that had fluttered to the floor. He pulled the head lamp off and shrugged out of his wet coat just like he had less than twelve hours ago in her classroom, he hung it on the back of the bathroom door hook where her towel usually hung.

Silently he bandaged her up, pausing only slightly when she winced in pain from the antibacterial spray he put on her cut. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Y’have nothing t’apologize for,” he murmured. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“It’s alright, you were scared. I would have done the same thing. I was scared too.”

He completed the bandages on her hand. Carefully, he cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing on her cheek as he gently tilted her gaze up to meet him. “Don’t ever do something dangerous like that again,” his voice was very quiet, but none less serious.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you, so much. Really.”

“Course, bird. Told you. M’at your service,” he reminded her. She smiled shyly, and Harry was almost certain he didn’t imagine the way she leant into his palm that cupped her very pretty face. For a moment it wasn’t one in the morning, her roof wasn’t a mess, and Harry was only there because he wanted to be, not because he had to be.

*

“You can stay here,” she said to Louis and Eleanor as she walked into the kitchen. “It’s late.”

“Already pulled the sofa out and got sheets,” Eleanor said with a yawn. She walked away from the sink and made herself comfy on the sofa. Louis chuckled and headed after her.

“Good night, everyone. Thanks for helping Miss Kindergarten.”

“You guys are welcome to stay as well, I have a couple air mattresses,” she offered to Niall and Harry.

“In the morning, she’ll make muffins,” Louis called out quietly.

Niall yawned but shook his head. “M’good to head home, Miss Bee. Thank you though. If there’s a problem again, call Harry and we’ll come over again. We’re going to fix it tomorrow when the rain lets up, yeah?”

She nodded. There was no use arguing. At least not right now. “Thank you,” she sighed. “Text Harry when you get home,” she said sweetly as he exited, the door closing quietly.

Harry grinned while he sipped on a cup of warm tea. That was very sweet of her wanting to know about Niall’s safety. She turned back to Harry. “I can set up an air mattress. I’d rather stay in case something happens to the tarp,” he offered.

“Jesus, just sleep in her bed, you’re both grown adults,” Eleanor groaned.

Her face turned the color of the pants he liked most on her—the ones she wore the day they met. He smiled softly, shook his head as he sipped his tea again so he wouldn’t let on how much he liked that idea.

“El, shh,” Louis whispered. “That was an inside thought. Go to sleep,” he mumbled.

Harry couldn’t help but show his smile and he looked at her almost apologetically on Eleanor’s behalf. “Air mattress?”

“Babe, it’s so loud,” Eleanor whined.

“Shut. Up,” she hissed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he offered with a chuckle.

“Absolutely not,” she whispered and grabbed his hand. She tugged him down the hall to her bedroom. She flicked the light on and Harry inspected the little room with awe. A closet opposite the wall of three windows with gray colored curtains with an intricate lace design. Her bed resided in the middle of the wall with a fluffy green comforter that looked warm and cozy. Beside it was a nightstand, filled with books, a water cup, and her phone. There was a plush gray carpet that extended beyond her bed frame and into most of the room taking up 80% of the floor.

Her dresser looked old, reminded him of her desk and shelving in her classroom. There was a mirror propped up behind it or on it, he couldn’t be sure. Pictures surrounded the frame of it and on the surface was a beautiful, almost antique jewelry box.

None of her furniture matched. He figured it was subject to her yard sale ways as well. “I like your room,” he said.

She sighed. “A work in progress.”

He smiled. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

He frowned instantly. “Bird,” he sighed and brought his hand to the side of her neck. He brushed his thumb on her cheek again. “Everything’s okay.”

“I’m just... not having a good day,” she whispered looking away from him. “I’m sorry. I feel so bad for bothering you this late and my room is freezing cold, and you should just go so you don’t get sick from the rain and this icebox,” but Harry couldn’t help but notice she didn’t move from his touch.

A sad smile graced his lips and eyes. He was so handsome it made her stomach do back flips. “Jus’ lay down, bird,” he said softly.

“Harry, it’s freezing—”

“Get in the bed, love,” he was a little firmer, but no less soft in his approach. He gently nudged her forward. Poor thing must have been exhausted because she willingly let him tuck her in, rubbing her arms gently for friction and warmth.

Turning back to the doorway, he clicked the light off bathing them in darkness. Silently he stripped out of his wet clothes. “M’jus’ gonna get between the sheet and the comforter,” he assured her. “No funny business, bird. Need a proper date,” he teased.

She snorted and turned on her side away from him. Maybe her room was cold. But it was very warm beside her in bed. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Of course,” he murmured toward her frame still faced away from him. He smiled at the shadow of her that he could only vaguely make out when the lightning peeped through the space in her curtains between windows. “Anything for you Miss Bird.”

*

When she woke up, she was sweating.

Harry was snuggled behind her, his arm draped across her body, the sheet the only barrier between her and him. He was still asleep, at least she was pretty sure. His breathing made it seem that way. He felt warm and good, even if she was sweating. “Mm,” he hummed and tightened his grip on her. She smiled softly to herself and let him hold her for a minute. It was perhaps too hot, too cozy, and definitely not what she should have done. But it was nice and safe. Harry made her feel incredibly safe.

After a few minutes of blissful resting, she carefully lifted his arm off her and snuck out of bed. He didn’t stir too much other than gripping her pillow and holding it close. She looked away before she climbed in beside him again. She tiptoed across the room to her dresser, pulling the bottom drawer open slowly so it didn’t make noise from getting stuck on the uneven swells of old wood. She found a pair of sweatpants that she bought at least two sizes too large that would fit Harry’s frame along with a sweatshirt she got back in college from a friend’s ex-boyfriend. She left the clothes on the bed beside her sleeping partner peacefully dreaming and drooling onto her pillow.

She grinned to herself and made her way to the door, stopping at his pile of wet clothes trying her best to avoid the parts of her old floor that creaked with her weight. She quickly opened and closed her door without letting it squeak or whine—so Harry could sleep in peace.

She turned to the washer and dryer in the small closet beside her bathroom, tossing his clothes inside the dryer. Next, she headed to the kitchen. Louis was sitting up on the sofa, Eleanor snuggled into his lap. He was scrolling on his phone and combing his fingers through her hair. She smiled fondly at her best friend and gave a silent wave.

“She’s awake, you can talk,” he said quietly.

“Mm, debatable,” El grumbled.

She smirked and headed outside barefoot. It wasn’t as cold as it was last night, and the sun was starting to appear. She stepped further back in the yard to get a whole picture view of her roof. Crossing her arms at her stomach she sighed. Louis joined her (wearing shoes, however) he faced the house with her and he draped an arm around her shoulders.

“Harry said you almost fell off the roof. You got up there yourself?”

“I knew you were on the way,” she mumbled. But her gutter looked a little misshapen from her fall. Something else that would need to be fixed in addition to her tarped roof. “I figured I’d get a head start.”

“If I found you knocked unconscious in your garden, I would have lost my mind,” Louis stated.

“It needed to be done—”

“Irrelevant,” he shook his head and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t do that again.”

“Harry already gave me this lecture.”

“Good.”

She sighed. “I should just sell it and rent an apartment,” she mumbled. “I don’t have the time or energy to fix it up. It’ll be a loss, but—”

“You love this place,” Louis reminded her.

“I do, but at what cost? You were right, I should have fixed the leak when I first noticed it.”

“How did that taste in your mouth? Saying I’m right?” He smirked and gave her a squeeze.

“Like vinegar.... meanie,” she grumbled.

“This is your house. You can do whatever you want with it. If you want to sell it, you know I’ll help you. But you don’t have to. I’m sure there’s someone that would love to help you fix it up,” he grinned. As if on cue, Harry appeared in her backyard, rubbing his eye. “Good morning, Harry, how did you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” he murmured. He was wearing the outfit she selected for him, and she felt her heart skip. He followed her and Louis into the yard, the laces of his work boots untied. “No shoes?” He asked, glancing at her feet.

“I’m only going to be out here a second,” she assured him.

“She’s not really a shoe person,” Louis told him. “She’s a summer girl because of work,” he explained.

“I could see that,” he smirked and looked at her house. “Looks like the tarp held,” he put his hands into the pockets as he assessed the damage the same as her.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Thank you.”

“M’pleasure.”

“I’m going to get El a little more mobile so she can help you with the muffins,” Louis offered. “We can go for a coffee run too,” he pulled away from her with another kiss to the top of her head. “Harry, tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, please,” he nodded.

Harry stood beside her, their arms brushing as she looked her house over. “That was stupid of me,” she said quietly. “Going up there alone in the dark.”

“Not stupid. Y’were jus’ trying t’fix it.”

She sighed. “When will Niall be here?”

“Soon as he stops t’get me more clothes,” he smirked.

“I’m sorry. This is an awful way to spend a Saturday. I can find someone—”

“Bird, jus’ let me do it,” he chuckled. “M’begging you.”

“You’re sure, it’s not a bother?”

“Course not,” he promised.

“I don’t know how, but I’ll make it up to you.”

He grinned. “C’mon, let’s get you inside before y’lose a toe.”

*

The roof was repaired in a few hours. She could hear Niall and Harry laughing while she let her muffins bake. Eleanor and Louis helped her clean up a little more and eventually the pair came down from the roof. “All set, Miss Bee,” Niall grinned.

“Thank you,” she sighed. “Thank you so much, here let me—” She attempted to hand Niall money, but he put his hands up in front of him like she was trying to stab him with a knife.

“Absolutely not. It’s on the house.”

“Literally,” Louis chuckled.

“Boo...” El rolled her eyes.

She looked at Harry nervously. “Don’t even think ‘bout it, bird,” he warned.

Pouting, she put the money back in her purse and then held out the plate of muffins that had finished onto the counter. “Here,” she offered. “The blueberry white chocolate chip ones are the best.”

“Don’t be mean to my cranberry walnut,” Eleanor said protectively.

She smiled. “Chocolate chip is by far superior, my love,” Louis said knowingly, and they took their muffins to the sofa bed.

Niall snagged one of each, with an impish smile and followed her friends. Harry stood opposite her at the counter. “We still on for tomorrow?”

“You still want to see me? After this whole catastrophe of a week?”

He nodded, picking the baking cup off his muffin with a smile. “God, yeah.”

“You might be a little crazy.”

“M’definitely a little crazy ‘bout you, bird.”

“That will be seven days in a row of seeing me.”

“A perfect week, in m’opinion,” he ripped a piece of the top of the muffin off and popped it into his mouth. “Mm,” he sighed. “Blueberry is definitely m’favorite,” he smiled.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” She asked.

He grinned. “I thought y’might want t’stick to something simple. Jus’ lunch. We can walk around the park if it’s nice out,” he offered. “But s’also Sunday so m’sure y’want some time t’rest, so I won’t keep you out forever.” That sounded highly unfair. Part of her didn’t want Harry to leave and she felt so ridiculous about saying it. Or maybe it was because he was so warm in her freezing cold room. “Lunch for sure.”

“Is it a fancy place? I just want to know what I should wear.”

“Not particularly,” he shook his head. “You can wear whatever you want,” he promised. “M’sure you’ll look stunning.”

Her face warmed with the compliment wondering for the millionth time why Harry would want to put her kindergarten chaos in his life. “M’with Eleanor, cranberry walnut is the winner,” Niall said around a mouthful of his breakfast treat.

“Told you!”

“Fine by me, I don’t have to share,” Louis said with a shrug.

Harry chuckled, gave her a wink, and headed to join the little group in her living room. Like he wasn’t stealing her heart and soul at all.

--

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I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[screamlet]

911 what is your pride (week 4; sex & romance)

@911whatisyourpride thank you for running this project 💖🌈

bucktommy, 1k a short future coda to drag bingo night at shelley's (tumblr) leaning heavy on the romance here! this coda is now on the ao3!

---

It's been two months since Evan invited him out to drag bingo night, and a month since they decided to give their relationship another try. That's why Tommy's parked outside the 133 at 7:45 AM, his truck packed for their first weekend away. Ever.

This time last year they were together and every time they talked about a romantic getaway, they would end up in bed before either of them could suggest a place to go. Just the idea of getting away was a thrill; a year later, they were starting to understand the value of actually getting away.

His watch alarm lets him know it's 7:50 and Evan will be done with his shift any minute. Tommy's losing time and losing his nerve for this—this stupid little—

"You're an idiot," Tommy says to himself as he climbs out of the truck. "You've flown helicopters through combat zones and wildfires and a goddamned hurricane, but picking up your boyfriend from work, somehow that's scarier. Somehow. Somehow."

Yeah, but if you crash and burn in those scenarios, you only die once, his brain helpfully reminds him. Embarrassing yourself in front of your boyfriend and his coworkers—that's forever.

"Forever? If I'm lucky," Tommy mumbles under his breath as he jogs across the street.

The 133's bay doors are open and both the A-shift and B-shift crews are milling around, saying hi and catching up before they go their separate ways. Tommy looks around for familiar faces, but only sees Cristy as she laughs with a couple of people, and Captain Mehta, clapping the B-shift captain on the shoulder as he leaves his office.

And then there's Evan, half-hidden behind one of the engines with a handful of people. Something makes him laugh uproariously, full-body doubled-over laughter that has him wiping his eyes when he straightens up again. That's when he spots Tommy and waves wildly at him from all of 15 feet away.

"Tommy! Oh my god, Tommy." Evan drops his duffel bag unceremoniously and crosses the floor to him. "Hey, can I introduce you?" Evan asks quietly.

"What? Oh. Yeah, yeah of course."

"Okay, great," Evan whispers, pulling him into a giant hug with a kiss on the cheek. Then he turns around and yells, inches from Tommy's ear: "Hey, everyone, this is my boyfriend, Tommy!"

Cristy laughs loudly. "Tommy Kinard from Harbor Station, were you lurking behind that ambulance? Get in here."

He gives her a quick hug and waves at everyone, trying not to feel like a pageant contestant who's been called on stage to perform his special talent. Evan distracts him, though, as he points to something in Tommy's hand. "Tommy, what's that?" Evan asks, his smile lighting him from the inside. "Is that for me?"

And that's when Tommy remembers what had him ready to crumble from embarrassment in the truck, why it took him so long to actually leave the truck and come get Evan. It's the fully bloomed, dark and rich red rose that Tommy had seen growing off a rosebush as he was leaving his own shift at Harbor. It was from a random wild rosebush that didn't belong to anyone, so no one would mind if Tommy took out his pocket knife and cut one to bring to Evan.

"It's for you," Tommy says, holding it out to him. "Sorry, I—I feel really silly coming in here with like—like I'm on The Bachelor or something, or picking you up for prom, but I saw this on my way over and thought—I thought you might like it."

Evan accepts it with a smile. He looks at it and brushes the petals against his fingers before he holds it out to Tommy again. "Touch the petals, they're so soft. I think that's the best part of flowers. My favorite part, anyway." Tommy touches the petals, too, and their eyes meet as their fingers brush together, touching the rose.

"I love it," Evan says, and throws his arms around Tommy's neck, right there in front of the captains and firefighters and paramedics and anyone walking on the sidewalk past the bay doors. Anyone and everyone can see; it feels so good to hold Evan like this in his arms.

"Thank you," Evan says, his voice gentle, almost a whisper.

Tommy almost says, for what, it's just a flower, but he knows them both better than that. He pulls away and brushes a few stray curls from Evan's forehead, then kisses him. It's quick and chaste (only one whooooo from the crew), but Evan looks at him with those dark eyes and the dazed expression he seems to save for him, for Tommy. They could stay in this spot for years if Tommy's watch didn't beep for the top of the hour.

"Shift's over," Tommy says. "Ready for our road trip?"

"Yeah," Evan says, "wait, yeah, just a second." He slings his duffel bag across his chest and then grabs Tommy's hand to lead him out the bay doors. He waves goodbye to everyone and then holds the rose up to Tommy's face. "I think I've got everything. How about you?"

Some past Tommy would howl and kick his ass at what present Tommy's about to say, but that past Tommy didn't have Evan in his life. Past Tommy could stay quiet and learn a thing or two, like how to be happy. It was a skill, a real thing he and Evan were learning to do, and sometimes it meant small gestures that felt like the whole world.

"Well, I've got you," Tommy says. "I think that's all I need."

Evan looks taken aback, then blushes and lightly shoulder checks him. "Yeah, okay," he mumbles, but he can't hide his grin. As they climb in the truck and buckle up, Evan leans over and kisses him again—they can't hide a damn thing.

[falyakonsdiary]

Might be a hot take but… Rumi and Jinu’s plan was always doomed to fail. It was always going to fail because - for all the wonderful ways in which they see and accept each other - their goal was to try and erase the parts of themselves they’re ashamed of. Complete the barrier, get rid of the markings, and be free of their faults on the other side.

And that was never going to work. It was a superficial solution to a deeper problem.

They dreamed of freedom but that’s not what they would’ve achieved had things gone according to plan and Jinu not betrayed her. Jinu himself wasn’t even honest about what he was trying to be free from. So when Gwi Ma gets in his head after their song together he listens. As for Rumi, she may have found acceptance in Jinu but she still doesn’t trust her family (Zoey, Mira, and Celine - she was right not to on the last one tbf) or the world to accept her too.

They sing about facing their pasts and the root of their demons but they’re, in reality, just pivoting laterally. They’re STILL trying to get rid of the source of their shame instead of accepting it. It’s a roundabout solution, an extension of their negative coping mechanisms from before they met.

That’s what makes their relationship so bittersweet and interesting. It’s a genuine, kind relationship with love (however you interpret the nature of it) that they share between them. It’s rooted in a mutual understanding that they share because of their histories. It has value. But while that solace they find in each other is precious, their acceptance of each other still isn’t enough to help them accept themselves. It always had to be bigger than them. They couldn’t solve it on their own.

Maybe things could’ve turned out different, in another life. But they didn’t.

That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter, though.

[ateezscupid]

─── 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝒀𝑶𝑼.. ꕮ 004 ─ Pretty Boy.

SUMMARY / Yunho is overcome with emotions after killing yet another woman, and finally reveals his childhood to you. Despite the fear that he might hurt you, you feel an undeniable pull towards him.

WARNINGS ✩ SMUT, FLUFF, Sensitive Topics!! (death, murder, stalking), Yunho kills another girl when his urges become too overwhelming, he trauma dumps on reader (talks about his lore!! omg!!), dom!yunho, switch!reader, unprotected sex, slightly rough sex, choking, oral (f receiving, while bent over the sink!), overstimulation

WORD COUNT ✩ 6.0k

tags ✩ @desirehorizon @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @lezleeferguson-120 @hwallazia @hoe4yunho @prettylilack @lustfxq @shownumiss @hwxbibi@nneteyamss @joonhasjiminsjams @herpoetryprincess @napipope-ta @wyrated @leeseokiwi @trinityobsessesovatings @kittykat-25 @yourallaround-simp @ewsnup @kysstar @tunafishyfishylike @hwxbibi @hannieblue128 @piecessoull @heiswan

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / SERIES MASTERLIST / REQUEST ─── Next Chapter ౨ৎ 

NOTE !! okay, yess, in this chapter he's a little bit of rough dom.. but it wouldn't hurt to have JEONG YUNHOO throwing you around

Yunho told you he had some last minute work to do. You told him you understood, that you didn't mind waiting a few hours for him to come back.

You should've insisted he stayed.

Here he was, in an alleyway, the smell of stale beer and trash heavy in the air, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He leaned against the cold brick wall, the neon lights from the nearby nightclub casting eerie shadows across his face.

Down at his feet lay the body of some random girl he met off the dating app. He had hoped she'd be different, that she'd be the one to save him from his own monstrous urges. But she was just like all the others—screaming, crying, and begging for her life. He had felt nothing but a cold detachment as he ended her. The guilt didn't come until later, when he was alone in the quiet of the night, surrounded by the echoes of his own rage.

He stared down at the body. The girl's wide, unseeing eyes seemed to look directly at him, as if questioning why she had to be the one to die. His hand trembled, the phone in his grip, and he swiped through the messages, finding yours, a beacon of light in the darkness. He had killed again, unable to resist the urge that had been gnawing at him ever since he met you. You had unknowingly become his obsession, and he feared you might be his next victim.

It was 12:04 am. The streets were deserted except for the occasional car passing by, casting a brief glow before swallowing the night back into darkness. Yunho's heart was racing, his palms slick with a mix of sweat and the girl's blood. He had promised himself that you would be the one to save him, that he wouldn't let the monster within him claim anyone else. But tonight, the hunger had been too strong. He had tried to resist, but she had just been too… convenient.

Yunho told you he had some last minute work to do. You told him you understood, that you didn't mind waiting a few hours for him to come back.

You should've insisted he stayed.

Here he was, in an alleyway, the smell of stale beer and trash heavy in the air, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He leaned against the cold brick wall, the neon lights from the nearby nightclub casting eerie shadows across his face.

Yunho told you he had some last minute work to do. You told him you understood, that you didn't mind waiting a few hours for him to come back.

You should've insisted he stayed.

Here he was, in an alleyway, the smell of stale beer and trash heavy in the air, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He leaned against the cold brick wall, the neon lights from the nearby nightclub casting eerie shadows across his face.

Down at his feet lay the body of some random girl he met off the dating app. He had hoped she'd be different, that she'd be the one to save him from his own monstrous urges. But she was just like all the others—screaming, crying, and begging for her life. He had felt nothing but a cold detachment as he ended her. The guilt didn't come until later, when he was alone in the quiet of the night, surrounded by the echoes of his own rage.

He stared down at the body. The girl's wide, unseeing eyes seemed to look directly at him, as if questioning why she had to be the one to die. His hand trembled, the phone in his grip, and he swiped through the messages, finding yours, a beacon of light in the darkness. He had killed again, unable to resist the urge that had been gnawing at him ever since he met you. You had unknowingly become his obsession, and he feared you might be his next victim.

It was 12:04 am. The streets were deserted except for the occasional car passing by, casting a brief glow before swallowing the night back into darkness. Yunho's heart was racing, his palms slick with a mix of sweat and the girl's blood. He had promised himself that you would be the one to save him, that he wouldn't let the monster within him claim anyone else. But tonight, the hunger had been too strong. He had tried to resist, but she had just been too… convenient.

He thought about calling you, but you were probably asleep, and he didn't want to wake you. Not like this. Not when you didn't know the truth. Yunho took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He had killed again, and he knew it was only a matter of time before you found out.

Get it together. He had to get it together.

He peeked over the wall. Nobody was around, meaning nobody heard or saw what happened. He had checked for cameras prior to strangling the girl, ensuring his secret remained buried beneath the layers of his flawless façade. The quietness of the alley was a stark contrast to the thumping bass and laughter of the nightclub just a block away. He had hoped the music would drown out her screams, but the sound of her life leaving her body had echoed in his ears long after the final gasp.

1:29 am.

Yunho pushed his keys into the door. He stepped inside, the quietness of the apartment a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He could see the light from your bedroom, a sliver under the door, indicating you were still up. His hands were shaking as he peeled off his blood-stained gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, before making his way towards your room.

You stirred as he entered, the soft light of your bedside lamp casting a warm glow across your sleepy features. "You're back," you murmured, a hint of disappointment in your voice that he got back so late.

"I know, I know, I'm late." Yunho's voice was strained as he approached the bed, the weight of his confession heavy on his shoulders. "I had to… handle something."

"'s okay." you slurred, crawling to the edge of the bed and holding your hand out. "Come here."

Yunho's shoulders dropped, and he felt the burden of his secret slip away, if only for a moment. He kicked off his shoes and shuffled closer, climbing into bed with you. You curled into him, your warmth seeping into his cold skin. He took a deep breath, the scent of your shampoo grounding him.

"Why do you smell like weed and sweat?" you whispered into the silence, your eyes still closed.

"Some…co-workers were smoking and I was sweating because I rushed to get here," Yunho lied, his voice tight. He hadn't expected you to be so perceptive, and he certainly hadn't planned on telling you anything about his past tonight. But as you nuzzled closer, the exhaustion of maintaining his façade took hold of him, and the words spilled out.

"I missed you," you mumble into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around him tighter. Yunho's chest tightens, a mix of affection and guilt washing over him.

He hadn't planned on telling you about his past tonight, but the words seem to spill out of their own accord. "I had a rough day," he starts, his voice low and gruff, "but it's nothing compared to what I've been through."

"What does that mean?" you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him. Yunho sighs, his hand running through his hair, his eyes avoiding yours.

"It means I've done things," he says, his voice tight. "Things that people like us shouldn't have to go through."

You gently push his hair out of his face, your fingers caressing his cheek. "You can be honest with me. I'd never judge you or think…bad of you because of what you went through. It's not your fault." Yunho's eyes finally meet yours, and in them, you see a storm of pain and turmoil.

He starts to speak, his words slow and measured, as if each one is a confession pulled from the deepest, darkest part of his soul. "I grew up in a bad neighborhood. My mom did what she could, but she was never around. And my dad…" he trails off, his jaw clenching. "He was a… monster. He taught me how to fight, how to survive. But he also taught me how to-- how to hurt, I guess."

You listen, your heart breaking with every word. The warmth from your hand on his cheek feels like a lifeline, grounding him in the present, keeping him from slipping into the abyss of his past. "I don't remember much before the age of seven. That's when everything started to get…blurry." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the dim light. "Things got better when my mom remarried. But the damage was already done."

You can feel the tension in the room thicken, the air charged with his pain. "What happened?" you ask softly, not wanting to push, but needing to understand.

"He'd get drunk, and when he was drunk, he'd…he'd hurt us," Yunho's voice is barely above a whisper. "My mom did her best, but she was scared too. I had to protect her. And when she couldn't… I had to protect myself." His eyes are haunted, staring at a memory that wasn't in the room with us, but was all too real to him.

"What did you do?" you whisper, your voice filled with a mix of curiosity and concern. "To protect yourself, I mean."

Yunho takes a deep, shaky breath. "I learned to fight back. I learned to make sure he never laid a hand on either of us again." His eyes are distant, lost in the shadows of his memories.

"What- what does that mean, Yunho? Like, literally, what did you do?" you ask, your voice wavering slightly. You could feel the gravity of his confession, the weight of his secrets pressing down on him.

He looks at you, his expression a tumultuous mix of fear and hope. "I… I killed him," he says, his voice barely audible. The room seems to hold its breath, the air thick with the unspoken understanding that things have changed between you.

You stared at him, your eyes wide with shock. "Your dad? You killed your dad?"

Yunho nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "It was the only way to stop him. After that, things got… complicated." He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. "But that's not all of it."

"You…killed your dad." you blanked at the worst possible moment, your mind racing to catch up with what he had just said.

"It was an accident," he rushed to explain, his hands fidgeting nervously. "He was hurting my mom, and I… I just snapped. I didn't mean to, but it happened." The confession hung in the air, a stark contrast to the gentle rhythm of your breathing.

"What did you-- um, what did-- how did you do it?" your voice trembled slightly, the question barely leaving your lips.

Yunho's eyes searched yours for a moment before he spoke, his voice low and hollow. "I just… I didn't realize how strong I was. I pushed him away from her, and he stumbled back and hit his head on the corner of the table." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "It was so fast. And he just… didn't get back up."

You sat up, your eyes never leaving Yunho's as he spoke. The room was silent except for the faint sound of the clock ticking in the hallway, each second echoing like a judgment. His story was like a dark tapestry, each thread weaving into the next, painting a picture of pain and survival that you hadn't expected to see. You felt your heart break for the little boy he had been, the one who had to become a man too soon.

Without warning, you pull him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his waist. "Oh, Yunho," you murmur into his chest, your voice thick with emotion. His body tenses for a moment before he relaxes into your embrace, his arms sliding around your shoulders. It's strange, how your hearts can be beating so close together while feeling so far apart in terms of what you've each experienced. But here you are, sharing the most intimate of moments.

"It wasn't your fault." You whispered the words against his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He stiffens for a moment before his arms tighten around you. It was the first time you had seen him so vulnerable, so broken.

Yunho's breath hitched, and you felt his shoulders begin to shake. He was crying, silently sobbing. The strong, stoic man you knew was crumbling before your eyes, and all you could do was hold him. It was a stark reminder that everyone has a past, and some demons refuse to stay buried.

"Thank you," he choked out, his voice muffled by your shirt. "Nobody's ever said that to me before."

"Well, I love you. And I would never in a million years tell you that you deserved that. Because you didn't." You spoke softly, your voice a balm to his soul. The words were simple, but to him, they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy waters of his guilt.

Yunho's grip on you tightened, and he buried his face in your neck, his hot tears soaking through your shirt. He had never allowed himself to be this weak in front of anyone, especially not in the arms of someone who had the power to either save him or bring him down. But with you, he felt… safe. Like maybe, just maybe, you could understand.

"It hasn't gone away." Yunho's voice was a mere whisper in the stillness of the room. "The… the urge to hurt. To fight. It's always there." His confession was raw, a stark revelation of the monster that lurked beneath his charming exterior.

"The urge to…kill?" You ask tentatively, your voice trembling slightly. The word felt like a betrayal to the comfort you had been offering just moments ago.

Yunho nods, his face buried in your hair. "But I want to get better for you. I don't want to be this person anymore."

You stroke his back gently, the gravity of his words weighing heavily on your heart. "I believe in you," you whisper, unsure if the words are enough to banish the darkness within him.

Yunho pulls back, his eyes red and wet with unshed tears. "I don't deserve you."

"Yes you do." you smile gently, wiping the tears from his cheek. "And I'm here for you. We'll figure it out together."

Yunho looks at you, his eyes searching yours, looking for any sign of doubt or fear. But all he sees is compassion and understanding. It's a feeling he's not used to. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, his voice cracking.

"Sorry?" You ask, your voice filled with genuine confusion. "For what?"

Yunho sighs heavily, his eyes searching yours. "For everything. For being like this, for bringing you into my mess." His hands trace over your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear.

"Oh god, Yunho, shut up. To be here comforting you is all I want to do," you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. It works. His shoulders relax a little, and he manages a small smile.

"Have you eaten?" you ask, changing the subject, trying to give him a break from his confession. You can't help but worry about the weight of his words, the gravity of his past, but you know pushing him too hard would only make things worse.

Yunho nods, his expression still haunted. "Yeah, I grabbed something quick."

"Noodles?" You ask, your voice gentle, trying to keep the conversation light. Yunho nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "I bought a couple bowls from the corner store a few hours ago when you left."

Yunho sighs, his eyes searching yours as he sits up, his hand still resting on your cheek. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner."

"It's okay," you reply, your voice gentle. "I'm just here for you."

Yunho's eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of fear or judgment, but all he saw was acceptance. It was a feeling so foreign to him that it was almost overwhelming. He hadn't expected you to take the news so well, and a part of him wondered if this was all just a twisted fantasy, a brief reprieve from the harsh reality of his existence. But your touch was real, your warmth seeping into his bones and chasing away the chill that had taken residence in his soul.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, the gesture simple but filled with love and understanding. "Let's go get some noodles," you murmured.

The two of you left the bedroom, the hallway's light a stark contrast to the intimate darkness you'd shared moments ago. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. In the kitchen, you filled two bowls with the steaming noodles, the aroma of the spicy broth filling the air. Yunho watched you, his eyes never leaving yours, as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored in the present.

"What are you starin' at?" you giggle, snapping him out of his trance.

"Just making sure you're real," Yunho smiles sadly, taking the bowl of noodles from your hand. "It's just… I've never had anyone understand me like you do."

You hand him a pair of chopsticks, your heart aching for the pain he's been carrying for so long. "I'm here, Yunho," you assure him, sitting down at the table across from him. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Yunho nods, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he takes the chopsticks. The two of you dig into the noodles, the steam rising to mingle with the tension that still hung in the air.

"You know, these noodles are really good," Yunho said, slurping a mouthful, his eyes never leaving yours. "But I think I'd prefer to watch you eat."

You blushed, your cheeks warming at his flirty tone. "What makes you say that?"

Yunho smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You have a cute way of slurping them," he teased, taking another bite.

You rolled your eyes playfully. "You're one to talk," you said, slurping a mouthful of noodles. The sound echoed in the kitchen, making him chuckle.

"Maybe I just like watching you blush," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. The flirtatious banter was a welcome change from the heaviness of his confession. For a brief moment, you could almost pretend that the world outside didn't exist, that the only thing that mattered was the two of you sharing a simple meal in the quiet of the night.

"Well, you're not too bad at it yourself," you retorted, taking a playful bite of your noodles. Yunho's smirk grew wider, his eyes dancing with amusement. "But seriously, these are amazing. What's the secret?"

"I may trust you, but not with my secret recipe." You laugh, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you twirl a strand of noodle around your fork. The sound of your laughter is like a balm to his soul, a gentle reminder that there's more to life than the darkness he's been drowning in.

Yunho shakes his head, grinning. "I'll just have to steal it, then," he says, reaching over to swipe a noodle from your bowl with his chopsticks. You squeal playfully, slapping his hand away.

"Hey!" you protest, laughter bubbling up in your throat. "Those are mine!"

Yunho laughs, his eyes lighting up with genuine amusement. "You snooze, you lose," he says, popping the noodle into his mouth. You can't help but smile, the heaviness of his confession momentarily forgotten in the warmth of your shared laughter.

After you both finish eating, you collect the empty bowls and take them to the sink. The sound of the water running is soothing, a gentle reminder of the normalcy that still exists amidst the chaos of his life.

Yunho watches you wash the dishes, the way your hands glide through the soapy water, the soft curve of your back as you lean into the task. His gaze is intense, a silent confession of his thoughts.

"What's up?" you ask, catching him staring. You turn off the faucet and dry your hands, turning to face him.

"Nothing, you're just…" Yunho's voice trails off as he tries to find the right words. "You're just… you."

You turn to face him, your smile fading slightly as you see the intensity in his gaze. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Yunho stands from his chair, walking over to you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close. "It means that you're… everything." His voice is low and earnest. "You're the first person who's ever accepted me for who I am, even with all the shit I've done."

You lean back against him, his warmth enveloping you as his hands roam over your body. He kisses the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone.

"Really? You wanna kiss my neck while I'm elbow deep in the dishes?" you giggle, your voice playfully sarcastic, but the way your body responds to his touch betrays your true feelings. His hands are warm and firm, the gentle strokes sending shivers down your spine.

"I wanna kiss every inch of you," Yunho murmurs, his breath sending delicious shivers down your neck. You lean back into him, his arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you closer. His hands glide over your waist, up to your chest, his hands move underneath your top, taking in handfuls of your breasts. "And I'm not just saying that because you're covered in noodle soup."

You giggle, feeling your cheeks flush at his bluntness. "Well, I'd hope not," you say, your voice teasing as his thumbs trace circles around your sensitive nipples. He nibbles on your earlobe, sending sparks through your body. "You're a hornball."

"Only for you," Yunho whispers, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees wobble. He kisses along the side of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin. "You have no idea how much I want you."

"You gonna bend me over the sink?" you tease, your voice breathy with arousal as you feel his growing hardness pressing against your back. Yunho chuckles, his hands continuing their journey over your skin.

"If that's what you want," he whispers into your ear, his breath sending goosebumps down your spine. "You know I don't mind."

You bite your lip, the thought of him taking you right here in the kitchen sending a thrill through your body. "What if I want something… a little more… intimate?" You lean back into him, your body arching slightly as his hands wander lower, slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts.

"Intimate, huh?" Yunho's voice is a low purr as he unties your shorts and slides them down your legs. "No underwear… you planned this."

You step out of the pool of fabric around your ankles, the cool kitchen floor a stark contrast to the heat building between your thighs. Yunho's hands are everywhere, spreading your thighs apart as he gently pushes you against the sink. The cold porcelain sends a shiver through your body, making you gasp as he kisses along your shoulders, his hands skimming over your hips.

"Fuck," you moan softly, placing your hands on the wall in front of you so you didn't fall face first in the sink. The cold porcelain was a stark contrast to the heat building in your core as Yunho's mouth found yours, kissing you deeply. His hands slid down your body, caressing every curve, every inch of skin. He kissed down your neck, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

"Please," you murmur, your voice needy and desperate. "I need you, Yunho."

He nods, his eyes dark with desire as he knelt behind you. With surprising gentleness, he moved your legs apart, his warm breath ghosting over the back of your thighs. "You're so perfect," he murmurs, his voice thick with need.

You lean over the sink, your heart racing as you feel his hot breath between your legs. "Yunho…" you whisper, your voice shaking with anticipation. Feathered kisses fall across the backs of your thighs, moving closer to the juncture of your thighs. Your core clenches, eager for his touch.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low growl that sends a tremor through your body. You bite back a whimper, your knees threatening to buckle as his tongue traces a line from your entrance to your clit. You've never been so exposed, so vulnerable, but with him, you feel… safe. Desired.

You pulled your sleeves over your hands, trying not to look into the sink as you were bent over. The kitchen light was harsh, but it was a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Yet, as Yunho's tongue found your clit, you couldn't help but arch your back and moan. The sensation was overwhelming, and you had to bite your lip to keep from crying out too loudly.

"Mm, you taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. His hands gripped your hips, keeping you in place as his tongue danced over your folds. You could feel him smiling against you, his eyes watching your body twitch.

"Oh god, Yunho," you gasped, your hands curling into fists as you felt the beginnings of an orgasm build. He was relentless, his mouth working you like he had nothing else to do but make you come. And in that moment, maybe he didn't.

His tongue swirled around your clit, the pressure increasing until you thought you might pass out. "Please," you begged, your voice shaking. "I'm gonna…"

His fingers dug into your ass, spreading you open as he feasted on your wetness, his tongue flicking and stroking with expert precision. You moaned, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edge of the sink, the cold metal pressing into your skin. The sensation of his mouth on you was heavenly, a stark contrast to the horror of his past and the fear of what might happen if anyone found out. But in this moment, all that mattered was the warmth of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the way he knew exactly how to make you feel alive.

You placed your hand on the wall, bracing yourself as Yunho's tongue delved deeper, swirling and stroking with a hunger that made you quiver. His hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as he feasted on you. The sound of his eager slurps filled the kitchen, mixing with your breathy moans. Your legs felt like jelly, but his firm grip kept you steady as he worked his magic.

"You're gonna make me come," you whispered, your voice shaky with need.

He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. "You like that, don't you?"

"Yeah," you say breathlessly, your voice trembling with anticipation. "L-Like it."

Yunho's chuckle turns into a groan of pleasure as he dives back in, his tongue lapping at your folds with renewed enthusiasm. You're so close, you can feel it. Your toes curl and your hips rock back, pushing into his face. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he takes you to the edge.

"F-Fuck! Fuck, oh my god!" you cry out as you feel the orgasm crash over you, your body shaking with the intensity of it. Yunho's tongue laps up your juices, his grip on your hips tightening as you come undone in front of him. Your legs are trembling, and your grip on the sink is the only thing keeping you upright. He pulls back, his mouth slick with your essence, a smug smile on his face as he looks up at you.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" He says, his voice low and smug.

He flipped you around, the smugness in his eyes unmistakable. "Better?"

"Oh my god, it's all over your chin." you giggle, using your sleeves to wipe his face. Yunho smirks, his eyes never leaving yours as you clean him up. The moment is surprisingly intimate, a stark contrast to the raw passion that just played out between you.

"Can we fuck now?" You ask, your voice a mix of sass and need, your legs still wobbly from the orgasm that had just ripped through your body.

Yunho chuckles, standing up and wrapping his arms around your waist. "Always eager, aren't you?" He nuzzles into your neck, his breath tickling your ear.

"You know it," you murmur, your voice a seductive whisper. He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you over to the couch. He lays you down, his body pressing into yours, and you can feel his hardness through his pants.

He grabs your hand and places it on his bulge. "Feel that?" His voice is gruff, his eyes dark with need. "It's all for you."

You nod, your cheeks flushing as you stroke him through the fabric of his pants. "I want you," you murmur, your voice a soft invitation. Yunho's smile turns feral as he undoes the button of his jeans, sliding them down his hips to free his erection. He slides his jacket off, tossing it aside. His shirt follows, revealing the toned chest you had explored the night before.

He pushes you down onto the couch, his hands rougher than the gentle caresses from the previous night. You don't protest, instead arching your back and spreading your legs for him. He grabs your hips, aligning himself with your entrance, and without preamble, he slams into you. You gasp, the suddenness of his thrust taking you by surprise. It's rough, almost violent, but it's what you crave in this moment.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his teeth clenched as he starts to move. His strokes are deep and demanding, each one pushing you closer to the edge. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, your nails digging into his back. "You're mine," he says, his voice a growl. "Mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to love."

"F-Fuck, y-yes!" you gasped, your body stretching to accommodate his thickness. The pain was exquisite, a stark reminder of his dominance over you. His hips rocked into yours, setting a punishing rhythm that had you seeing stars.

"You like it, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. "You like it when I fuck you hard."

"Yeah," you panted, your voice a mix of pleasure and pain. "I f-fucking love it, oh my god."

Yunho smirked, his strokes becoming more aggressive. "You're so wet, baby," he murmured, his hips slapping against yours. "You want it, don't you?"

"Y-yeah, want it," you stuttered, your voice thick with lust. "Harder, please."

Yunho's eyes flashed with desire, his grip on your hips tightening. "You got it, baby," he growled, his hips pumping into yours with a ferocity that had your eyes rolling back into your head.

You grabbed onto the armrest behind you, your nails digging into the fabric as Yunho's thrusts grew more powerful. "F-fuck, y-you're so big," you stuttered, the pleasure bordering on pain.

"Mm, you're so tight," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "So fucking tight." His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through your core.

"Y-Yunho, please," you whimpered, your body writhing beneath him. "M-More,"

"More?" He smirks, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he slows down his pace. "You want more?"

You whimpered in response, your body begging for more as Yunho's grip tightened on your hips. "Y-yes," you panted.

"Tell me," he whispered, his teeth grazing your ear. "Tell me what you want."

His thrusts slowed as he whispered in your ear, his hands roaming your hips and ass, squeezing and caressing as he watched you squirm. "What do you want?" His voice was a mix of amusement and lust.

"Harder," you whimpered, your legs tightening around him. "More."

Yunho chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned in closer. "You're so greedy," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and tickling. His hands moved to cup your breasts, his thumbs flicking your nipples.

"But you love it," you shot back, your voice breathless with desire. He smirks, his hips rolling into yours in a slow, taunting grind. "Don't you?"

"Maybe," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as he adjusts his angle, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars. "But I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck," you gasped, your body arching off the couch as he hits that perfect spot inside you. "Yes, right there."

"Good girl," Yunho murmured, his strokes growing more deliberate. "Keep talking dirty to me."

You nodded, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "Y-yes," you managed to get out, your voice trembling with every thrust. "I love it when you… w-when you talk like that."

Yunho's smirk grew wider, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to pick up the pace again. "Tell me," he whispered, his voice a seductive purr. "What do you love about it?"

You bit your lip, trying to form coherent thoughts as he rocked into you. "I-I love… how you make me feel," you stuttered, the words barely escaping your mouth as your body was wracked with pleasure. "How you take… take what you want. E-Even though you didn't do that before-"

"Felt like being in control," Yunho murmured, his eyes darkening with desire. "But you like it rough, don't you?"

"So do you," you panted out, your eyes locked onto his as you felt another orgasm building within you. "I like it when you're in charge."

"Yeah?" he tilts his head, a smug smirk playing on his lips.

"Y-Yes-" you tug on his arm, arching your back off of the couch and moaning. "F-Fuck, don't stop!"

Yunho chuckles, his lips grazing against your ear as he sped up his thrusts. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. You could feel your orgasm building, the tightness in your stomach unfurling into a warm, delicious ache. You bite your lip, trying not to scream as he hits that perfect spot again and again.

He holds the back of his head, his other hand digging into the couch cushion next to you, his breaths coming out in pants and grunts. You wrap your legs around him, your heels digging into his back, urging him on. His movements become erratic, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

"Yeah, baby," he murmurs, his voice strained with effort. "Take it all."

"Oh my god," you murmur, your voice a mix of pleasure and disbelief as Yunho's strokes become more deliberate. The room falls silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the wet slap of your bodies coming together. You close your eyes, letting the sensations wash over you.

"You're so close," Yunho whispers, his voice a gentle rumble in your ear. His thumb finds your clit, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, baby."

You nod, unable to form words as the pleasure builds. You tighten around him, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Yunho's grip on your hips turns bruising, his strokes quickening. "Cmon, you got it." he whispers, his voice a gentle coax.

You bite your lip, nodding again, your eyes squeezed shut as the waves of pleasure crash over you. He's right there with you, his breathing shallow and fast, his hips stuttering as he nears his climax.

He continued rubbing your clit, his strokes matching the rhythm of his hips as he talked dirty in your ear. "So good, baby," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "You're gonna come so hard for me again, I know you can do it."

It was too much to handle, the pleasure building so fast and intense. You could feel it coiling in your stomach, reaching for that peak that seemed to elude you. Your nails dug into the couch cushions, your body taut as a bowstring.

As your second orgasm started to build, the overstimulation hit you like a truck, your body tightening around him like a vice. You could feel him swell inside you, his breaths becoming more ragged. His eyes never left yours, a silent communication passing between you. You both knew what was about to happen, and the anticipation was almost too much to bear.

You shut your eyes tightly, arching your back off of the cushions and clawing at the armrest behind you, your other hand grabbing his wrist, the wrist of the hand that was on your clit. Yunho's strokes grew faster, his breaths coming in hot, harsh pants against your neck. "Almost there," he whispers, his voice thick with desire.

You couldn't even speak anymore, the pleasure was too intense. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you nodded as best as you could, letting your body do the talking for you. Yunho's hips rocked into yours, the friction building with every thrust. "Good girl," he murmured, his thumb still working your clit. "You're so close."

You inhaled sharply, cursing his name as you came a second time, squirting around his cock, the warmth of your release coating him. His eyes widened, a groan escaping his lips. "Fuck, baby," he murmured, his strokes becoming erratic as he lost control, releasing deep inside of you.

You laid there, panting heavily, your legs trembling around his waist. Yunho leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, his breaths matching yours in their desperation. "You okay?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble.

"Mmhmm," you murmured, your eyes still squeezed shut. "So… so good."

"I love you," Yunho whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of your racing heart. You look up at him, the intensity in his eyes making your stomach flip.

You bite your lip, smiling dazedly. "I love you too.."

[asapeveryday]

noctuary #7 - p.b x tlou au

noc·​tu·​ary ˈnäkchəˌwerē:

a collection of a single night's events, thoughts or dreams

pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader AU: The Last of Us 2 x Wbb crossover warnings: canon typical violence, veryyyyy brief mention of violent physical relationships synopsis: you meet her on the brink of giving up. she’s suspicious, too nice, too charismatic. you know you should be on guard, but you’ve got nowhere to go, and she’s eager to have nobody to be notes: why did I take 20 days to write this…life hit hard. Anyways, we’re nearing the end!!!! Woohoo!

Prev. Chap Here

THE NEXT TIME you see her, it’s the hottest day of the year.

You can feel it the moment you wake up. Your pyjamas are thrown across your room, limbs sticky with midnight sweat, hairline damp.

You begrudgingly slip out of your sheets, bare legs meeting the humid air.

Days were slow in Jackson. No more bonfires, or late night smokes. You worked, you came home. Nika had gone on patrol for a day or two with Aubrey, and ran errands while she was back.

Paige had been incredibly busy helping around the camp, and you’d barely said a word to her since she’d barfed on your lawn and slept over.

The stagnancy brought some good things too. Like your house, for one, that was finally starting to feel like home. You grew to appreciate the way the wood creaked beneath your feet, the way sun shone through your bedroom window.

Bare with the exception of a worn out tank and even more worn, lacy white underwear you managed to snag, you hum as you walk to your kitchen, taking your time as you drink your morning water and prep a quick breakfast.

The house is so quiet all the time, aside from the noises it makes on its own. Sometimes you find yourself thinking about the sound of another pair of feet on your floorboards, or another body under the running water of your shower. You’d heard the noise once, and never forgot it.

It should’ve unnerved you more that day, but it didn’t. You can’t quite forget that either.

How right it felt.

You shake your head in hopes of banishing the thoughts, walking to your couch with your breakfast in hand, when there’s a knock on the door.

Your eyes narrow.

It’s six-thirty in the morning, you don’t have to be at the barn till seven-thirty. There isn’t any reason for someone to be at your door.

Quietly, you approach the door, grasping the knife off of your plate for good measure. On your tip toes, you peek out of the peephole in the wood.

She’s standing there, hands in her pockets, head cocked, lip between her teeth in wait. Blonde hair messy, un-brushed and in scraggly waves that end past her shoulders.

You’re about to turn away when she opens her mouth.

“I know you’re there, horse girl.” She taunts, eyes staring down. “I can see your feet through the cracks.”

You let a groan out. “Isn’t it a little early, Paige?”

“You’re up anyways.” She smiles. “You gonna open the door?”

“Can you come back later?” You sigh, staring between your un-eaten breakfast and bare-naked legs.

“I’ll be fast.” She pushes. “Real quick.”

You consider. If it were anyone else, you’d tell them to fuck off. But for whatever reason, she makes all the difference. The knife in your free hand doesn’t hurt either.

Carefully, you creak the door open, twisting a little awkwardly to keep most of your lower half behind the door. She doesn’t so much as drag her eyes down there.

“You look a lot nicer when you’re not puking on my front lawn.” You snort. It’s true, she does look nice. Baggy, blue jeans held up by a thick brown leather belt. White tank, tucked in. Blue flannel, sleeves rolled up. Proper farm girl, enough to give you a run for your money.

“Moment of weakness.” She hums, smile still on her face. It’s mischievous, goading, even.

“What do you want?” You frown.

“I remembered I told you we’d patrol,” she shrugs. “So, let’s go.”

“Today?”

“You busy?” Paige grins.

“I might be.” You smile in return.

Paige raises a brow, arms crossing over her chest. “Doing what? Braiding Sue for the fortieth time and bartering with Nika for lingerie?”

“Careful.” Your eyes narrow.

Her cheeks turn pink the moment you say it, eyes breaking from yours like a nervous teenager. “I’ll give you like, twenty minutes to eat and change.” She mutters.

“Forty-five.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Forty.”

“It takes you forty minutes to eat and change?” She laughs incredulously.

“I take advantage of the fact that I get to enjoy my mornings now.” You huff.

“Well, if you’re gonna take that long I might as well wait inside with you.” She says. Her face is casual, no hint of emotion. Her only tell is her eyes, which sneakily dart downwards, glancing over the lacy trim of your underwear, and the bare expanse of your legs.

“Nice try.” You snort, slamming the door shut in her face. “I’ll take thirty.”

You hear her chuckle behind the door, and immediately shiver.

Despite how hot it is outside, your legs are covered in goosebumps.

You eat standing up, scarfing down your meal in 10 minutes flat before running to the bathroom to wash up, throwing your hair into a style that keeps it out of your face and freshening up.

Then you’re rushing around your room, frantically plucking things to throw in your backpack. It’s already mostly packed with essentials—hunting knifes, old rags, flasks of alcohol, extra clothes—you rush to add some fresh water and emergency food, before running back downstairs to get changed.

What should you wear? It’s sweltering outside, you’re sweating even with just your tank and panties. You can’t wear shorts, so you settle for worn out jeans that hang a little too low, and a breathable cotton top that shows some midriff when you stretch your arms—just for extra ventilation.

You’re double checking your bag for the tenth time when you pause by your bedside table, considering something in particular.

You slide open the table drawer, eyes meeting the plastic baggy you kept for company, four pre-rolled joints sitting in wait inside the clear film.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Twenty-five, let’s go!” You hear Paige call, muffled from the distance

You grab the plastic baggy and stuff it in your backpack, running up the stairs and hurriedly slipping your shoes on as you open the front door again.

“I said thirty.” You huff, finally managing with your shoes and stepping out beside her.

“See how good you are when you push yourself?” Paige grins. “You can be fast when you want to be.”

You just roll your eyes at her.

“Don’t be salty.” She hums. “Five minutes is almost nothing.”

“A lot can happen in five minutes, Paige.” You glance at her slyly. She just shakes her head with a suppressed smile, shoving past you slightly as she begins to walk out of your lawn.

You follow close behind her.

YOU FOREGO RIDING horseback—you don’t know how, and she doesn’t like it much anyways.

Instead you leave with nothing but the weight of your backpack, and her stare on your shoulders.

“We won’t be going far without horses.” You hum.

“We could if we wanted to take up a few days.” Paige chirps.

“Right.” You slow down, waiting for her to walk beside you. “I can’t believe you walked that far when you found me.”

She just shrugs.

The run is blazing, hot and bright on your skin as you and Paige walk further and further from Jackson’s massive gates. The grassy ground stretches for miles on miles, green and healthy from rainfall a few days prior.

The air smells like dirt and cedar as you let her take the lead, boots crunching on the ground beneath you with every step.

You don’t force any conversation, instead allowing the day to take its course. It’s like you have a billion things to say to her, but no way to articulate each point.

You want to ask her questions, you want to pry. You want to know what she’s like when she’s not being Jackson’s-Lifesaver-Paige, hear it from her mouth—why she leaves for days like it’s just a few hours—and you want to know why she likes you enough to take her with her.

When the grass grows less barren, and the trees start to cover your sight, you settle with, “Where are we going?”

She’s still beside you, eyes straight ahead. “There’s a camp a little father out that needs some maintenance.”

“Camp?”

Her eyes meet yours, bright blue and slightly squinted due to the sun. “Jackson has these small camps near the city, they’re like checkpoints or emergency stops for people coming in or out.”

“Is this one far?” You ask.

“Not really.” She shrugs. “If we were on horses we’d almost be there.”

You nod, returning your gaze to the trees and the grassy path you’re following. The sun shines between every leaf, speckling the ground with golden spots against the green.

She’s still looking at you, you can feel it on your face. She stares subtly, eyes glancing down every now and then.

Finally, you have enough, and you turn to catch her staring.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” She purses her lips. “Just thinking.”

Now it’s your turn to stare, watching curiously as she peels her eyes from you slow as molasses, like it’s hard for her to pull away. You can see it on her face, she is thinking.

You fight the urge to ask her what it is that she’s got her mind on.

“What kind of maintenance do we have to do when we get there?” You ask.

“Basic restock.” She hums, tapping her backpack. “Stuff like medical supplies, non-perishable food. Essential stuff.”

You nod.

“Basic clean up too.” Paige adds, half glancing at you. “People leave those places looking like a crime scene. Plus, sometimes the odd straggler gets in.”

“Human? Or infected.”

Paige shoots you a serious look. “Both.”

“And when you say clean up…” you frown.

“Nobody can live in those camps.” She says. “Either they leave or come to Jackson. Infected aren’t so lucky.”

You nod.

“The camps can be really nice.” She adds. “The one we’re going to is. You’ll like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Paige nods.

“S’too bad we won’t be there to long then.” You hum.

There’s a glint in her eye as she smiles. “We can take as long as we want.”

“Paige,” You snort, “really? Geno knows where he sent us, we can’t take too long if it’s that close by.”

“He won’t know if we take a little detour on the way back.” Paige shrugs. “Or maybe the place is a shitshow, and we need to stay longer.”

“Paige.”

She glances at you, tongue darting out to wet her lips. The sun makes her skin shine, she looks brighter than she did before.

“You won’t get in trouble.” Paige says, her tone serious, sure. “And if you do, which you won’t by the way, I’ll take the blame.”

You can’t help but blanch a little at the statement, at the way she affirms your worries without you even having to say anything. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s not your fault.” Paige huffs, but you feel something beneath her words, “because it’s what I do.”

You stare at her a little too long, thinking about her. About her life. You footsteps are in sync with here on the grassy path.

“Are we almost there?” You ask.

She bites her lip to hold a laugh.

“Easy.” She hums lowly. “You’ll know.”

You snort. She smiles.

You both keep walking.

The path is long, a perfect clearing between densely packed cedar trees that fill the air with a fresh scent. You’re sweating your ass off even with your breathable clothes. Paige must be sopping under her flannel and tank.

“Aren’t you hot?” You pant.

“I’ve been told that.” She shrugs, before promptly yelling when you nudge her.

“I’m serious.” You frown. “It’s too hot out to be wearing layers.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, shoving her backpack off and rolling her shoulders back as she slips off the flannel. “You right.”

“See?” You stop to wait. “You’re sweaty as hell.”

“Just say you want me to lose the layers.” She scoffs, shooting you a cheeky look, which you ignore.

She slides the fabric off of her shoulders and down her arms, folding the material and shoving it into her bag. Her biceps pop against the thin white tank. Normally that would deter you, but your eye has been caught by something else.

“Paige, what the fuck.”

“What?” She asks, glancing up at you confused before following your line of vision. She peeks at her forearm.

Against the white of her skin, there’s a large, spindly gash. It’s still raw, just barely starting to scab at the corners.

“Oh.” She hums. “Yeah, that.”

The wound twists as she shoulders her backpack again. She looks at you plainly.

“Hello?” You grit your teeth. “Where’s that from?”

“Last patrol I went on.” Paige shrugs. “S’not a big deal.”

“Paige, that looks painful.” You frown, grabbing her arm. Her eyes widen in surprise, watching you intently as you inspect the wound.

“How did I not notice this?” You mumble, thinking back to when you last saw her. She had slept over at your house, worn your clothes, sat beside you on your front yard, and you hadn’t noticed.

“I didn’t notice it either.” She says, still surprised by your worry. “It only started bothering me when I went home after your place. Must’ve been the adrenaline. Or the weed.”

“You should cover this up.” You bite your lip, sucking in a breath at the thought of her leaving this uncared for.

“That was the point of the flannel.” She deadpans.

“Not what I meant.” You frown.

“It’s not a big deal!”

“Paige—“ you start, but you stop just as fast. There’s a crackle in the distance, familiar enough to make your stomach drop.

Paige stiffens, sliding her arm from your grasp to grip the pistol in her waistband without a word. You similarly grapple the knife Paige lended you for the patrol.

“Can’t use this right away.” She mutters. “If there’s a lot of em then the noise will attract them to us.”

“You don’t have a silencer?”

“It does a shit job.”

You nod tightly, eyes trained ahead. You can hear them clearer now, up ahead. There must be a few.

“Keep walking.” Paige hushes.

You raise a brow in question.

“We have to go that way. The camp is just up ahead.” She adds.

Carefully, you follow her lead. The trees don’t lower in density, bright green leaves at every turn, but you see it the closer you get. Dark wooden logs, stacked against each other. Old windows, pointed roof.

Two clickers on the front lawn.

“Ready!” She calls out to you, but they’re already running, jaws slung open, saliva flying from their rotten lips.

One reaches Paige first, growling as it lunges for her. You try your best to stab it, but the other knocks you off your feet, straight to the grassy floor.

“Fuck!” You groan, scrambling to get up before it mounts you. You hear a similar struggle close by, the sound of grass under Paige’s body as she grunts against the infected. It’s on top of her, mouth open, ready to bite.

You’re torn back to your own fight in an instant. The clicker flies at you mouth first, teeth bared scarily close.

You swing with all your might, slashing its neck and splattering blood all over you in the process. You try your best to keep your mouth closed despite your staggering breathing.

A little ways beside you, Paige flips atop the clicker, slapping its face with the barrel of her gun. Its jaw cracks on impact, the noise echoing through the woods.

There’s another click as she points the gun to the flailing creatures temple, safety off, eyes wild, lips spitting stray hairs out of her mouth,

You run over frantically before her finger can pull the trigger, stabbing the clicker in the heart. The blade makes a squelching noise as it pierces through the rotting flesh. It stops fighting in an instant, reduced to faint twitches and groans.

Paige loosens, exhaling through her mouth with relief as she lowers her armed hand. She blows a strand of blonde away from her face.

“I had that.” She mutters.

“Would’ve attracted god-knows-what else with the noise.” You mutter. “Fuck, look at your arm!”

She glances down at the arm that holds the gun. The long, scabbing wound from before has reopened from the fight, and deep red blood trickles down her elbow.

“It’s fine.” She scoffs, eyeing you up and down. “You look worse than I do.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask if it bit me?” You raise a brow, glancing down at your bloody state. You can feel it on you, covering at least half of your face and neck, drenching your shirt.

“I know it didn’t.” Paige sighs, getting off of the clicker. “I watched you.”

Your stomach dips a little at the comment, at how simply she says it. You say nothing, opting to stare at your surrounds instead.

“I’m gonna patch you up.” You say.

“I can do it.” She snorts. “You need a shower. C’mon, let’s head in.”

“Is that it?” You ask.

“If there were more, they would’ve heard us by now.” Paige mutters, stepping forward towards the camp.

You can see it clearer now without the distractions. It’s big, and beautiful. Deep, rich wood. Wraparound porch. Old, sun-stained windows. Nothing like what you had in mind for a camp.

“C’mon!” Paige calls out, and you realize she’s waiting by the front door.

Wordlessly, you hurry after her.

THE CAMP IS like something out of a story book, fully furnished, lights yellowed but working, water running and warm.

Most of all, the place is clean.

You’d expected a crime scene. The place was guarded by clickers after all, and you know these camps were checkpoints of safe houses for travellers or people on patrol who may need to hide out. You figured there may be a mess, some sign of struggle or injury, maybe.

But no, there’s nothing. The floors are clean. There’s no garbage around. No gauze, used and strewn. Not a chair out of place at the table.

Paige speaks first.

“This is so weird.” She mutters, mostly to herself, as she steps into the house. The wooden floors creak under her feet. “Huh.” She says as she surveys the place the same way you did.

“It’s really nice.’ You breathe. “Like nobody has been here.”

‘I’ve never done maintenance on a safe house where there wasn’t a mess.” Paige swallows. You follow her into the house, gawking at the sheer beauty of the place.

You let you finger trail on the kitchen counter as you pass it. Not even a spec of dust comes up.

Paige’s backpack falls limply to the ground as she steps past the beautiful, long, wooden dinner table, and begins to step downstairs.

“Wait here.” She says. “Gonna see if this place needs a restock.”

You nod, watching her disappear down the staircase. When she leaves, you take the chance to turn around and take in the place. The windows are huge, one is almost floor to ceiling with a sliding door that leads to a massive, wooden balcony.

“Whoa.” You whisper to yourself, approaching the glass carefully.

Just past the porch is another staircase that leads to a dock. And the dock leads to a small, but beautiful lake.

This camp is a lake house.

“What the fuck!” You hear from downstairs, and you immediately jump in surprise.

“Paige?” You call out.

She comes running up in a split second, brows furrowed.

“This place is fully fucking stocked!” She huffs with exasperation.

“Really?”

“Yes!” She groans. “What a fuckin’ waste.”

“You sure this place is a safe house?” You cut in, glancing back outside.

She starts to say something else, but softens at your expression. Carefully, she steps to stand beside you in front of the window.

“It’s nice, right?”

“Too nice.” You mumble. “You guys made this?”

She just shakes her head. “Not this one, no. This place existed before Jackson. Before the infected did, too.”

“Really?” Your eyes widen.

“Yeah.” She hums. “Geno said it was a vacation house.”

“Vacation.” You snort, glancing between Paige and the lake. “Forgot people back then could do stuff like that.”

“Well, people who stay here can too.” Paige grins, holding your eye.

You bite your lip in thought. She stares at you, and then your clothes.

“You got another shirt to wear?” She winces. “There might be clothes here if not.”

“I brought stuff.” You mumble, cowering slightly from her gaze. “Should I wash off..or do you…your arm. Let me—“

“Go.” She laughs, pushing you slightly. “You can clean me off after, since you’re so desperate. Just—wash off first.”

“Okay.” You frown. “Where do I..”

“Right, you haven’t been here before,” she snorts, “down that hall, door on the left.”

You send her a grateful nod, shouldering your backpack down the dim-lit hall and through the left door. The bathroom is unlike one you’ve ever seen. The light crackles on with some effort, but the water from the shower runs warm. The bathroom fills with a slight fog as you peel your bloody clothes off of you, thankful that your jeans and undergarments stayed un-stained.

You step into the hot shower, sighing in relief as the water hits your skin and rinses off the blood and sweat. You’re still a little self conscious—the shower is only blocked off by clear glass, but it’s soon covered by fog. It’s not like Paige would come in anyways.

By the time you’re finished, you feel much better. You step out of the shower and towel yourself dry, before stepping toward the sink.

You swipe at the mirror to clear some of the condensation, peering at your face, your damp hair and skin, every blemish and pore. It’s the weirdest thing, that you suddenly feel the need to look nice. To look clean.

Those things never mattered before, you didn’t have time for it to matter. Somewhere between your banishment from your old camp, and your introduction to Jackson, that had changed.

And here you were, leisurely taking hot showers in a lake house, taking your time in the mornings, and wearing lace underwear.

And feeling warm at the attention that all of those things attract.

You feel your face getting hot like a little kid. Shaking the thought off, you shimmy yourself into fresh clothes and leave the bathroom.

As you walk to the living room, you see Paige crouched behind the kitchen counter. She stands up at the noise of your feet on the floorboards, her skin flushed red and her hair wet, soaking through her white tank.

“You took a shower too?” You ask, tossing your backpack as you sit on the counter.

“Yeah.” she says, eyes darting from your thighs spread on the kitchen counter to your face. “There’s two washrooms.”

You scoff. “This is insane.”

“If anyone asks, we had to hide out for the night.” Paige grins, kneeling back down to reach the cabinets under the counter.

You watch as she takes things from her backpack—gauze, disinfectant, sutures, bandages—and packs them neatly into first aid kids before storing them in the cabinets.

“They’re all stocked on food.” Paige grumbles from beneath you. “But a little low on this shit.”

“Good we came then.” You shrug.

“Nah.” She hums. “Would’ve been fine without the restock to be honest. No clue what Nika was on.”

“Nika?” You tune in, brain snagging on her name. “What about her?”

Paige glances up at you for a moment. From her stance on the ground, her eyes look so wide, peering at you like you’ve never seen before. She glances back at her hands before you can compute it.

“She told Geno that she passed by the place when she last went on patrol, and that it was a total mess.” Paige snorts. “Got him to put me on it. She even said it was so bad that I’d need help.”

You almost blanch at the statement. Nika, that sneaky little shit. She’d been egging on something between you and Paige, and here she was interfering in any way she could.

“Right.” Is all you say. Paige glances up at you again, curiously, before her hand grasps your calf.

“Uh—“

“Scooch.” She says, lifting your dangling leg so she can slide under. She’s still working at the cabinets, but now she’s between your legs under the counter.

You almost choke on your breath. She doesn’t even look up.

Your heart beats a little harder, you can feel it in your fingertips.

“Almost done.” She mumbles. “Then we can relax. You know, you don’t even need a vacation. You braid hair everyday.”

“Oh, shut up.” You squeak out, trying to get ahold of yourself. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“I was hoping to get your adrenaline going, you know.” She smirks. “I thought a little action might be a good introduction to patrol.”

“I’m fine with this too.” You say, a little too low, too sultry. She just smiles.

“Is it, though?” Paige says. “You’re an adrenaline junkie. Nothing’s had your heart racing since you got to Jackson.”

“Not true.” You shoot back. She looks up at this, one brow raised, lips parted. Daring you to say something that toes the line.

“Oh yeah?”

“We just had a fight outside.” You shrug. “That got my heart racing.”

She drops her gaze, shaking her head with a grin, knowing you got her. “That was nothing.”

“Yeah, could’ve been better.” You nod.

Without warning, she rises up to her full height between your legs.

“All done.” She smiles.

“Mhm…” you trail off. “Uhm, your arm.”

“Oh yeah.” Paige says, holding out her arm. “I showered, so that washed the mess away.”

“Pass me one of those kits.”

She grabs one from below and hands it to you. You grab the disinfectant spray and bandages, taking her arm with your hand.

“This might sting.” You smile. She just nods, eyes not even on your hands, but rather your face. Your lips.

You ignore it, spraying the alcohol, biting your lip as she winces. Her other hand leaves her side and grips your thigh—briefly—before finding the counter edge and opting for that instead.

“Sorry.” She bites out.

“S’fine.” You choke, dabbing the excess disinfectant before starting with the bandages. Still grasping her arm, you carefully wrap the bandage around the wound before safety pinning it securely.

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

“Done.” You whisper, letting go of her.

She looks at her arm, then you again.

“Thank you.” Paige says.

She stays between your legs for a moment, and you feel your chest heave. Breathing seems harder, heavier, when she’s close like this.

She finally steps back.

“I’m gonna sit outside before it gets too dark.” She mutters, blue eyes barely dancing around you. “Are you…gonna…”

“Yeah.” You tut, a little too fast, “I’ll be there.”

“Cool.” She grunts.

You just try and relax before you embarrass yourself.

EVENING IS FINALLY SETTLING by the time you make it out. It took a lot of mental strength and effort, honestly. You were a little shaken after the debacle in the kitchen.

But weirdly enough, it felt wrong to leave her outside alone. And the view from the house’s dock is magical.

The sun begins to set on the water, docile and only rippling when the odd fish swims too close to the top. Orange and pink paints the sky, dark blue just chasing after it. May flies hoard random spots in the sky. Bull frogs croak from the cattails near the edges of the lake.

She doesn’t turn to look at you when you sit next to her on the dock, legs dangling just short of the water.

“Fuck, it’s not out here.” You groan.

“Thought you weren’t gonna come.” Paige hums.

“I wasn’t.” You shrug. “Changed my mind though.”

She sneaks a look at you, then. At your face, and at your hands which hold your plastic baggy of joints and a lighter.

“You gonna smoke?”

“I dunno.” You say. “I will if you will.”

Paige takes a deep breath in, and you see the cogs turn in her head before she says. “Nah. I won’t.”

You’re a little taken aback, stung, even, at the rejection.

“You going sober on me?” You half laugh, poorly disguising your surprise.

“No.” She chuckles dryly. “I just feel like we always high when we’re talking seriously.”

“And you wanna see if it holds when we’re not?” You finish her thought.

“Just curious.” She mutters, but you know this is more serious than she’s letting on.

After a moment of silence, you toss the lighter and baggy behind you, further up the dock.

“Fine by me.” You shrug. “That was my stash for when I can’t sleep, anyways.”

She doesn’t respond, and you don’t keep talking. Silence fills the air, but it’s not thick or uncomfortable. It’s careful. You watch the water. She pretends to.

Finally, she decides to break. “How’s your leg?”

“My leg?”

“Your calf.” She nods. “Remember? You got cut?”

“Oh.” You nod, swallowing at the memory. “Yeah. When we met.”

You bring one leg up, touching the obvious valley of skin that scars you. Paige’s eyes follow those movements.

“It’s good.” You nod. “Much better, after I got help in Jackson. Just left a nasty mark.”

“Does that bother you?” She asks.

“I dunno. It’s not my worst scar. Just my most recent.”

She nods, glancing at her arm. “I guess this one’ll scar pretty bad too.”

“Only if you keep opening it up.” You scoff.

Paige smiles slightly.

“Do the scars bother you?” You ask.

“No.” She hums. “Everyone’s got ‘em. Sometimes it’s the way you get them that hurts more.”

“Don’t I know it.” You scoff.

She pauses at that, looking at you.

“Can I ask you something?” She asks.

“You already are.”

“About…how things were before Jackson.” Paige mumbles.

You look at her, heart dipping at how careful she’s being.

“Okay.” You nod.

“How did you…” she swallows, “how did it find you? Were you born into it?”

“No.” You shrug. “Basic story, honestly. I dunno where my dad’s at, my mom n’ me were alone. She owed someone a big favour, ended up paying it off to that community. Eventually she couldn’t keep up with the work. When she died I was collateral. They took me in, and I started where she left off.”

Paige nods tightly.

“My turn.” You blink. “Were you always in Jackson?”

She shakes her head. “Most of my life, yeah. I was born in Minnesota, actually. My mom and I lived there for a while in this commune, but she heard from a friend of a friend that there was an actual functioning city in Wyoming.”

“Big trip.”

“Oh, yeah.” She laughs. “Lost mom along the way. Met Azzi. We made it together.”

“Cute.” You mumble.

“Cute?” She raises a brow.

“Fuck.” You straighten. “Not—not your mom…I’m sorry about that. I meant the Azzi part…sorry.”

She laughs. “It’s fine, I know.” Her knee nudges yours, and doesn’t move back. Your legs immediately cover in goosebumps.

“So…Azzi.” You swallow.

“What about her?” Paige snorts.

“I dunno. She’s your only ex. It’s still shocking to me that you only have one, I guess.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why.” Paige frowns. “Let’s not talk about this.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “Just…no point in thinking about the past.”

“Yeah.” You nod.

It’s quiet again. You curse yourself for the word vomit.

“On the topic of future,” Paige goes on, “what’d you see for yourself in a Jackson?”

You scoff. “No idea. I’ve been on survival mode for so long, it’s weird to imagine the future at all.”

Paige nods. “Yeah, lots of people are like that.”

“You’re not?”

“I try not to.” She shrugs. “But I dunno what the future holds, so we’ll see.”

“What do you imagine for yourself?” You ask.

“If all goes well, I’ll take over running the place when Geno and Dawn are gone. I’ll be away a lot, though. Expanding Jackson, making it bigger. And I’ll get married in the old theatre.”

“Married?” You gape.

“We have weddings all the time in Jackson.” Paige smiles.

“Wow.” You blink. “I totally forgot that was something…people did.”

Paige turns to you now, mouth agape. “You’re telling me nobody was together at your camp?”

“Well—people were together.” You snort. “But married? Like, exchanging rings and/or had a celebration married? Hell no. I mean, everyone our age barely even dated.”

“The fuck does that mean.” Paige gawks.

“Like…most of the younger ones. Like, our age, weren’t really committing to shit.”

“So you just…hooked up with whoever?”

“Yeah, basically.” You shrug. “I mean, most of us had favourites. But nobody was exclusive.”

“That is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” Paige’s eyes screw together. She’s truly confused by this. You realize she must be the insanely loyal type.

“Is it?”

“Yeah?” She huffs. “Like…why?”

“Some thing that I just talked about…not thinking of the future.” You mutter, a little embarrassed now. “I guess…none of us really expected to live as long as we were. Every assignment was like a chance, you know? Everyone just wanted to take shit out on each other, live through each other.”

“Well.” Paige swallows. She’s really trying to understand for you. “Was it…fun? At least?”

“No.”

“No?”

You smile at her sadly. “No. It was toxic. Competitive. Aggressive, most of the time. Fucking was supposed to be an escape, but it ended up being an outlet, and then another way for us to hurt each other. Physically and mentally.”

Paige’s eyes are as wide as saucers.

“Like…there were certain people you knew to stay away from.” You huff. “The…violent ones. Everything else was like a game, you know? The person you’re hooking up with is doing it to hurt the last person, and you’re doing it to forget the next person. Or to forget you almost died the day before. Or to feel like you’re still in control.”

“Nobody fucked for love?” Paige mumbles.

“I’m sure people did.” You sigh, playing with your hands. “But I don’t think it ever lasted long.”

Paige opens her mouth then closes it.

“What?” You ask.

“I just…” she stutters, “did you?”

“Fuck for love?” You raise a brow.

“Love anyone.” She says. “In general.”

“I don’t know.” You say honestly. “Really, I don’t know.”

Paige searches your face, taking in your body language, the way you talk about it all like it’s nothing. She looks sad, so sad.

“It’s fine.” You wave her off. “Things are different in Jackson. I dunno if I’ll ever get married, but it’s nice to know people do.”

“Why wouldn’t you get married?” Paige asks.

You bite your lip. The answer is stuck in your throat, itching like a virus that burns your airways.

“I dunno.” You choke out. “I dunno if I’m…like…”

Ready? Able? Deserving? Easy?

“You’re a lot easier to love than you think.” Paige interrupts.

Now it’s your turn to gape.

“Sorry—“ she looks away from you. “Just…the shit you’re used to is so fucked up. You…love isn’t supposed to be impossible. Hard, yeah. But everyone deserves it.”

Your heart is hammering, and your throat honestly goes dry at her words.

“You deserve it.” Paige urges. Her hand is so close to yours on the dock. Too close. Not close enough.

“I hope so.” Is all you can mutter.

Her eyes meet you again, soft as a feather.

“I think you’re easy to love too.” You offer.

She scoffs. “I’m not.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got problems.” Paige snorts.

“Shit, Paige, everyone does.” You laugh in return.

“Really, though.” She says seriously. “I wanna be with someone for the rest of my life. But I dunno if anyone can handle me.”

“What is there to handle? You raise a brow.

She stalls for a moment. You let her consider.

The sky is darker now, blue against the deep water. Stars begin to speckle the sky.

“I’m…” Paige begins. “Everyone sees me one way. I see myself another way.”

You nod, giving her time to elaborate. Whatever it is she’s about to say, you have a feeling it’s what you’ve noticed all along.

“I just feel like—“ Paige groans, hands covering her face briefly, “fucking crazy sometimes. Like I’m about to break. It’s why I’m always on patrol.”

She rubs her eyes harshly, unable to meet your gaze. “Everyone thinks I’m some fucking hero because I’m always out, killing infected, bringing supplies, running errands for anyone who asks. But it’s more selfish than that. I’m just a coward, I leave because my head goes quiet when I’m away from it all. And then people just expect more.”

You can see how this has been weighing on her, you see it in the way her eyes squint and her brows furrow, how her lips quiver but her eyes don’t well with tears.

“I feel like a fraud, you know?” She laughs shakily. “I leave when things get tough, and everyone calls me a hero. Raises their drinks to me. Talks me up.”

“You think nobody will love you because of that?” You ask.

“I think nobody knows me because of that.” She urges. “And you can’t love someone you don’t know.”

“And you can’t tell anyone? You can’t say what you just told me?” You continue.

“I don’t know.” Paige says honestly, meeting your eye. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it’s easier with you, either. It just is. Shit spills out of me, weed or no weed. It’s pathetic, honestly.”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic at all.” You frown. “And you’re certainly not a coward.”

“Don’t lie.” She scoffs. “You noticed it before I even said it.”

“I noticed how accommodating you are.” You frown, leaning closer towards her, legs bumping hers.

“I noticed how much you cared for a total stranger with a chopped leg and a shitty attitude. I noticed how much you noticed me. How much you thought about me. How much effort you put into everything.”

“You hated me for it.” Paige scoffs.

“I hated being cared about.” You correct her. “And you understand now, why I felt that way. Why it felt wrong to me. But somewhere along the way I realized if it was coming from you, it was real.”

You hold her stare, those bullet-blue eyes against yours.

“Was all of that because of pressure?” You ask. “Or was it because it’s who you are?”

“Okay.” Paige whispers. “Quit talkin’ me up.”

“I don’t do that.” You smile. “I just tell the truth.”

“Don’t I know it.” She grins, and you smile back, heart skipping a beat.

“I mean it.” You nod.

“Mhm.” She mumbles. “You know, I really hate how I end up spilling my guts to you every time we’re alone.”

“Yeah, well. I hate how you always try. Even when I act like I don’t want you to.”

“You make it obvious.” Paige smirks.

“Make what obvious?” You hum, feigning obliviousness.

Her eyes part from yours and steer towards your lips again. You find yourself doing the same, glancing at the white of her teeth between her parted mouth. Soft, pink lips, slightly chapped, plumped from the dryness. Her tongue slips out to wet them, as if she can read your mind.

She’s too close for comfort. Somewhere between the staring she leans forward, slowly, like she’s afraid of what you’ll do. You don’t do anything. You let it happen.

Her pinky grazes over yours: careful, curious, soft.

Your nose brushes against hers. She tilts her head slightly.

Her blonde hair grazes your cheek. Paige’s blue eyes disappear, fluttering shut between closed lids.

The moment your mouth does so much as graze hers, your stomach drops. You pull away in an instant, and her eyes fly open.

“I’m exhausted.” You say shakily, getting up from the dock. “Can we sleep?”

Paige swallows, and you see her disappointment simmer in her expression.

“Yeah.” She coughs out. “Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

Your heart dips, unsurprised but hurt nonetheless. You simply nod, grabbing your stuff and walking up the dock towards the house.

Paige turns back to the water.

THE BEDROOM IS huge, wooden floor to ceiling, old windows covered by ugly curtains. You watch Paige’s back from the glass, before shutting them and darkening the room.

You didn’t see another bedroom upstairs, just one. The bed is kingsized, enough room for two people. It’ll have to do. You just hope you’re asleep before she gets here.

You shakily get under the covers, curling up into a ball on the left side of the bed, back to the door, face in your hands.

You don’t know why it’s so hard, why after all the conversation, you just can’t allow yourself to let go any more than you already have. You will yourself not to cry into your pillow.

Instead you lie awake for what feels like hours. After a while you assume she’s found somewhere else to sleep. The thought makes you feel even worse.

And then you hear footsteps behind the bedroom door. And the shadows they make against the crack of light.

You quickly turn away from the door. It creaks open a moment later, and you hear her steps come closer.

There’s a shuffle, a sigh. Then a dip in the bed, on the right side. A good distance from you.

You hear her breathing. It’s uneven. Off beat to yours.

It doesn’t slow in the minutes that pass. She’s just as awake as you are.

You inhale, exhale, will yourself to be okay.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble against the pillow. You feel her stiffen on her side of the bed.

“You don’t have to be.” Paige croaks, just as quiet. “I shouldn’t have…especially after what we talked about…it just…I was being selfish again.”

“It’s okay.” You whisper.

“Okay.” She mumbles.

A beat passes. Then two, then three, there’s no noise except for her breathing and yours, and the sound of the house. And the cicadas outside.

“Can I be selfish too?” You whisper softly.

Paige shifts, sitting up a little.

“Can you…” you start shakily. “Uhm…”

Paige doesn’t say a word. She just knows, exactly the way you were afraid of all this time. Wordlessly, she shifts over to your side of the bed.

You feel her knees behind yours, her head on your pillow, her arm carefully resting over your body. Her warmth stretching over yours.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

You hope she does too.

next chap - here

tagsˏˋ°•*⁀➷

@juumecca @cowboybueckers @sweetbcgs @rishofkf @yailtsv @bueckers2fudd @syraxsbigfanfr @azziswrld @hellokittyfeenie @lively-blues @surferandskater5

[sweetbunpura]

Giving the entire Rambleshackle ice cream. (Too hot in my area.) might as well make it an ice cream party.

It's too hot here too.

I hate summer.

Yuu was very thankful for the finished construction of the backyard for Ramshackle as she lounged in one of the lawn chairs under the shade of the umbrella. She dipped her spoon into the melting mess of ice cream as she cast out her eyes to the pool to see Fellow in one of the inflatable chair.

"If that gets into the pool." She warns as Fellow licks at his Rocky Road ice cream cone.

"It's fine." Fellow replied.

She stared at him before her gaze shifted over to where Rollo was. "...Rolls, you don't have to say out here with us. You can go inside with Skully."

Rollo sank further into the chair. "I'm fine."

"Your face is red." Grim pointed out as he and Gidel finished their 2nd bowl of ice cream."

"I'm fine."

"Go inside and cool down." Yuu said.

"....Very well." Rollo got up, shakingly at first, before he walked into the air conditioned dorm.

"You should check on him later." Fellow stated.

"I will." Yuu sighed and took another spoonful of her ice cream. "I hate summer."

[fandomlit]

just by a touch (anthony padilla x reader)

requested by anon "would you do another anthony fic? us anthony girlies are starved and you've been FEEDING us! maybe they're filming anthony's "can I guess who slapped me?" and he guesses y/n before they even slap him/way too fast and cast/crew/fans go insane"

a/n i LOVE writing for anthony, PLS request him

gif cred belongs to @femmmie

anthony was down 3-8 on guessing slaps, and had just correctly guessed ian, when you stepped up. you gave the camera a malicious smirk as you stood in front of him.

"what would you like from this person as a hint?" kiana asked.

"let's just do a handshake," anthony decided, reaching out his hand. you shook it as limply as you could, trying not to give away too much. anthony hummed. "okay.. i have a gut feeling, but it might be too soon."

you dipped your hand into the chalk bowl as he pursed his lips. you rubbed your hands together slowly as you took a step closer. you were about to take a deep breath to gear yourself up when anthony suddenly spoke, "y/n. i'm locking it in."

your jaw dropped and the room exploded as quietly as they could, cast members scrambling over each other and laughing out in surprise as kiana laughed, "really? before the slap?"

"yep. i just know it," anthony nodded with full confidence.

"that-that's correct!" kiana laughed again with pure shock. the cast exploded with a mix of laughter, cheers, and surprise.

"HOW DID YOU DO THAT?" you demanded, but you were grinning through your shock. anthony raised his hands in victory.

"i-i don't know!" he laughed, running a hand through his hair as your jaw hung open. "it was the handshake and i heard the rubbing of the hands and i just knew!" he laughed again as everyone began to calm. "do you still wanna slap me?"

"no!" you exclaimed incredulously.

"sorry, y/n," he chuckled as you shook your head. "y/n, please slap me. i'm sorry, i took that moment from you. you can slap me." you laughed out with the cast and crew as anthony continued, "it would make me feel better if you slapped me."

"no, you've lost that luxury," you spoke through laughter, walking back to where you were standing. anthony laughed and you paused as you walked by to place a hand on his shoulder and give him a kiss on the cheek. everyone 'aww'ed as anthony grinned, a flush unrelated to the redness from the slaps forming on his cheeks.

"that was so sweet, considering they didn't even get to slap me," anthony sighed. everyone looked to you.

"watch your back, padilla." they laughed out again. "that slap is coming."

kiana read back the score to him as they all started to settle into the game again. "so i'm losing and y/n's gonna get me in the parking lot later." the camera flipped over to you as you did your malicious smirk again, chuckles in the background.

anthony was embarrassed when he watched the edit back with ian and some others later that day, all of them teasing him for knowing you even without the slap.

"you're so in love with her you're getting, like, bluetooth connected whenever she's around," ian chuckled lowly so only anthony could hear. as the only one who knew of his crush, anthony expected him to make the joke sooner or later.

anthony laughed it off, but a deeper part of him couldn't shake that odd feeling in his chest that arose when thinking of how he knew you simply from the warmth of your hand.

[skzjiiiii]

The Bad Boy Hypothesis pt 5

pairing: rock band felix x academic achiever reader! 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

texting smau!

genre: group project partners to lovers? kys/kms jokes, cursing! college AU, reader and felix are literally the complete opposites of each other. felix is lowkey like a fuckboy type of guy. Actually it's so highkey now because he's acting like a MANCHILD but who knows he might actually man up and redeem his ass. There's a bit of actual writing in here! summary: what happens when you're paired up for the campus "bad boy" lee felix for your biology class? will thing end well or are you just another toy for him to play with.

bad boy hypothesis: a bad boy will always be bad — charming at first but bound to break your heart.⭑.ᐟ

“bad boys are just a distraction wrapped in a leather jacket”

wc: 1270

Later that night:

You weren’t sure why you agreed to meet him.

Maybe because part of you needed to see if he’d lie to your face. Maybe because despite everything, a small, stubborn part of your heart still wanted to understand why. Why he pulled you in like a tide and then wrecked you like a storm.

Felix stood in front of you, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes tired and red-rimmed. He wasn’t the usual confident, cocky Felix you met in BIO 350.

He looked… wrecked. And not because you were watching. But because he knew he broke something precious. “Thanks for meeting me,” he started, voice hoarse. You didn’t respond. Just stared.

He took a step forward, then stopped himself. “I don’t know where to begin. You probably don’t want to hear it. But I need to say it anyway.”

You crossed your arms, keeping your face still. “Say it, then.”

Felix looked down at the ground, like it was easier to confess to the pavement than to you.

“I kissed her. I was drunk and stupid and… scared. Scared of how much you mean to me. Scared of how real you felt.”

His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going.

“You make me feel like I’m not some messed up cliché. You looked at me like I was more than the rumors, more than what everyone says. And that… that scared the shit out of me.”

He looked up, eyes meeting yours, guilt and desperation swimming in those deep brown eyes.

“I’ve never had anything like this before. No one’s ever seen me the way you do. You brought me back to life in ways I didn’t think were possible. Before you, I didn’t think I deserved good things. I didn’t think I deserved love.”

You looked away, your throat tightening.

“I didn’t kiss her because I wanted her. I did it because I wanted to destroy something before it could destroy me,” he admitted. “I was self-sabotaging. But when I saw your face after… when I saw what I did to you… I’ve never hated myself more.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“You were the one who made me believe in love again. Real, soul-warming love. I’ve never felt safer than when I was next to you, hearing you ramble about biology over matcha lattes, or laughing with my band like you belonged there all along.”

“I know I messed it up. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I just need you to know… I love you. I’ve loved you for a while now. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t know how to handle that.”

Silence stretched between you like a thread, thin and fragile.

He took a breath. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I couldn’t let you think you weren’t everything to me. Because you are.”

You looked at him then, not the bad boy, not the campus heartthrob. Just a boy who was scared of love until it stared him in the face and he blinked first.

And suddenly, that silence didn’t feel so heavy anymore. You stayed quiet.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because the words in your chest were all tangled up, like wires that once carried music but now only sparked and stung when you tried to untangle them.

Felix stood there, waiting. You hated how familiar he looked. Hated how your heart still ached toward him like a bruise touched too soon.

“I believed in you,” you said softly. “I defended you when everyone warned me. Told them you were different. Told them you’d never hurt me.”

He flinched. His shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

“And then you kissed someone else. Not just anyone. Chaewon. At a party you invited me to. And I had to watch. Do you know what that felt like?”

Your voice cracked. The tears had been sitting in your throat since that night. Now they spilled, hot and silent.

Felix stepped forward, but you held up a hand. “Don’t.”

He froze.

“I showed up for you. Over and over. I made time for you when you forgot about me. I sat through your rehearsals, studied late into the night, waited outside your classes just to walk home with you. I let you in. I made space for you in a life I worked hard to build.”

You looked up at him, heartbroken, but still burning with a kind of quiet strength. “And I guess I wasn’t worth the same kind of fight.”

Felix shook his head, quick, desperate. “You are. You are worth everything. I was just— I didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone who saw through me. Someone who made me feel like I wasn’t broken anymore. And I ruined it.”

His voice trembled, but you weren’t sure if it was guilt or grief. Maybe both.

“I’m not asking you to forget what I did,” he said. “I wouldn’t forgive me either. I just—I need you to know it wasn’t meaningless. You weren’t meaningless.”

There was a long, aching pause. The kind that happens when two people know they’re standing at a fork in the road and nothing will ever be quite the same again.

Finally, you whispered, “I never needed you to be perfect, Felix. I just needed you to be honest. To try.”

“I’ll try now,” he said, stepping closer, slower this time. “I’ll do it right, if you let me. If not now, then someday. I’ll earn it back. All of it. Even if you never want me again, I’ll still become the kind of person who deserved you.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what came next. You didn’t know if healing would look like walking away or choosing to stay.

But one thing was clear: Felix wasn’t running anymore. He had finally shown up, not just with words, but with everything broken and bruised inside him laid bare for you to see.

And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, you saw it all.

The soft-shelled boy underneath the bad-boy persona. The quiet warmth. The trembling heart. The one who baked you cookies at midnight and wiped your tears when the world was too loud. The one who called you “sunshine” like it meant something sacred.

But also the one who broke you. The one who let fear ruin something tender. The one who kissed someone else when you were starting to believe in forever.

Your throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Felix.” He opened his mouth, but you shook your head gently. “I’m not saying it didn’t mean something. I know it did. But I’m also not someone you come back to when you realize the other option didn’t feel right.” His eyes glossed over, but he nodded.

“I’m not gonna make a decision right now,” you said. “I need time to think. To feel. To breathe.”

His lips parted. “So you’re saying there’s still?”

“I’m saying I’ll text you.” Your voice wavered, but the truth in it held. “When I’m ready. When I know what I want. Not just what I feel right now.”

He blinked, like those words had knocked the air out of him.

You gave a small, broken smile. “Goodnight, Felix.”

Then you turned and walked away, and for once, he didn’t try to stop you. Because sometimes, love isn’t proven by the chase.

Sometimes, it’s proven by waiting.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-seven, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, morning of the games, enobaria and y/n time, bloodbath eek

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

you wake up to quiet the next morning. your room is still, and it’s cold.

your eyes are open, but you haven’t moved. you haven’t even blinked. your body is too heavy, your limbs still curled against the sheets like if you stay this way, time will slow down.

you know you wanted this, and now you’re going in, but it’s not mad to just want more time.

but the sun’s already climbed halfway up the sky, and they’ll come for you soon.

you sit up slowly and press your palms against your eyes until stars bloom behind your lids, and force yourself to move. by the time you make it into the main suite where breakfast is set, it’s already full.

cassaline is talking quietly to valis near the window. rumina sits with her back straight as ever, fingers folded over her knee like she’s never known nerves. both yours and rafes styling teams are there, some seated, some standing, all of them subdued. nobody says it, but this all just feels like a funeral.

you try to sit down, your knees barely hold. the plate in front of you is colorful. there’s fruit and toast and soft poached eggs. your stomach turns.

you can hear them talking, but none of the words make sense. cassaline laughs at something valis says, a soft sound that doesn’t belong in a morning like this. your fingers twitch in your lap.

then, beside you, there’s a gentle nudge. you glance up.

rafe sits there, hunched slightly forward, eyes tilted toward you. his voice is soft, low enough only for you to hear, “just eat what you can.”

you blink.

his expression barely shifts. “you helped me eat before our games, remember?” he says it so quietly, so casually like it isn’t one of the worst memories you both share. “just something, even if all you do is chew some grapes.”

you exhale slowly and glance down at the fruit and pick up a piece. it’s something red and soft, you don’t even look, but you take a bite, then another. you’re not sure if it helps, but it’s something, like he said.

rafe grins a little. he reaches over and ruffles your hair gently, like you’re a kid again, like this might not be the last meal you’ll ever eat in the real world. you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. it’s enough.

later, they fit you both into your arena attire.

the fabric is dark. it’s black with faint hints of navy when the light catches it, and it’s sleek, form-fitting, almost elastic. long sleeves, no obvious armor or even a jacket, but you can feel how durable it is under your fingers. it clings to your body like a second skin.

you stare at yourself in the mirror. it’s nothing like your gear from seven years ago. back then you wore layers. but this time, this is a little like—what was it called? the thing with boards in the ocean. surfing. the material clings like that. like water can’t catch on it. like it was made to move fast and survive in something wild like that.

the back is covered. your thorns are hidden. you press a hand to your spine, feeling the way the fabric stretches with you. it doesn’t pinch or dig. thank god for that. you don’t know what you would’ve done if they’d made you go in there wearing something that made your skin bleed.

you close your eyes and inhale deep. the breath catches halfway down and your heartbeat skitters.

panic simmers just beneath your ribs, threatening to claw its way up your throat. your hands tremble slightly. you try to brush your hair back, focus on the motion.

you know what’s coming, but now that it’s here, it feels like the floor might drop out from beneath you.

you swallow the panic, shove it down deep where it belongs, and you leave your room.

rafe joins you outside there, dressed in the same arena suit you are. he doesn’t say anything at first. he just offers his hand, so you take it without question.

you don’t talk much as you’re escorted down the hall. you and rafe walk between the peacekeepers, close but not touching anymore, your fingers brushing every so often when the turns are tight or the corners narrow.

the car is waiting outside.

the door opens for you and rafe so you climb in. you don’t remember much of the ride. you stare out the window as the buildings pass you by.

the train comes next, then the hovercraft.

this time the injection doesn’t hurt as bad. the needle’s shoved beneath the skin, a new small tracking pods plunged into your bone.

you sit by rafe and close your eyes and try to memorize the sound of the hovercraft hum. it might be the last non-lethal sound you ever hear.

the hovercraft lands, but you don’t see the arena, of course. not yet. instead, you’re led through underground corridors you know too well. this is the place where you’ve said goodbye to most of the tributes you couldn’t save.

now it’s your turn again.

they split you and rafe up at the mouth of the hallway. you don’t fight it. there’s no point. his hand squeezes yours once before he lets go, and you walk away.

your room is quiet. the tube sits there. it’s your final ride up. you stare at it, eyes unblinking, foot tapping anxiously against the cold floor. you feel your heart in your throat.

you turn fast when the door opens.

enobaria.

you don’t think. your feet move before your brain does, before the grief can reach your eyes. she mirrors you, her own steps quick, like she can’t help it either. like everything she was holding back, whatever bitterness she’s been carrying since the reaping, just melts in this one moment.

you crash into her, arms wrapped tight, chests pressed together. she’s never been your blood, but you feel like she’s always been your sister. you just cling to her.

“thank you,” you whisper, and your voice cracks when you say it. “for everything. for . . . for showing me how to survive, for not letting me drown, for brutus, for making me feel like i wasn’t alone.”

enobaria exhales through her nose. she doesn’t say much at first. she’s not the emotional type, but you feel the way she tightens her grip around your arms, like she’s trying to hold you in place.

“you didn’t survive because of me,” she says. “you survived because you were meant to.”

you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. you laugh, “but still. you kept me from losing it more times than you know.”

she shrugs slightly. “someone had to.”

you nod. you can’t speak for a second. enobaria pulls back slightly just to look you in the eyes. “you listen to me,” she says. “you watch each other’s backs. you trust your instincts. you don’t hesitate. and you come home.”

you nod. “i will.”

her expression doesn’t change. “no. i mean it. you come home.”

you don’t promise. you can’t. but you lean forward and press your forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut as you breathe her in.

the buzz comes from the corner speaker. thirty seconds remaining.

you blink slowly. your vision sharpens all at once, like waking from a dream. the weight of it all hits you in a single crashing wave. this is it. this could be the last time you’ll ever see her like this. maybe the last time, period.

and she doesn’t know, not all of it. she still thinks this is a slaughter. she still thinks this is a one-ticket escape, but you? you’re carrying the truth.

you step forward again and take her face in your hands. enobaria’s eyes widen just a little, like she’s not used to softness from you like this, but she lets you.

your thumbs brush over the sharp lines of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. your fingertips rest right below her ears. her skin is warm and you hold her there.

“i love you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. it’s the only thing you say like it’s a goodbye. her throat bobs and she swallows hard, then you lean forward, “i promise you that the next time you see me, the world is gonna be different.”

you say it like a vow. to enobaria, it probably sounds like confidence, like you’re just another victor convinced the odds will fold to your feet. but you know what it means.

when she sees you again, if she does, the rebellion will have bloomed. the fire will have started. you’ll help burn the world down, and then rebuild it for the ones who come next. and if she’s still standing at the end of it, she’ll understand.

you pull back slowly. she doesn’t speak. she’s just looking at you, jaw tight, shoulders locked. and her eyes are glassy, not red or wet, but there’s something there. something like fear. not of you, but for you.

you swallow thickly as you hold enobaria’s face in your hands, “may we meet again.”

for a split second, she says nothing. then she answers, “may we meet again.”

you nod gently, lips trembling but pressed together. you hug her again, tight, one arm over her shoulder, one at her waist. she squeezes you back, fingers curling into the back of your suit like she’s trying to keep you grounded, just a little longer, but then you break apart.

you don’t look back. you run your palms down your thighs, smoothing out invisible wrinkles as you walk toward the tube. you climb in, and you don’t let yourself cry.

the glass seals shut. everything goes quiet.

enobaria walks up just as the glass finishes locking you in. she stands a few feet away at first, frozen, her arms tense at her sides, her face drawn in a way you’ve never seen before.

you know that this isn’t like before.

this isn’t when you were seventeen and just another tribute with a one in twenty-four shot. back then, you were a girl who knew how to kill, not a girl enobaria knew how to love.

but now, it’s different. now, it’s seven years later. now, you’re hers. and she’s yours. it’s the same with rafe and brutus. you can’t imagine how much it must be killing rafe to not tell brutus everything about the plan.

she steps forward again, slowly, until she’s right in front of the glass. you do the same, moving until your palm lifts and rests against it, fingers splayed. you don’t think. you just need to feel something. and even if it’s just the illusion of her on the other side, it’s enough.

enobaria stares at your hand, eyes flicking over every finger, then while hesitant at first, she lifts her own and presses it against yours.

you don’t speak but you don’t have to. you see her mouth move.

“win.”

just like she did all those years ago, when she stood in this exact room, watching you rise into your first arena. the word is the same. but the meaning behind it? not even close.

and this time, the odds are worse.

the platform hums beneath your feet. you feel the shift as it begins to rise. your heart stutters. you lift your eyes to her one last time, and you nod slowly. then you take your hand off the glass, taking a step back.

your hands tremble slightly where they hang by your sides, but your breaths keep you steady. you don't let yourself blink too much. you don’t want to miss a second. this is it. this is the moment. there’s no more waiting.

the light above begins to break open, faint at first. the top of the tube cracks just before you reach it, widening with mechanical precision, and you’re instantly blinded. the brightness hits you like a wall.

it’s artificial, you know it is, but the capitol always goes too far with their illusion. it doesn’t just look like the sun, it feels like it.

the smell is next. salty, like ocean water, but different. you hate how familiar it already feels.

you’re standing in water. your pedestal is surrounded on all sides by a circular ocean. at first glance, it seems endless, but then your eyes adjust.

there are jagged black rocks that jut from the center of the water. there’s a spoke between each pair of tributes. at the center is the cornucopia. weapons glint along the outer rim.

you spin on your pedestal slowly, careful not to throw off your balance. there’s no land under you. no place to jump until the timer allows it.

you can’t see rafe. you feel the panic in your throat, but you shove it down immediately.

remember the plan. stay focused. find katniss.

and there she is, a few pedestals away, ahead and to your right. she can hardly stand, and even from here you can see the way her eyes scan everything.

you tuck strands of hair behind your ears, your gaze climbing to the countdown display hovering just above the cornucopia.

forty seconds.

your jaw tightens. it’s hard not to look at everyone else. they’re all there. you can find beetee, wiress, johanna, and even blight, who nods once when you flick eyes over to him.

and then gloss and cashmere. you can’t see them yet. their pedestals might just be directly across from yours, past the cornucopia somewhere. you don't know if they think they’re still with you, if they’ll run to protect you like careers are supposed to or if they’ll look at you like prey. you haven't told them anything.

twenty-five seconds.

you fix your eyes on katniss again. you are surrounded by allies and you are surrounded by enemies. you are surrounded by people who think they are both.

your heart beats faster. it’s not out of fear, not anymore, but purpose.

you adjust your stance on the pedestal and bend your knees slightly, loosen your shoulders. your fingers flex once, then again. you don’t look for rafe this time, because you trust he’s doing the same thing you are. you trust that you’ll find each other soon. you trust that you’ll both survive this. just the bloodbath, that’s all.

the countdown reaches five, and your lungs fill with one last deep breath.

four.

three.

two.

one.

the tone sounds, loud and final. everything else disappears. you dive.

the cold water rushes up to meet you, engulfing your body in a flash. your ears fill with the sudden silence that only comes underwater, but even then, your mind is still screaming. you push forward, arms slicing through the water, legs kicking hard and fast.

you break the surface, eyes catching the rocky spoke that juts out from the dark terrain beneath the cornucopia. it’s closer than you expected, and you waste no time. hands reach, fingers scrape the wet stone. you grunt as you haul yourself up, body slick with water, knees hitting the spoke hard as you crawl for a second before finally standing.

you wipe at your face, strands of soaked hair cling to your cheeks, and you push them back hastily, blinking away the sting. there’s no time. you have to move.

your balance wavers for only half a second before you’re sprinting across the spoke, rubber shoes slamming against stone with every step.

you can see the cornucopia. there’s no food, no water. there’s nothing to survive off of.

there’s a wall of weapons that lines the edges, like spears, swords, clubs, axes. none of it means longevity. it just means you get to start.

you don’t hesitate. you reach for a sword, not because it's your first choice, but because it’s there, and the weight in your hand is familiar enough. you’re already looking for your real target: the knives and daggers. you need blades light enough to throw, sharp enough to gut. you spot them glinting just up ahead.

you sprint forward, but freeze the second a figure lunges into your peripheral. your instinct kicks in, arm snapping up, dagger raised. you’re ready to strike until the person throws a hand out.

“wait!”

johanna.

you skid slightly, breath shallow, chest heaving. she’s dripping wet, clutching a hatchet, blood already spattered somewhere near her shoulder.

her hand finds your arm. “we need to find her.”

you nod instantly, blinking hard, your breath catching in your throat from the adrenaline. “have you seen rafe?”

johanna doesn’t stop moving. she’s already veering left, heading along the inner curve of the cornucopia. “no!” she shouts back. “i’ll meet you on the other side!” and she’s gone, slipping between two other tributes mid-fight.

you curse under your breath, grabbing the nearest two daggers in reach and sliding them into the strap at your thigh.

your eyes scan everything. you see who’s already down, who’s fighting, who’s running. but more importantly, you try to find katniss.

you duck low and start moving again, darting along the side of the structure, every step heavy and hot with urgency. water drips from your body as you run, and you feel the tight stretch of your arena suit, clinging to your back, your legs. your spine itches, thorns hidden beneath it all.

the screams behind you grow louder.

the games have begun, and now you need to find the mockingjay.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[bradleysass]

ally - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 864

The first thing Evan notices is the smell.

Acrylic paint and something fruity—possibly watermelon—mix in the air like chaos and pride had a baby. The second thing is that the flat is way too quiet for what it smells like. No music, no TV, just the hum of summer heat coming through the cracked kitchen window.

Evan toes off his shoes and squints down the hallway.

“Barty?”

“In here!” comes the shout, echoing from their bedroom. There's a weird, wet-slapping noise like someone wrestling with a paintbrush and absolutely no effort to hide whatever disaster is going on.

Evan pushes the door open with the same energy one uses to check behind a horror movie shower curtain. And then he freezes.

Barty is standing in the middle of their room shirtless, arms lifted slightly away from his sides like he’s trying not to smudge anything. His entire chest has been transformed into a bisexual pride flag—pink, purple, and blue stripes smeared across his pale skin with suspiciously good blending. On one leg is the trans flag. His face has a rainbow like war paint under each eye, and one hand is currently halfway through painting the lesbian flag across his thigh.

They make eye contact.

Barty, wide-eyed and unapologetic, mid-paint-stroke.

Evan just blinks.

“…What the fuck is happening here?”

Barty doesn’t miss a beat. “What does it look like? I’m showing my support. I am an ally.”

Evan raises one hand to his mouth and rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, pouting ever so slightly like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or walk right back out and pretend this didn’t happen. “Yeah, yeah, sure. But you’re also gay.”

Barty narrows his eyes. “Not just gay. I'm layered. Like a—like a queer onion.”

“A bisexual onion?”

“If you will,” Barty says, as he dips his brush into another blob of paint on a plate that Evan really hopes is not one of their good ones. “I contain multitudes.”

“You contain glitter on my sheets.”

“I’m doing this for the community,” Barty replies, solemnly, like he’s about to launch into a TED Talk. “Pride is about visibility. I am being very visible right now. You're welcome.”

Evan crosses the room slowly, avoiding paint tubes like landmines. He stops just in front of Barty and folds his arms. “You painted the lesbian flag on your leg.”

“I support lesbians.”

“You hit on a lesbian last week.”

“She was hot,” Barty shrugs. “I told her I respected her. I also told her 'Evan at home had better hands than she could ever dream of', so it’s fine. Balanced.”

Evan chokes on a laugh. “Is that what you said?”

“I did,” Barty says proudly. “She gave me her eyeliner brand as a peace offering. Look.”

He turns and reveals a black tube of something wedged between a rainbow pride boa and a half-full bottle of rosé on the dresser.

Evan lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “You know, I came home thinking we might have dinner. Watch something. Be normal.”

“This is normal,” Barty says, placing a dramatic hand over his paint-slicked heart. “You date a man who has a very expressive artistic side and an unstable relationship with impulse control. You knew what this was.”

Evan tilts his head. “You have the trans flag on your leg.”

“I do.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

Barty goes quiet for a second, the paintbrush hovering in mid-air.

“…Maybe later.”

Evan nods, the mood shifting a little in the way it always does when Barty lets him past the sarcasm and glitter.

Then Barty smirks. “Right now I want you to admit that I look fabulous.”

Evan steps forward again, lifting his hand to trace the edge of the pink stripe on Barty’s chest. The paint is still a bit tacky, and Evan tries not to think too hard about how good the colors look on him. How Barty’s always had a knack for making chaos look like art.

“You look like someone let a gay raccoon loose in a craft store.”

Barty grins, proud. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Alright, fine,” Evan says, stepping even closer, hands now resting on Barty’s waist, smearing a bit of purple onto his thumbs. “You look like a queer fever dream, and somehow I still want to kiss you.”

Barty raises an eyebrow. “Do it.”

“You’re covered in paint.”

“So?”

Evan leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Barty’s mouth. When he pulls back, there’s a smear of blue on his lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at it. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am lucky. I’m dating a beautiful, mildly judgmental man who lets me paint myself like a pride parade float.”

Evan sighs again, but there’s a softness to it now. “So. Do we wash this off or…?”

Barty shrugs. “We could go out like this.”

“I am not letting you into a restaurant with the lesbian flag on your thigh and nothing else.”

“Coward.”

“Degenerate.”

“Gay.”

Evan rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses him again.

This time, he doesn't even try to wipe the paint away.

[scary-grace]

The Yawning Grave - a Shigaraki x F!reader fic

Tomura and his friends might look like a team of paranormal investigators, but they're actually professional hoaxers -- every episode of their hit show has been faked. The episode they're filming in an abandoned town in a temperate rainforest is no different. At least at first. Rated T trending M in later chapters, found footage horror tropes, filmmaker!Tomura. Title/chapter headings based on The Yawning Grave by Lord Huron.

omens and signs

Tomura wakes up slowly, but he’d rather not be awake at all – and what he hears when the grogginess starts to fade doesn’t do much to change that impression. “I’m not pulling over again, Dabi. Take your Dramamine.”

“How am I supposed to take my Dramamine if I can’t stop hurling long enough for it to work?”

“Maybe we should pull over long enough for Dabi to take his Dramamine and then digest it,” Twice suggests. “No, that’s a bad idea. Let’s make him throw up until he’s empty and we don’t have to stop again.”

“How about we don’t do any of that,” Toga says. Her voice sounds sweet, but Tomura knows just as well as anybody what she sounds like when she’s about to cut a bitch, and it’s a little too close for comfort. “Dabi, keep your mouth closed. Spinner, don’t floor it around the curves. Jin, don’t laugh. Tomura, don’t –”

Tomura pretends he’s asleep. Toga reaches into the backseat and punches him in the arm, at which point he sits upright in a hurry. “What?”

“Tell Spinner to drive slower,” she says, smiling at him, “and tell Dabi to stop talking.”

“Stop talking,” Tomura says to Dabi. Dabi gives him both middle fingers, way, way up. “Spinner has to drive fast. We need to be there and setting up camp by nightfall.”

“Yeah. Otherwise our nighttime shaky-cam breakdowns won’t be anywhere near as scary.”

“Right.” Tomura doesn’t need to be awake for this. He can film a found-footage documentary hoax in his sleep.

Tomura used to be into debunking this stuff. Then he realized that he could make a hell of a lot more money faking it, and have a lot more fun in the bargain. Now, instead of trying to prove that reality really is as boring as it looks, Tomura and his friends have turned their professional skeptic side-hustle into a full-time business faking the stuff they used to debunk. And because Tomura’s still a skeptic at heart, he knows how to skeptic-proof his hoaxes.

First step: Pick a spot that’s no more than locally famous. Find some local legends – there are always at least a few. Case the joint, figure out what type of haunting or infestation would be the most believable, and then make it look and sound as real as possible. Sometimes that means wholesale making shit up, which is fine. Tomura and his crew have gotten called out plenty of times, but they’ve never been caught before.

“I don’t know, guys,” Twice says as Spinner takes another curve at slightly less than warp speed. “I feel weird about this one. That guy at the gas station acted like we were nuts.”

“Gas station guys always act like that.”

“Not exactly like that.” Dabi sounds like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “He said it was a paper town. Named after that book. But I looked it up before Spinner started auditioning for fucking Formula One, and it’s been on the map since before the book was published.”

The book – ’Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King. Tomura read it, liked it, and then, when he was scanning maps looking for a place to plan the next hoax, he spotted it. A rain-drenched dot on the map, in America’s Pacific Northwest, labeled Jerusalem’s Lot. Same as the town in the book that gets overrun by vampires. “So he named the book after this place,” Tomura says, and Dabi twists around to glare at him. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re getting spooked.”

“Twice is right. There was something weird about that guy,” Dabi says. “We spooked him, not the other way around. There’s something going on here that –”

Spinner zips around another bend in the road, and Dabi scrambles to roll the window down. “He does have a point,” Toga says, like there’s not rain and wind whipping through the car and Dabi gagging like a cat with a hairball. “There aren’t legends about this place or anything. We’ve gotten the dumb-college-kid treatment a million times –”

“Which is dumb,” Spinner puts in. “We’re not in college.”

Toga ignores him, too. “But that guy looked surprised at first. Then he looked nervous. And he said something weird.”

“Play it back,” Tomura instructs. Toga digs out the camera.

Gas station guy looks like every other gas station guy they’ve encountered, but as Toga plays it back, Tomura watches the same emotions she named cross his face. Surprise, then nerves. “Salem’s Lot is a paper town.” There’s a pause. “Ain’t nothing living up there that’s human.”

“Nice work getting that line out of him,” Tomura tells Toga, who was doing the interview. “It’ll be great for the promos.”

“Nothing living up there that’s human. He could just mean animals,” Twice pipes up. “The more rural it is, the weirder everybody talks. Remember those old guys with the accents?”

Even the films Tomura’s made in rural Japan has featured old guys with accents. They’re practically a genre staple. “It’s true. People use different syntax in rural areas than in the city,” Spinner says. “Still, though. It’s –”

Dabi pulls his head back in through the window and rolls it up. “It’s easy to hear that line as meaning that there’s something inhuman in ’Salem’s Lot.”

“Which is why it’s perfect,” Tomura says. “Don’t crack up on me. Any of you. If something had happened here, there’d be legends about it. Local myths. Something other than an old guy at a gas station talking about paper towns.”

“There’s one reason why there wouldn’t be legends,” Spinner says from the front seat. “If nobody made it out alive.”

Tomura doesn’t expect that kind of shit out of his crew, and for a split second, he wonders if there’s anything to what they’re saying. Then he spots the blinking red light of one of their pocket cameras, and a mic settled down in the hood of Toga’s jacket, and swears. “You all think you’re fucking hilarious, don’t you?”

“You should have seen your face,” Twice wheezes. “We got you so good –”

“How much of it did you just make up?” Tomura snaps. “Did you bribe that old guy while I was taking a leak?”

“No, he just said it,” Toga says. “All the stuff we said is true. And if it spooked you for a second, Tomura-kun, it’s definitely going to spook the audience.”

She’s right. Still, Tomura doesn’t like ending up on the wrong end of a hoax, and he’s pretty sure he knows whose idea this was. “Did you fake being carsick, too?”

“Did I fool you?” Dabi asks – and then Spinner whips around a corner too fast, and Dabi lunges for the window again. The carsickness is for real. Tomura wonders if he can convince Spinner to drive even faster.

They make it to Jerusalem’s Lot just past four o’clock, which leaves them enough daylight to poke around, record some B-roll, and get a few exterior shots in. The guy at the gas station was bullshitting them – there’s clearly a town up here. Houses, a main street, buildings, streetlights, all of it well on its way to being swallowed up by the rainforest. “How fast do you think stuff like this grows in?”

“These are all native plants,” Spinner says from where he’s crouched down, examining a nest of ferns. “This is their optimal environment. So if nobody was cutting them back, this could happen in – a few years, maybe. Most of these buildings are wood. If we came back fifteen years from now, there’d probably be nothing left.

Which means it can’t have been abandoned for very long – well within living memory. Tomura rolls his shoulders, limbering up. “Let’s find an establishing shot and get this done.”

Tomura calls the big shots, but everybody else fills in with smaller ones they think they might need in the editing process. Tomura puts up with two or three extra shots from everybody before they refocus. He should have written a script. What’s going to come out of his mouth is probably going to be pretty stupid.

“I’m Shigaraki Tomura. We’re the League of Villains. Today we’re investigating Jerusalem’s Lot, an American small town – which, according to the locals, doesn’t exist.”

They asked one local. They’ll go back with the camera on the way out and bother some people until they pick up enough footage to make it look like they’re trying to hide something instead of just trying to get away. This is where they’ll splice in Gas Station Guy with his creepy comment. “As you can see behind me, Jerusalem’s Lot is very real – or it was. Join us as we try to figure out what happened here, and if there’s anything alive in Jerusalem’s Lot after all.”

“Nice, boss,” Twice remarks. It’s a good thing it’s cold out. Tomura gets sweaty when he’s on camera, and he needs to air his armpits out. “The mic might have gotten fuzzy because of the wind, but we can dub over it in post, easy.”

“I like the lighting out here,” Toga says. “There are some holes in the canopy where sun will get through. If it’s ever sunny.”

“It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow,” Spinner says, shivering. “It better be. I’ll freeze to death.”

Dabi rolls his eyes. “Sure you will.”

“I will. And then you guys will probably use my body to jazz up a shot, because you all suck –”

Tomura tunes them out and goes picking his way up what was probably the main street of ’Salem’s Lot. He’s visited a lot of small towns, even more ghost towns, but there’s something different about this place. Maybe it’s all the greenery. Ghost towns in other places fall to dust. It’s not usual to see one that’s actively being eaten alive – or dead – by the woods. People lived here. People either got up and left or they died here. The former, almost always. Tomura identifies a couple houses that look semi-structurally sound as potential filming spots for tomorrow, then makes his way back to the others.

Coming to Jerusalem’s Lot was the right choice, and as they set up camp and build a fire, the League’s mood is good. Unusually good, given the conditions they’re camping out in. “I think this one is going to be awesome,” Toga says, the firelight glinting off her teeth. “This place would be spooky even without the buildings. All the moss and lichen – and the fog –”

“We could do a haunting for this place,” Spinner suggests. “Ghosts and stuff. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Yeah, the last time was that mansion in New Hampshire,” Twice says. Then he frowns. “We didn’t have to fake that one.”

No, they didn’t. They all saw things in that house, enough for them to scrap the episode and not come back. Tomura has a strict hoaxes-only rule these days. “Ghosts are easy to do in post-production, but for a town this size, we’d need to fake multiple ghosts,” Dabi says. “And if we have that many ghosts, we have to explain where they came from.”

“Maybe an epidemic?” Toga suggests. “We haven’t done disease in a while, either.”

“That would be tough to pull off, unless we invented something,” Tomura says. “They don’t have the Ebola virus up here.”

Nobody likes it when Tomura mentions the Ebola virus. He sees their expressions and decides to pay them back a bit for their bullshit earlier. “There’s always plague, though. Pneumonic and septicemic plague could both kill fast enough that they wouldn’t have had time to get help.”

“Then we should keep an eye out for skeletons tomorrow,” Spinner says. “And somebody’s gonna need to hold Twice’s hand so he doesn’t freak out and drop the camera. Again.”

“That was one time!”

“We can’t fake skeletons,” Dabi says. “We can fake creatures.”

Tomura rolls his eyes. “You know how hard it is to fake creatures. What would we even fake around here?”

“Vampires,” Twice offers. “Like that book.”

“That would be really hard to fake,” Toga remarks. “Isn’t there some kind of cryptid that’s native to this place? Something tall and furry?”

“Yeah, it’s like a –” Tomura thinks back on his notes. “Sasquatch. Or a Bigfoot.”

“We can’t use that,” Spinner says at once. “It sounds too goofy.”

“Yeah, the airport kiosks were selling it on t-shirts,” Twice agrees. “No vampires. No big furry guys. So that leaves – uh –”

“We could try crawlers,” Toga suggests, and Dabi starts to argue. “I know we’ve used them before, but – why can’t there be different subspecies? Crawlers in a temperate rainforest wouldn’t look anything like crawlers in the Andes mountains.”

It’s quiet for a second. “If you guys are going to make me wear the crawler suit again, I want overtime,” Spinner mutters, and Dabi grins across the campfire. “So what are we doing tomorrow, then – film documentary stuff in the morning, crawler stuff in the afternoon?”

“Works for me.” Tomura yawns. “I’m tired. Don’t forget to put the fire out.”

Inside his tent, Tomura sets up his personal camera to record. He’s not sure if everyone else does, too, but they’re supposed to – to pick up any weird things that happen during the night, any inexplicable sounds or shadows, whether they wake up to it or not. Usually it just catches him tossing and turning, and he deletes the footage in postproduction. Tomura unzips his sleeping bag, shuts off his camping lantern, and closes his eyes. This shoot is going to go well. There’s enough here for a solid hoax. Aside from Spinner in a crawler suit, they’re not going to have to make anything up.

Tomura sleeps solidly, straight through the night. He wakes up without an alarm, better rested than usual, and fumbles for his phone, which he’s pretty sure he left on the pillow next to him. The phone’s not there, but something else is, something small and cold and metal. When Tomura blinks sleep out of his eyes, lifts it to inspect it, he finds that it’s a heart-shaped locket, clinging to life on a frail chain.

Tomura’s friends are going to be on their bullshit for this entire shoot, it looks like. Still, the locket’s a nice touch, and if they fuck with the shot of Toga planting it on Tomura’s pillow, they can make it look like it appeared out of nowhere. Even if they’ve decided on crawlers, it won’t hurt to wave a red herring about ghosts.

But when he shows it to Toga, he gets a blank look and nothing else. “I didn’t put that there. I’ve never seen it before.”

Tomura’s about to tell her to cut the bullshit when he realizes that Dabi’s camera is on. No way is Toga dropping the story while she’s being filmed, and Tomura might as well play along. “Take a look at it. Maybe it’ll give us a clue about what happened here.”

“Hmm.” Toga lifts the locket out of Tomura’s hand and starts inspecting it between sips of coffee. “14-karat gold – not bad, but not over-the-top expensive. It’s on a box chain, which is interesting. They’re not as common as other varieties of chain, but they’re sturdy. See how tightly they’re interlocked? Something like this wouldn’t break easily. And the clasp’s still intact. The person who owned this took it off on purpose.”

She glances up at Tomura, eyes exaggeratedly wide. “What’s inside it?”

By this point, they’ve drawn Spinner and Twice over. They and Tomura hover over Toga’s shoulders as she pries the locket open. “There are photos,” she starts, and then her shoulders slump, her voice going small. “This was a kid’s. A little girl’s.”

Toga’s the best actor on the team. The rest of them need to take lessons. “How do you know?”

“On this side –” Toga holds it up, and Spinner digs up his phone to zoom in. “There’s a picture of two people. Based on their age, I’m guessing they’re her parents. And on the other side – that’s her dog.”

“Right. An adult would have photos of their spouse,” Dabi says from across the fire. “Or their kids. Parents and dog says kid. How do you know it’s a girl?”

“How many boys do you know who’d wear a heart-shaped locket?”

Dabi starts ribbing Toga for being sexist, and she argues back that he wouldn’t wear a locket if she paid him, and under cover of an argument that’s only half-staged, Tomura inspects the locket a little closer. It’s definitely a dog on one side of the locket, some goofy mutt-thing with bright eyes and floppy ears, and looking at it pulls Tomura’s vocal cords tight. He’d maybe have worn a locket as a kid, if his sister or somebody else had given him one. And he’d definitely have put a photo of his dog in it.

But Tomura’s got a couple screws loose. His family made that crystal clear. He snaps the locket shut, then cuts off Toga and Dabi’s stupid argument. “Hey. How old do you think this is?”

“Um –” Toga studies it. “Not an antique. More than ten years, less than thirty.”

“That’s within the time frame,” Spinner says. “How did it end up on your pillow?”

Tomura’s getting tired of this bit. He waits a second or three, then calls cut. “We have a lot to do today. Let’s get going.”

They have an evidence bin for stuff that shows up on shoots, but since the locket’s a joke his friends are playing, Tomura doesn’t feel bad about pocketing it. They left it for him, anyway. Tomura wonders what’s gotten into his friends. They’re a lot more into this shoot than they’ve been on other ones, but maybe that’s a good thing. If there’s one thing Tomura’s work has taught him, it’s that every good hoax needs a small piece of truth at the center of it. The expression Dabi’s camera probably caught on his face when he opened the locket is a good start.

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @lvtuss @deadhands69 @xeveryxstarfallx @cheeseonatower @agente707 @warxhammer @handumb @atspiss @f3r4lfr0gg3r @shikiblessed @evilcookie5 @dance-with-me-in-hell @babybehh @boogiemansbitch @baking-ghoul @minniessskii @issaortiz @aslutforfictionalmen @lacrimae-lotos @stardustdreamersisi @koohiii

[hikarimiyanaga]

The Surprise

Sequel.

Uh. I forgot to say this was a Normal!AU in which they're all just kpop bands but with F!reader amongst them.

They're all humans.

Rumi and Jinu are just rivals.

And Mira and Zoey are going out.

You were at your house and scrolling through different job offers.

It's been a month since you quit.

When you quit being Huntr/X's assistant, you had enough savings to last you a decade of not working. If you didn't splurge or buy games.

But you did do those two things for like a whole week.

So that decade was halved and now here you are.

You sigh for the fifth time as you consider a manager gig.

"Fuck no. I don't want to see Rumi anymore." You say out loud but you know that it's an impossible thing to do. After all, she was a superstar. One for out of your house and you will somehow hear their newest single or one of their classics.

And it doesn't help that the trio somehow finds a new number everyday to call you.

You look through your house and sigh.

"Time to be productive." You clean your house that day while you wait for more job offers.

-

Rumi looks at everyone around the table and sigh.

"Still won't talk?" Zoey and Mira shake their heads.

"When she hears it's you, me or Mira, she immediately hangs up." Zoey says and Mira nods in agreement.

"Bobby?"

"She blocked me too! I was going to offer her a managerial job too."

"She probably doesn't want to. She probably wants to avoid Rumi as much as possible." Jinu says and Rumi scoffs at him.

"Shut up."

"I was just stating facts. If it was me trying to move on from someone who can't even tell the public that they love me? I would want to avoid them as much as possible." Everyone nods in agreement.

"You're not helping." Jinu holds his hands up.

"Just saying." Zoey gets a bright idea.

"Have YOU tried calling her?" Everyone looks at him.

"Hmm. I should give it a try."

-

You hear your phone ring and pick it up, hoping for another interview or job offer to come through.

"Hi. You've reached Y/N Y/LN. How can I-"

"You sound polite." The voice makes you freeze. It was familiar and not familiar.

"M-may I ask who this might be?" You sit on your couch.

"Jinu. I'm the leader of the Saja boys."

Ah. Rumi's new boyfriend. The one she told that you were just her assistant.

"Ah. Can I help you?" You can hear his chuckle.

"What a sudden change. You must hate me, right?"

"I don't hate you, Mr. Jinu. If this all you called for then-"

"It's not. Make sure to watch the Huntr/x's portion of interview later tonight. You'll find a surprise waiting for you."

"What?"

"I informed you. Oh. And one more thing. I absolutely have no interest in Rumi. She and I are purely work rivals."

"I-" He hangs up and you look at your phone.

"What the fuck?"

-

You were playing games on your console when you look at the clock.

The exact time those late night shows usually start.

"Fuck off. Stop thinking about her. Stop." You say to yourself but groan as you know your curiosity had already won.

"GOD! FUCK YOU, JINU!" You shout to your ceiling and save your game. You browse through the channels then stop as the screen shows Huntr/x appearing and sitting on the couch.

"Welcome back, everyone!" The host greets them warmly and the trio greets everyone.

"So. Your new single has been absolutely fire. Takedown has reached new records this week."

"It has truly been a blessing. Writing Takedown took so much out of us. We spent late nights buried in notebooks, lyrics and with our instruments." Zoey muses.

"I remember you always dragging Y/N to go on late night snack shopping."

"Right! Y/N! Most of your fans have noticed that your lovable assistant has been missing."

"What? The fuck????? ME???????" You question your life.

You????? PEOPLE NOTICE YOU?? HOW???

"Well, yeah. Y/N quit." Rumi says bluntly and everyone, the hose and audience gasp at the information.

"She did? Damn. That woman has always been a force of nature. Back when you guys first started, she always made sure you guys had more than enough screentime. I think if she could, she would the editor like a hawk." Everyone laughs at that, including the trio.

"Y/N has always been protective of us." Zoey says fondly.

"I'm telling you guys, she's really the true delinquent." Everyone chuckles at Mira's joke.

"She quit because of me. I was being insensitive. I was being secretive."

"Secretive? Of what?"

"My relationship with her." Everyone gasps and you freeze at her words. "Y/N and I are girlfriends. I never revealed it to the world because didn't want her to get hurt. For our fans to come after her." Rumi chuckles. "But to my surprise when she was just gone for a week, everyone looked for her." Rumi looks at the camera. "Thank you for caring about the girl that I love." Her words make your heart beat faster.

"So, is this you coming out? Are you saying that-"

"I'm bisexual. All three of us are." Mira and Zoey nod in agreement.

"And another announcement! Me and Mira have been dating for the past couple years!"

"That one was obvious, Zoey!"

"Yeah! Everyone knows!" Zoey shows a surprised at Mira who chuckles.

"Wait. They do?"

"Zoey, #MiraZoey always trend. Baby, you should really look at trend topics more." The endearment makes their fans squeal.

"I hope Y/N is watching this." Rumi looks at the camera then bows slightly. "I'm really sorry for making you wait. For saying you were only my assistant. But you're not. You're my partner in crime. My ride or die. You and your protective nature always shielded me and the girls. I have always loved you for that."

You turn off the TV quickly and you stare at the ceiling.

Why now?

Why do this when you left already?

"We both know why." The voice in your head says and you sob.

Because you were never enough.

Because you were just average.

Huntr/x and Saja Boys are gods. Idols.

What were you compared to them?

You cry to sleep that night.

-

You wake up to a loud knock on your door. You look around and see that it was just 6 am.

"Who the fuck knocks this early?"

"Y/N!" You scramble at the familiar voice. Why is your sister here at your house in the city??

You open the door and see Yuna.

"Finally. Pack your bags."

"What?"

"I'm dragging you back home. Pack for a week."

A/N:

Second part!

Third part is probably the last.

Probably.

Don't quote me.

Thanks for reading!

Donate if you can, because I'm still broke and PH economy is fucking annoying.

Ko-Fi is on my masterlist.

[theotherrookie]

"They never do. I don't get why adults are like that with kids." Erica grumbled, "Well, that served him right. He should be thankful he can still see other people holding mops or anything else. I used to scratch those who picked on isolated survivors."

She tried liking everybody, but she simply couldn't stomach bullies. They should be better people if they didn't want their butts kicked.

"Oh, I just dress comfy for myself and for Smokey. He used to sleep in the hole on my back, but I don't have it anymore. So we need pockets now." Erica explained, "Oh, I see! Russell always gets in trouble, uh? But I'm glad he's going to be okay."

She scratched at the tip of her ear as she tried to recall anything about the accident Travis had mentioned. "Hey, Willow, how long have we known Russell?"

Willow, of course, provided an answer without hesitation. "Rook met Russell about six years ago. However, the accident in question was never mentioned to me, which might imply she isn't aware of that particular misadventure. It isn't the sort of topic one would so casually discuss with a person they only recently met."

Rook would have definitely brought it up at some point. The topic of Russell's ability to get in dangerous situations and narrowly escaping it had been discussed often over the years and neither had been able to provide an explanation on how he managed to do that.

"And I met him later because I was still figuring stuff out after Willow found a way to reverse my zombieness."

"We were all very busy at the time." Willow said, leaning back, "To think I was only two years old then. Time really does fly outside the matrix."

"You know, we could watch that show together." Erica offered, "It'd be the first time for me!"

Rook stopped to look around while the pocket kept shifting to create a suitable way out of there.

"That would become unbearable quickly. The first thing I did when I learned there was a way to interact with this place was removing the echo." Rook said, "I really didn't have a great time the first time I got stuck in here. It took mum half a day to notice I was missing."

"I only had control over a limited portion of this place. Chick had to keep busy rearranging all my supplies." Veronica added.

But of course, everything had changed when Rook had retrieved one of their lost books from the clutches of the Brotherhood. They finally had access to a powerful tool that made their activities far easier and were a bit closer to unlocking other hunting techniques previously lost to time.

The last few blocks fell into place just as Bill was sent off to enjoy the panoramic view. Veronica figured she would make herself useful while they waited for Rook to tend to her business and shifted her focus to keeping their surroundings stable while they lingered there.

"Alchemy has always been one of our strongest suit. I dare say Erika has a natural talent for it." Veronica said, pride evident in her tone.

Rook wasn't feeling particularly proud of herself, but still managed a small nod. "I'm alright. I see you guys found my pile of gold without the rainbow. Do you want some?"

The coin shined and felt like the real deal. It was made of gold of the highest quality and with both sides decorated with a crude rendition of a bird's foot.

Rook went ahead and dug up a candy scoop she then used to fill a small bag with coins under Lucien's very intrigued gaze. She closed the bag by pulling the strings at the sides, then offered it to Antonio.

"I've got plenty to spare. I really don't mind."

"The one he picked might be worth more than the entire pile, dear."

"Let me splurge, mum. I'm trying to ignore my feelings right now."

Unable to resist to the shiny himself, Lucien quietly took the scoop from her and started filling another bag for himself.

"Oh, please, don't make compliments." Rook said, nudging him with her boot.

"Get off my back. I can make a lovely pendant for Russell with these." The half fae hastily pushed back with his arm, before scooping up a few more coins.

"Then they wonder why kids hate schools." Erica grumbled, "I bet they still tell the story of what you did! That guy must be scared of mops too now."

It still wasn't as satisfying as the guy getting skewered or having the mop broken over his head, but it was enough to get the point across.

"You hardly have the need to go unnoticed, Travis. One look at you is enough to discourage many from trying their luck." Willow pointed, "Erica was raised to hunt. It's only natural for her to be conspicuous despite her wardrobe."

"Yeah, sometimes I scare people by accident." Erica confirmed. Perhaps that choice of words was by accident as well. "If those were the second and third, what was the best news you got?"

"The afterlife is extensive. However, she most likely wouldn't mind making an attempt." Willow reassured, "Mother likes you as well as your brothers. That means her usual attentions will be extended to you all as well."

The need for closure would move the ghost lady most of all. Veronica would have agreed in a heartbeat, if only she still had a heart.

Willow considered her options, before tapping into the radio again. The car lacked the charm and bite of the real deal, but she hoped Travis was familiar with KITT. She hated wasting a good reference.

"Come on, Travis! You can't leave me hanging like this. I'm a marvelous car, but I can't do all the heavy lifting myself. That's your specialty."

Erica's ears perked up. "I know that voice! It's that talking car who hung out with that guy from SpongeBob!"

Willow smiled as she tossed her hair back, "I felt like going for a classic this time."

It seemed like these were typical shenanigans between the two of them.

The pocket dimension was very barren, but was far from still. The fog quietly parted as they walked, flowing all around them like an intricate network of streams. It was something Rook found calming in small doses, though her attention was focused elsewhere.

"There's no ugly moquette or buzzing lights either." Rook added, "It can be too quiet at times. Not that hearing distant noises would be any better. I guess it's good for reading, Antonio can probably attest to that. Or not– I'm still waiting for your review of your stay in my liminal closet."

It seemed like a nice way to divert the attention away from some rather unpleasant memories. That wasn't the time or place to start that argument and most of all, she didn't think Lucien should have been present to provide his opinion on the matter. The fae could be awfully unhelpful at times.

Though Bill was being just as helpful, in his own way. Veronica hadn't meant to follow up on her threat, but now she simply had to.

"Too many underestimate the importance of sound values when parenting." Veronica paused, her gaze trailing over at the inevitable duck comment, "You're simply hopeless."

And about to take a ride in the hard to discern void slide. Rook wasn't the only one able to mess with gravity there. Bill could take a ride and think about the consequences of his own actions.

Lucien was simply glad he wasn't the one falling into oblivion. He would simply turn the other way and let Rook have her moment of privacy so she could replenish her magic battery.

"Oh, I see you started synthesizing gold." he told Veronica.

"It's an old family recipe." Veronica replied, "It's a shame we can only use it sparingly these days."

Rook could do nothing but stand for a moment to watch the way everybody was ready to give her some space. It meant more than she was willing to admit. Then again, she never got too sentimental when her marks whenever she started feeling drained.

Rook silently turned and took a few steps away from the group, before there was a shift in the pocket to reveal one of the few monsters she had the time to catch lately. It looked like a hybrid between some kind of reptile and a rodent with a mantis-like head. It didn't really matter what it was or where it came from. She had found it trying to eat some poor schmuck and it had almost slashed her wing off with its claws. Now it was going to do something useful for a change.

"Imagine if Five found you instead." She would probably be starving. There was another shift as a bright light engulfed the monster, before it vanished into a swirly cloud of energy that was absorbed by her marks.

Rook took a moment to simply breathe, before turning back. "I… I'm done."

She didn't want to drag this on to avoid making it more awkward than it was.