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jaythes1mp · 10 months ago

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Here, Kitty.

Yan batfam x cat hybrid reader -> CH1

12609 words, 71519 characters, 719 sentences, 224 paragraphs, 50.4 pages Next chapter

You can't recall exactly when or how you first came into contact with the billionaire and his sons, but if you could, you would go back in time and prevent that meeting from ever taking place. In a heartbeat.

Sitting obediently on a glass table tucked in the center of a crowded Wayne Enterprises boardroom, you find yourself ensnared as Bruce Wayne diligently delivers a familiar presentation, each sentence having been painstakingly practiced during the car ride over. Having overheard his repeated rehearsal with Alfred, you find yourself unconsciously mouthing along to every word. The tight black and green collar around your neck only worsening your discomfort, its stiffness constricting your movements and snagging on your freshly groomed fur.

The man continues on with his presentation, his polished demeanour and authoritative tone captivating the attention of the surrounding investors and executives. However, you find it difficult to focus on his words, the ridiculous knitted Nightwing sweater pressing against your back causing an uncomfortable itch. You shift slightly, wincing as your freshly combed coat brushes against the stiff fabric.

The weight of Bruce's unwavering gaze lands on you like a furnace, and you can almost picture that infuriatingly fond smile plastering his face. Just the thought of it made your stomach churn with disgust. Your tail swishing side to side in distaste.

He continues to drone on and on; and you find yourself struggling to stay still, the uncomfortable position, itchy sweater, and the heavy weight of Bruce's stare making it increasingly difficult to focus on anything he's saying. The only thing you want to do is scratch the infuriating itch, but the tight collar around your neck and Bruce's looming presence ensure that you remain obediently still. You know better than to cross them. How willing they are to punish you, so you stay still.

Your thoughts drift to a time when you were still unburdened by this enforced domestication. A pang of longing and bitterness settles in your chest as memories of your previous life come flooding back. You remember the simple freedom of being able to move about unmonitored, the comfort of lounging in the sun, unbothered by the Wayne families suffocating grasps.

Your paws effortlessly propel you across the icy rooftops, leaping and bounding with a careless grace. The cool night air brushes through your untamed, unhindered fur, the wind whistling past your ears. A bag is clenched between your sharp teeth, the fabric muffling your breathing slightly as you scale each building with purpose.

The city's neon glow stretches out beneath your paws, the distant lights casting a soft, surreal hue on the urban canvas. Free to go wherever you please. You could spend minutes, hours or even days just wandering under Gotham’s starry sky, with no one to tell you what to do or where to be.

You pause your journey and arrive at the edge of a dark alley, peering down at the scene below. A woman holds two teens hostage, a pistol pressed against their shivering frames. Your tail involuntarily fluffs up, matching the tension in your body as your slitted eyes dart to each potential escape route. A hiss escapes past your teeth, and you set the package down at your side before delicately pawing at a loose brick in the wall. You slide it from its position just enough to create a domino effect, the brick falling directly onto the woman's gun-holding hand.

A small, satisfied mewl leaves your throat as the woman wails in pain, her broken wrist cradled protectively in her grip. The two teens immediately seize the opportunity to make their escape, scrambling out of the alleyway. The gun slips from the woman's grasp, and she drops to her knees clutching her wounded hand. Your ears fold back and a low hiss escapes your lips at the sight, but you remain perched on the roof-top, unmoving. You slowly lower back down to take your package, then turn away. Your paws hitting the nearest rooftop with a small thump.

Your paws carry you further and further away from the robbery, the events replaying in your mind like a vivid, disjointed dream. You launch yourself from roof-to-roof in a series of quick dashes and leaps, your body seemingly on autopilot as you weave through the city's darkened backstreets. The silence of the rooftops envelops you like a comforting blanket, the city below finally at rest. A cool night breeze caresses your untamed fur, rustling its unkempt strands. Balancing the package carefully in your mouth, you bound toward your home’s familiarly cluttered balcony.

Your eyes scan over the cluttered balcony, taking in the random assortment of books, clothes, and trinkets strewn across the small space. Your padded paws land quietly on the rough wood, a subtle thump breaking the silence. Your muscles relax ever so slightly as the familiar surroundings wash over you. Without a second thought, you make your way to the edge of the balcony, lowering the package with your paws before curling up beside it, your ears folding back in an almost contented manner.

Your eyes had just shuttered closed as you basked in the soothing midnight breeze, when the sudden crash of metal yanks you from your reverie. Your ears perking up and pivoting towards the source of the disturbance. A low, frustrated huff escapes your snout. You stretch out your limbs, your tail flicking in annoyance as you lower yourself from the edge of the balcony and peer over the side.

Peering down from your perch on the balcony, your eyes widen in surprise. It’s...a boy? Wearing a skin-tight red and black bodysuit with a vibrant yellow cape. A flicker of familiarity sparks in your brain; you’ve seen this one before. Red Robin.

You observe him silently from your vantage point, tilting your head to the side as your eyes rove over his frame. He lets out an exaggerated groan, grappling awkwardly with an unfamiliar piece of gadgetry. A low, scoffing hum leaves your throat and your tail lightly thwaps against the wood, twitching in amusement. You had only seen him in pictures before, but damn, they didn’t lie. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

You lower yourself with a single, fluid motion onto the metal stairwell, feeling the rough surface scraping against your little paws. A small hiss of displeasure escapes your throat, but you brush it off and continue. You approach him curiously, taking a moment to inspect him. Your nose twitches as you sniff at his cape before finding a comfortable spot to sit and look up at him expectantly.

He doesn’t immediately notice your approach, his mind seemingly occupied by the malfunctioning gadget in his hands. You watch as he fiddles with the device for a few moments before his attention finally snaps to you. He visibly jumps, startled by your sudden proximity. He lets out a startled breath, eyes widening. You had gone to him.

You let out a snort of derision. Him, a vigilante? A detective? Unlikely. The thought of him trying to solve a case or outwit a criminal is absolutely absurd. You let your gaze wander over his costume once more, imagining how differently he would react if you were in your human form right now.

He slowly lowers the gadget, his eyes fixed upon you as you recline before him, behaving like an awaiting house cat. He observes you with quiet, analytical interest, his gaze roaming over your small form, taking in your twitching tail and reasonably-groomed fur. He seems to ponder the sight of you, weighing in on your not-quite stray, yet not-quite pampered appearance.

You gingerly shift closer, standing on your hind legs before pawing at his pants. A small indignant huff of disappointment escapes your lips as the material refuses to tear, the tightly-woven fabric holding firmly against your claws, unable to even tear the slightest thread, but you mask it with a small, almost cute "mew". Nevertheless, you are determined to make the most out of this situation. Planning on coaxing all the pets you possibly can out of this man.

He shoots you a curious look, tilting his head to the side. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. He then slowly reaches out a gloved hand, hovering it over your head hesitantly, waiting for your response.

The end of your tail gives a happy flick, betraying your eagerness for his touch. You press your cheek against his knuckles, enjoying the sensation of his fingers against your fur. Instinctively, your ears fold back, granting him better access to run his fingers further through your soft fur. Sucker.

A soft, delighted purring sound fills the air as your eyes flutter closed, your purrs becoming a constant, steady low rumble in your chest as he continues to gently stroke your head and down your neck. Oh, this is heavenly. Your tail swishes contentedly, and you lean into his touch, almost shamelessly seeking out more.

His gloved hand is much bigger than your entire head, the soft fabric of his suit brushing against your fur. Yet, his touch was gentle and deliberate, slowly tracing the outline of your ears and down your spine, causing a blissful shiver to run through your small body. Your eyelids droop further, nearly closing completely, your purring becoming louder as you relax into his touch. You don’t notice the pleased knowing grin that crosses his face.

The weight and warmth of his gloved hand was almost soothing, his fingers weaving between your fur with a sort of rhythmic motion. You let your body go limp, your head rolling back to further expose the underside of your chin, silently begging for more of those slow, careful caresses. Your eyes are almost completely closed now, a small rumble in your chest the only sound you remember how to make. God, you haven’t been pet in weeks.

His hand moves from your spine to the base of your tail, and a low sigh of pure contentment leaves your mouth. He seems to sense your delight and focuses his attention there, running his fingers through the base of your tail, causing you to involuntarily arch your body towards him, purring in approval.

He seems to know exactly what to do, his touch deliberate yet tender. A little too well. It's as if he's somehow mapped out each and every spot that you secretly adore and is now exploiting it to great effect. The constant caresses, pets, and scrabbles have worked you into a sort of euphoric, almost trancelike state, your mind becoming blissfully devoid of conscious thought. All you can focus on is the warm, firm touch of his gloved hand.

The moment is shattered, however, as deep voice from his comms shatters the sweet, blissful moment. Your little pointed ears perk up, instinctively responding to the sudden intrusion of sound. “Tim? Why does it say you’ve stood still?”

You pull yourself from your blissful state with a reluctant huff, the sound of the deep voice in his comm jarring you back to reality. Your ears flick back, annoyed at the interruption. Tim– Red Robin seems to tense up, his hand frozen in mid-pet. He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, looking down at you. "Sorry, I got…distracted."

Your tail lazily swishes against the stairwell, silently expressing your irritation at having been interrupted. You can practically hear his sheepish, nervous chuckle, can practically sense the tension in his frame. "Distracted?" The voice in the comm questions, but you huff, tuning out the conversation.

You let out a small, frustrated huff before turning your focus back onto Tim's still form. Ignoring the man's comm conversation, you push your little, fluffy face against his leg, letting out a needy demanding mewl to regain his attention. You're not done yet, damn it.

His eyes flick back over to you, a mix of apology and amusement evident in his gaze. He resumes his prior motions, sliding his hand down your spine with a soft, comforting caress, tracing the same path he'd followed before. All the while, his other hand is fiddling with the comms device, probably replying to the man on the other end. Good. As long as his hands are still touching you, you don't particularly care what he's doing. “You found them?”

You sigh and let yourself relax once again, the soothing motions of his fingers against your fur quickly working you back into blissful indifference. You let your eyelids flutter closed, sinking back into the soothing rhythm of his touch. The only sounds you can focus on are his breathing, the soothing rasp of his glove against your fur, and the low hum of the comm conversation. This is nice.

He continues this motion for what feels like an eternity, the blissful sensation of being pet taking over your senses and dulling your brain into a euphoric, mindless state. You find yourself leaning heavily against his leg, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his voice against the comms acting as an oddly soothing background noise. Damn, you could get used to this....

Gradually, you become aware of him shifting, his hand leaving your spine. A low whine escapes your throat, your eyes opening to look up at him with a mixture of annoyance and pleading. Come back. You meow, demanding.

You let out a low grumble of complaint as he stands and picks up the device once more. Irritated at the interruption of your moment, you bat at his leg with your small paw, then quickly scamper away, leaping back onto the balcony from before. Now alone, you let out a sigh and circle the small space multiple times. The wood scraping against your claws sharply.

With a quick shift, you transform back into your human form, the small package clutched delicately in your hands. Turning, you slide open the door to the balcony and step through, the cool night air rustling against your clothes.

Tossing the small package onto the countertop, you drag yourself over to the couch. Your limbs ache with exhaustion as you collapse into the cushions with a thud. You bring the well worn blanket with you, wrapping your tired body in its familiar comfort. Your muscles are screaming out for rest. Which you happily oblige.

You're wrenched out of a fitful sleep, eyes fluttering open as the familiar, infuriating sound of construction greets you. Fuck. A loud, frustrated groan escapes your chapped lips. You pull a nearby couch pillow over your head, desperately trying to muffle the noise. With bleary eyes, you squint at the digital clock reading 5:42. You want to die.

The relentless hammering, banging, and drilling outside the thin walls of the apartment pierce your eardrums. You swear you can feel each blow of the hammer, every screech of the drill, deep in your bones. Make it stop. You press the pillow more firmly against your ears, trying in vain to block out the incessant din. You silently promise yourself that if you ever meet the city planner responsible for approving this construction, you'll kick him square in the nuts... Or right in the vagina– whatever. Now is not the time to debate over this.

With a groan of irritation and an abundance of hissing, you force your tired body into a sitting position as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. You take a moment to rub your temples for some relief from the dull ache forming behind your eyes.

You open your red rimmed eyes and swing your legs over the side of the couch. The exhaustion from last night feels ten times worse now after being woken up prematurely by the construction racket. You mentally curse whoever’s in charge here, and their entire bloodline. Silently wishing for the noise to stop. Maybe you can sleep in the bathtub later...

You brace one hand against the side of the couch as you use it as support to rise to your feet. A series of satisfying cracks and pops resonate down your spine. By the sound of it you’re a chiropractors wet dream.

You let out a low sigh of relief as you straighten, your back now less taut than it was a few moments ago. Small mercies, right?

With your hands clamped tightly over your tender, sensitive ears, you stumble into the kitchen. You begin searching through each cabinet with a desperation that borders on violent. Your mission? Find the strongest headache pills you have.

After hastily flinging open each cupboard and shelf, you finally find what you’re looking for. A small, white bottle filled half way with little white tabs. With a quick twist, you pop the lid open and pour two pills out into your palm, before downing them dry.

You lean against the kitchen counter, eyes squeezed shut as you press the heels of your hands firmly into your temples. Come on. Work already..

You wait in silence, only the buzzing of the refrigerator and occasional hammering outside filling the air. You press your palms against your temples, as if physically willing the pills to work faster. The tension between your shoulders tight as piano wire.

You let out a frustrated groan, turning the tap on, lowering your head under the rushing water. You gulp down a few mouthfuls, letting the water run over, through, and past your lips. The noise of the tap muffling the sounds of the construction. The coolness of the water temporarily soothes the ache behind your eyes.

You let the water slide past your lips, closing them to savor the cool sensation. Your mind grows blank as you lose track of time, lost in tranquility despite the racket outside. Then, with a shaky hand, you turn off the tap, stepping back as you reach for a tea towel to dry your face and neck. The cloth rough against your tender skin, but the motion is calming, and your shoulders loosen the slightest bit.

You lean back against the counter, the cold marble seeping through your shirt, almost numbing any sensation on your skin. You take another moment to towel dry your hair, the rough material scraping against your scalp, and sending a pleasant shiver down your back. The small action temporarily distracting you from the pounding in your head.

You drop the towel, letting it fall onto the counter behind you. A long exhale escapes your mouth, your shoulders dropping as you relax. For a moment, the water seems to have worked. Unfortunately, the relief is short lived as the headache slowly creeps back in. A low growl escapes your lips. Ugh.

You scan over the bottle, reading the small print. Only twenty minutes before the damn things start to kick in. Shit. You shove the container back inside the cupboard, a frustrated huff leaving your lips. You drag your body over to your room, every step a tedious task.

You stumble into the room and collapse onto your bed, face first. You let out a low groan as your body lands on the soft, fluffy mattress. It welcomes you with open arms. You let yourself go limp, letting the comfort and softness of your bed lull you into a quiet state of half numbness. You can’t tell if it’s the lack of rest, or the pills finally starting to work, but you’re suddenly feeling incredibly woozy.

With a sluggish effort, you shift your head up, wincing at the sharp, persistent thrum in your skull. Despite the throbbing, you slowly extend your arm to reach for the pair of shorts laying on the edge of the bed.

With a weary sigh, you shuck off yesterday’s cargo pants and pull the new shorts up your legs. The simple motion feels like climbing a mountain. Deciding that the headache pounding through your mind was too much to change your shirt, you collapse back onto your bed. The sheets cool against your overheated skin.

You lay there for a moment, letting the comfort of your bed take hold. Despite the headache still pounding through your head, exhaustion slowly starts to take hold of you. Your eye lids flutter as sleep slowly creeps in. But just as you’re about to doze off, your stomach lets out an obnoxious gurgle, the sound piercing the silence. Great.

You let out a frustrated sigh as you shift up from the bed, grimacing as you do so. Your untamed hair sticking up in random directions. You rub your temple, as your stomach lets out another loud grumble. You let out an annoyed whine as the realisation sinks in. You’re out of groceries.

With a disgruntled huff, you haul yourself up for the second time. Reaching for your jacket as you quickly make your way towards the front door. This time choosing to forego the balcony and just walk like a normal person. You swing open the front door and step out into the hallway. The fluorescent lights buzz annoyingly overhead.

You step into the hallway, your shoes slapping softly against the tiled floor. The sound of the construction is no longer muffled, the endless banging and grinding now clear as day. You wince as the onslaught suddenly becomes unbearable. You quickly make your way to the staircase instead of the elevator. You can’t handle being jammed into that tiny space with the sounds of hell right now.

You take the steps of the staircase two at a time, just wanting to get out of this damn building as soon as possible. Each step echoes with a rhythmic thudding against the cold concrete as you make your way to the ground floor. The headache pills have finally started to work, but the pounding construction outside is slowly undoing their efforts.

You stride past the workers, shooting each of them a murderous glare. It’s not their fault they’re just doing their job. But goddamn it, the headache is worsening and it’s all you can do to not snap at them. Instead, you settle for shooting them a glare that could rival Batman himself.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the angry words building within you. Just keep walking. It’s fine. They’re not at fault here. It’s stupid to be angry at them. You repeat the mantra in your head like a broken record as your legs carry you further down the street. Further away from that blasted construction noise.

You keep walking, your shoes thumping against the concrete as you go. The further away you get from the construction, the more the headache starts to abate. You let out a quiet, shuddering breath of relief as you glance around at your surroundings. Barely anyone was out at this hour, the streets still mostly asleep.

After walking another ten minutes or so, you pause in the middle of the street and let out a string of quiet curses under your breath. The stores won’t be open for at least another four hours, and your stomach is starting to demand sustenance again.

Frustration builds inside of you, your teeth clenched tight together as you shuffle in place. You can’t go back to your apartment because of that goddamn noise, and all the stores that aren’t run by mobsters are closed.

You sigh, resting your tired body against the graffiti-filled wall behind you. There was another option you could try. But whether or not you were desperate enough to do it was something else.

You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation. You hadn't eaten much more than a small yogurt cup yesterday, and your stomach was protesting it's emptiness in a loud, gurgling complaint. You release a long sigh, doing a quick glance around to ensure no one was nearby before shifting into a cat.

The transformation is swift and graceful as you shift into the form of a sleek cat. Your body shrinks, limbs elongating and changing shape as soft multicoloured fur sprouts from your body. You stand on four paws, tail swaying languidly. You give yourself a quick shake, licking your little paws for good measure before looking around again.

You take a moment to get used to the new body you’ve assumed. Everything felt a tad bit more sensitive in this form. Your ears swivel around at minuscule sounds as you sniff the air with your sensitive nose, picking up on the various scents floating through the street.

You decide to try your hand at pity first, before resorting to thievery if your first plan fails. You slink down the street, your paws silent against the pavement beneath you as you search for some poor unsuspecting soul to assist you.

You stalk down the street, ears pricked and head tilted as you listen for the sounds of anyone making their way through the quiet street. You make yourself as adorable as possible: wide, begging eyes and sticking out your chest. A pitiful meow leaving your little cat mouth every so often, just for good measure.

You make your way through the city, heading towards the more upscale side of Gotham. You sway your tail idly behind you, the appendage brushing against the concrete and gathering the dirt that sticks to your fur. You make sure to rub up against some objects, gathering enough dirt and debris to make yourself appear slightly disheveled, but not enough to set off your instincts to want to groom yourself immediately.

You reach a neighbourhood of opulent high rises and well manicured lawns, plush houses and gated communities starting to become more frequent, a stark contrast to the graffiti-filled blocks you had passed before. Your fur is dusted with enough dirt to look untidy without feeling uncomfortable, and you let out a small meow as you glance down the street, scouting for a likely target.

You spot a man of considerable height, around 6 foot tall, with an intimidatingly built physique. His shirt clings just slightly too tightly against his chest, leaving little to the imagination. A scar mars the side of his face, making him look even more menacing. But you’ve seen far scarier looking men loitering at the end of your street. Saying that, doesn’t mean you’re any less scared of his imposing figure. So you quickly duck under the nearest parked car, attempting to conceal yourself beneath it.

You watch in trepidation as the man begins strutting towards the vehicle you’ve hidden yourself beneath. He kneels down in an unhurried, smooth motion, and peers right under the car. His gaze instantly locks onto you, your eyes widening in response to his intense stare. For the briefest of moments, you could have sworn there was a look of softness in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected to see you.

“A cat?” The man lets out a small huff, shaking his head in what seemed like disbelief. His gaze drifts to your disheveled appearance, taking in the dirt that clings to your fur. He lets out a low hum, continuing to watch you with a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. His muscles slowly relax. A smirk appearing on his face as he studies you closer.

Your tail sways behind you, your ears perking up at his relaxed gaze. A sly little grin of satisfaction threatens to rise to your face, but you hold it back, instead letting out a pitiful meow as you slowly shuffle closer to him. He doesn’t move away, watching your every movement with unwavering eyes.

You lower your head, slowly moving towards his boots. You let your body press against the soles of his shoes, a soft purring sound escaping your little feline mouth. The dirt from your fur slowly coats the previously clean material of his boots, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mess.

You continue to press your body against the hard leather of his boots, leaving behind a dusting of dirt. He crouches down, gently reaching out a big hand, careful not to scare you off. You can see the muscles in his arms flex with the action, the veins prominent on his knuckles. He gently runs a finger over your head, scratching just behind your ears.

The feel of his big hand against your head is gentle, his touch unexpectedly tender as he lightly scratches at the skin behind your ear. You let out a rumbling purr, unable to fight the comforting sensation that slowly starts to take over. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s surprisingly sweet towards you.

He’s a hard-looking man, his appearance disheveled and weathered, a white streak through his jet black hair. His wide physique is almost intimidating, but you can see his heart already start to soften after a few moments. It seems even he isn’t immune to the charm of a pitiful stray cat begging for food and affection.

"What are you doing all the way out here, kid?" The man's deep, slightly grating voice calls out as he continues to gently scratch behind your ear. He's staring down at your small form with an odd expression of concern on his face, his eyes drifting over your disheveled fur.

Your ears perk up at the sound of his voice. Something suddenly seems terribly familiar about it. You tilt your head, glancing up to get a clearer look at the man’s face as you try and place where exactly you’ve heard his voice before.

You look closer at the man, studying his features with a furrowed brow. There’s no mistaking it now, you’ve definitely seen this guy somewhere before. You’re sure of it. But there’s no way you’d ever know anyone this big and intimidating before… right?

The man stands, gently scooping you up into his arms. He gives you a light pat on the head before he starts to move. “Come along then, I don’t need that little shit on my ass for leaving their little obsession stranded so far from home,” he mumbles, as if he’s talking to himself and not you.

You’re left blinking in surprise as you’re lifted from the ground, cradled in the man’s arms. You look up at him as he starts walking down the street with you, a bewildered look on your face. Obsession? Stranded? What the hell is this dude on?

The man continues walking, his stride even and unhurried. He glances down at you and scoffs, as if he’s amused by the sight of you. He mutters something under his breath as he walks, something that sounds like “God dammit, B.” He brings his hand up to give you a gentle scratch under your chin, the gesture almost affectionate.

Your stomach chooses the perfect moment to let out a loud grumble, the sound amplified by being so close to the man’s hand. You can feel his hand twitch against your belly slightly, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Hungry, huh?” The man drawls out. He stops his stride for a moment, pulling out his phone as he keeps you cradled in one arm. You can’t see anything from this angle, but you can hear the sound of him making a phone call.

It’s only a few rings before someone picks up on the other end. You can faintly hear a voice chatting softly on the other line, even though you can’t make out what they’re saying. The man lets out a small huff of annoyance before holding the phone up to his ear, shifting you in his arms to keep you comfortably balanced against his chest.

“Hey,” he says into the speaker, his voice gruff but surprisingly soft. “Yeah, I’m out on the east side. I found something.” There’s a pause as the person on the other line responds, and you can faintly hear them say something, although it’s muffled and indistinct. The man snorts, his eyes drifting down to you for a moment before he continues.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing ‘em back. Relax,” The man responds to the person on the other side of the line, rolling his eyes. You watch the side of his face as he talks, your ears pricked, ears catching snippets of the conversation. Relax? What do they mean by that? Are they talking about me?

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” the man says, shifting you around again as he begins to resume walking. “I’ll be back in an hour.” The person on the other end says a few more words before there’s a beep signifying the call’s been cut. He shoves his phone back into his pocket before bringing his hand back to keep you cradled against his chest.

You huff softly, feeling a strange mix of irritation and intrigue swirling inside of you. In an attempt to distract yourself, you reach your small paw up, lightly tapping it against the man’s cheek.

It’s a small action, intended to be nothing more than a curious little jab. But against the rough, scarred skin of the man’s cheek, your tiny little paw seems almost affectionate. He glances down at you at the contact, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise.

He studies you for a moment, a look of almost curiosity on his face. It’s a far cry from the gruff, hardened exterior he had been portraying up until now. He stops his stride for a moment, lifting you closer to his face to look at you more closely.

He seems almost… fascinated by you. His eyes rove over your soft fur and little face, taking in every detail. He lets out a low hum, slowly reaching out a hand and gently stroking your back. “The kid’s is gonna kill me for letting you get all dirty.”

The hand stroking gently down your back is surprisingly soft, despite the callouses and ridges of his fingertips. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, probably trying to deduce what to do. “You’re a mess,” he mutters, his gaze drifting over your disheveled coat.

You can feel the urge to roll your eyes at the man’s words, the comment practically begging for a sarcastic reaction. But you hold it back, reminding yourself of the delicious meal you’re hoping to get out of him. Better hold back on the sass, for now.

Instead, you let your tail flick idly, trying to appear as innocent and pitiful as possible. Come on, man. Have a heart. Feed me.

The dude glances down as your tail continues to flick against his arm, almost as if you’re trying to lure him into doing something for you. A light snort escapes his mouth, his fingers trailing down to give you a little scratch on the head. “You’re a sly little bastard, ain’t ya?”

His statement is more of an off-handed comment rather than an actual critique. He continues to scratch behind your ear, seemingly unable to resist giving you a little affection. His gaze drifts over your disheveled form, taking in the dirt-matted fur and slight exhaustion in your eyes.

He lets out a soft grunt, his touch gentle as he runs his hands through your fur. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his head, his eyes never leaving your disheveled appearance. “How long you been out here all alone, huh?” he mutters, his voice gruff but strangely sympathetic.

The man lets out a low huff, glancing down at you with an almost sympathetic look on his face. “It’s earlier than we planned,” the man mutters, a hint of regret coating his words. His hand still softly stroking through your fur. “But the renovations are nearly ready,” his eyes taking in your exhausted form. It’s hard to say if he’s talking to you or to himself, a note of assurance in his voice. “So soon, kid.”

You look up at him with a bewildered expression on your face, your little mind still trying to make sense of his words. What is he talking about? Renovations? Who’s he talking to? Who are the people he keeps mentioning? What is even happening right now? But you quickly cover it up and let out a tired-sounding meow, hoping he won’t notice the hint of confusion in your little feline face. He glances down at you, his hand slowly rubbing a soothing circle on your back.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he murmurs, his voice still gruff but the tone softer this time. “You’ll be safe soon enough.” He gives you a gentle pat on the head before resuming his stride. You can feel his arms cradling you against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat almost lulling you into a sense of security.

Even as your mind races with unanswered questions, the beat of the man’s heartbeat seems to soothe you, acting as a strange form of comfort. His warm arms keep you tucked against him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest steady and unhurried. It’s an almost reassuring presence.

The man carries you down the street, the rhythmic sound of his footsteps and steady rhythm of his heart slowly lulling you into a trance-like state. The exhaustion from the past few days is finally catching up to you, a small yawn escaping your little mouth before you can try to fight it.

You can feel your eyelids growing heavy, exhaustion taking over your small body. The steady rhythm of the man’s heart combined with the gentle rocking of his arms as he walks send a wave of fatigue through you. You try to fight back the overwhelming tiredness, but another small, squeaky yawn escapes your little mouth.

With a soft contented sigh, you stretch out your little paws, making yourself comfortable in his arms. The man lets out a low chuckle as he watches your little legs extend, giving you a gentle pat on the back.

It’s strangely comforting, being held in the man’s strong arms. The sound of his laughter rumbles through his chest, and you can almost hear a hint of affection in the gesture. You feel the weight of your fatigue start to increase, your eyes slowly blinking shut against your will.

You blearily blink your eyes open, suddenly finding yourself lying on a soft cushion. The fabric feels luxurious against your fur, the plush material enveloping you in a comfortable embrace. You dazedly look around, trying to recall how you ended up on this soft surface.

Your little ears fold back as you look around, slowly taking in your surroundings. A brief moment of confusion washes over you as you realize that you had fallen asleep in the man’s arms. But seeing him still here, you let out a relieved sigh, your entire fluffy body moving up and down in the process. Thank everything that he didn’t leave me on the side of the road.

He glances over at you, noticing that you’re now awake. “You finally back with the living?” he says gruffly, his voice tinged with amusement. You can see a hint of a smile on the man’s face, betraying his hard exterior.

You lift your chin up in a defiant huff, letting your tail flick against the soft cushion as an additional statement of irritation. The man lets out a snort, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter at your small act of feigned irritation.

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he mutters, his voice taking on a slightly amused tone. He reaches a hand out to give you a small pat on the head, his rough fingers gently stroking your fur.

Your chest lets out a soft rumble, purring at the feeling of his hand stroking through your fur. Your gaze drifts around the room, your nose twitching as you pick up on a delicious scent. Food, your stomach rumbles. Please, be food.

The aroma is tantalizing, making your little stomach grumble loudly in response. You wonder if it's your imagination, or if the man actually has food nearby. The man lets out another amused huff as he notices your nose twitching and your stomach rumbling. “Impatient little thing, eh?” he mutters, lifting his hand from your head to look at you with a slightly entertained expression. Your little paws twitch slightly, as if you’re preparing to go searching for where the wonderful scent is coming from.

He chuckles at your eagerness, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Calm down, bud,” he says gruffly. “Food’s coming in a minute. Ain’t gonna starve ya.’” He gives you another gentle pat on the head, his hand large enough to practically cover your entire body.

You let out a dissatisfied huff, your gaze still darting around to try and find the source of the delicious scent. You want to rush out and find the food immediately, but the man's large hand keeps you pressed firmly on the soft cushion. You squirm a little impatiently, your tail flicking idly against the fabric. Your cat instincts taking over.

He lets out an amused laugh at your squirming, your restlessness making it hard for him to keep you in place. “Hold still,” he says gruffly. “You're making it hard to keep you in one place.” He reaches his hands out again and gently holds you down, preventing you from moving around any further.

You’re not a fan of this guy keeping you down, your instincts flaring up in defiance. Despite the delicious promise of food in the air, you’re tempted to lash out and scratch him just for holding you in one spot. Release me, your inner self growls.

You pause in your struggle, your little ears perking up and your whiskers twitching as the clink of dishes and the soft sound of footsteps approaching comes from nearby. Your nose twitches with anticipation, the delicious smells in the air becoming more concentrated. Food.

You crane your head to get a better look at the approaching figure, your little body shifting slightly on the cushion. The man holding you down also looks up, watching as someone walks into the room carrying a tray of food. Your little mouth starts to salivate, the enticing scents wafting over to you and making your stomach rumble loudly.

The guy releases his grip once you stop squirming, letting you move freely again. You can feel your instincts taking over your little body, your tail curling around your side as you focus your attention on the tray of food being presented in front of you. “Here you are, Master Jason.”

Your eyes are almost glued to the tray, filled with the most tantalizing smells that you've come across. The man– Jason watches you quietly, amused by your little display. The person holding the tray sets the food down in front of you, the various dishes arranged in an almost tempting manner.

You want to purr in delight as you look at the food laid before you. Thank god there’s none of that dreadful cat food in sight. You've had your fair share of people trying to feed you that horrible kibble in the past, and you're definitely not a fan. This food smells a million times better than anything that ever came out of a can. Meat.

You shoot him a glance of appreciation before hopping onto the table, greedily pouncing on the food in front of you. You dive right in, devouring the food with gusto, your little tongue lapping at the meat hungrily.

You pay no mind to him as you feast on the delicious meal laid out in front of you. The smells, the texture, the taste; it’s all absolutely heavenly. You eat like you've never eaten before, your little body almost shaking with contentment. This might just be the best meal you’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.

Meanwhile, Jason watches your little display with a slight smirk on his face. He doesn’t say anything, just watching as you devour the food on the plate in front of you with relish. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, quickly taking a picture of you digging into the food to send to the family in case they ask how you're doing. He lets out a soft huff of amusement at your behavior, a hint of fondness in his eyes.

You're so lost in the food, you don't even notice the older man taking a picture of you. All your focus is singular, eating as much as you can before it’s taken away. The man watches you with a mix of amusement and something else that you can’t quite place. Too absorbed in your meal to notice his reaction.

Once you’ve practically licked the plate clean, you finally feel a sense of fullness, your little belly pleasantly satisfying. You give yourself a little shake, a little bit of food still stuck to your whiskers. Jason chuckles slightly, watching your little satisfied display. He breaks the silence as you finish cleaning yourself off.

“Had enough?” he asks in a gruff voice. His words are gruff and blunt, but you can sense the touch of amusement within them. You let out a little huff, feeling satisfied but also a little bit embarrassed at how fast you had eaten. Too much food, you think, your little stomach feeling a bit bloated.

The next thirty minutes pass by in a blur, your mind fuzzy and filled with the sensation of being inside Jason’s leather jacket as he mounts his bike. He doesn't have a bag or carrier to keep you secure, so you cling onto his shirt for dear life, your little claws digging tightly into the fabric. The wind whips through your fur as the bike roars to life, the force of the breeze making you instinctively cling even harder.

You had assumed that Jason was simply taking you back to the spot where he had found you under the car. After all, there was no chance in hell that you were going to poke your head out of the top of his jacket to check yourself. However, as he stops the bike and unzips the jacket, revealing your familiar surroundings, your tail begins to fluff up in surprise. Your eyes widen as you realize you’re at home, as in, right outside your apartment. The fur on your back bristles, ears folding back. You’re quick to jump off of the vehicle, backing away. What the fuck?

You scramble off Jason's lap and onto the sidewalk, your little paws almost slipping in your haste. The moment you land on the pavement, you take a few stumbling steps back, your tail puffed up and your fur standing on end. How could he possibly know where you live? You hadn’t given away any indication that you lived here, or anywhere for that matter. You had been so careful to stay out of sight, blending into the shadows. There was no way he could have known. And yet… here you are, outside your home. You take a tentative step back, your little feet moving instinctively. Your instincts are screaming at you to run, to get away from this guy who seemingly knew too much about you.

Your eyes dart from the man to the building behind you, your mind racing. Everything inside you is telling you to run, to flee and go hide. You were supposed to be so careful, so cautious about keeping your identity a secret. And now this man standing in front of you, this guy you barely knew, had just pulled up right outside your home. How the hell did he know where you lived? Run, your instincts yell. Run, run, run.

You take another jerky step back, your little paws almost slipping on the rough pavement. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You almost trip over your own feet, your mind flooded with a mix of fear and confusion. How does he know? How the fuck does he know!? You’ve been so careful, covering your tracks, making sure no one followed you home. But here he is, standing in front of you, looking all too calm and collected. You don’t know what’s worse, the fact that he knows where you live or how calm he seems about it.

You don't waste another second, your little feet moving as fast as they can. Your instincts are screaming at you to run and get away as fast as possible. So that's what you do. You take off like a shot, darting away from the bike, from the man, from everything. Your focus is on nothing except getting away, getting somewhere safe, somewhere away from this guy who apparently knew more than he should. You dart upstairs faster than you thought physically possible, breath coming out laboured as you panic, not bothering to check if anyone’s nearby as you shift back to human, unlocking your door and slamming it closed behind you.

Jason let out a heavy sigh, running his fingers through his hair in frustration as he watches you scamper off. "Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, watching as your small form quickly disappears from sight. "I didn’t think that through." He scowls, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected you to panic quite that much.

Your knees suddenly give way, and you collapse to the floor with a thump. Your hand instinctively moves to press against your chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. Your mind is racing, your body shaking from the adrenaline and panic of the situation. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of your own breathing, your chest heaving as you gasp in sharp breaths.

You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, the adrenaline pumping through your veins making it feel like it’s about to explode. You can barely breathe, your gasps for air coming in quick, sharp pants. Your head is swimming, the world around you seeming to spin and tilt with each jerky movement. You can’t think straight, your mind filled with a swirling mix of panic and confusion. It feels like everything is closing in on you, the walls of your apartment suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

You try to focus on taking deep, calming breaths, but your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Your breaths come out ragged and uneven, each one feeling like a struggle. Your chest is heaving, your heart pounding against your ribcage so hard you’re starting to wonder if it’ll burst. You drop your head down, resting your forehead against your knees, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, thoughts and questions and doubts swirling in a confusing mess.

You desperately try to calm down, to ease the frantic beating of your heart. But nothing seems to work, the panic and confusion making it nearly impossible to think straight. Your head spins as you struggle to take deep breaths, each one catching in your throat like a lump. You can feel your body trembling, your muscles tense and coiled like a spring about to snap. The thought of the man outside your door, the man that knew where you lived, makes your stomach twist in knots.

It feels like your privacy has been invaded, your safe sanctuary no longer feeling so safe. You feel exposed, vulnerable, like a small, trapped animal. Your mind races, trying to come up with some kind of plan, some kind of solution to this messed up situation. But you’re too lost in your own head, too focused on calming your panicked breathing to come up with anything coherent.

You feel like you’re drowning, your body overwhelmed by the flood of emotions and the physical response. You need to get yourself under control, to get your thoughts sorted out and figure out what the hell to do. But it feels like your mind and your body are in a constant tug-of-war with each other, neither one willing to give in. It’s like being stuck in a nightmare that you can’t wake up from.

You’re suddenly aware of the silence in your apartment. It’s an eerie stillness that seems to echo the chaos in your mind. The only sound is the soft rush of your own breathing, the beat of your heart a steady drum in your ears. It’s too quiet, and yet it’s almost deafening at the same time. You stay slumped on the floor, your head still against your knees, too overwhelmed to even think about getting up. You can’t breathe.

Your lungs feel like they’re on fire, each breath a struggle against the tight feeling in your chest. Your body is shaking, the adrenaline and panic having physical effects that you’re powerless to stop. You try to focus on calming yourself down, to get your breathing under control, but it’s like trying to hold onto water. Your lungs seizing up with each gasping breath. You try to focus on your breathing, trying to steady the erratic rhythm. But it’s like your body won’t obey, each inhale sharp and uneven, each exhale ragged. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your temples, echoing the desperate rhythm of your heart. You need to get yourself together, to calm down. You need to calm down.

You try to mentally force yourself to calm, to slow down your breathing, but it’s like every part of your body is working against you. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, swirling around in your head like a storm. Your heart is still racing, the panic and fear making it almost impossible to concentrate. You try to focus on something, anything to try and control the chaotic mess that is your mind. But your thoughts keep slipping away, dancing just out of reach every time you try to grasp them. You can't think, you can't breathe, you can't move.

You’re trapped in your own mind, your own body. You feel so small, so helpless, so utterly alone. The silence in your apartment is deafening, adding to the feeling of isolation. You try to will yourself to move, but you’re stuck, paralyzed by your own fear and panic. Your heart is still thundering in your chest, the erratic beats echoing in your ears as you try to force your lungs to take slow, steady breaths. You need to calm down. You need to.

You force your shoulders to relax, your eyes fluttering open. Okay, okay… You can do this. You try to remember the steps you learned for managing panic attacks. Breathe in for four, hold for… You can’t think. Your brain is fuzzy, filled with a jumbled mess of thoughts and memories. You try to remember the proper way to do it but your mind refuses to cooperate. Four or seven? Or was it nine? Exhale for eight. Fuck, I can’t think.

Your mind is a blur, your thoughts chaotic and tangled. You can’t remember the step-by-step process. Something about breathing in for a certain number of seconds, holding it, and exhaling for another number of seconds. But the details are a hazy mess, your panic making it impossible to remember clearly. You try your best, sucking in a shaky breath and holding it for what you think is the right amount of time. But your heart is still racing, your hands still trembling. It’s not working. Why isn’t it working? Why the fuck isn’t it working?

Jason stands against his bike, his gaze fixed on the window of your apartment. He's on the phone with Bruce, his voice low and filled with frustration. "I know, I know…" he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "I fucked up," he admits, grimacing at his own carelessness.

He listens as Bruce responds, his eyes never leaving the window. He can feel the weight of his mistake sitting heavily on his shoulders. He should have known that you'd react the way you did, and he should have stuck to the plan. But he didn’t. He just acted, without thinking. Just like always, his conscience needles him.

Jason sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as Bruce continues to speak. He knows Bruce is right, he always is. He’s good at saying the things that are hard to hear but desperately needed to be said. It’s part of what makes him great, but it also makes him irritating sometimes. Like right now.

"I know," Jason replies, his voice slightly sharp. "I get it. But what am I supposed to do now?"

There’s a pause as Bruce replies, his voice muffled over the phone. Jason’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as he listens. Yeah, yeah. Be patient. Easy for you to say.

"I know,” he repeats, his voice strained. "But the kid bolted before I could even get a word in. Now they’re probably scared shitless in there."

There's another pause. Jason can hear the steady timbre of Bruce’s voice on the other end, his words blending in a stream of low, soothing murmurs. He rolls his eyes, bristling at the older man's calm, steady tone. It always makes him feel like a kid being lectured, even though a part of him knows it’s not entirely untrue.

He lets out another sigh, his body sagging against his bike. "I’m trying," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know I messed up, alright? I’ll give ‘em time to cool off." He glances back at your apartment, a pang of something he can’t quite identify tugging at his chest.

He nods along to whatever Bruce is saying, his eyes flickering back to your apartment window. He wonders if you're watching him from behind those blinds, if you’re scared, angry, confused. Probably all three, his mind supplies.

He winces at the thought, his hand tightening around his phone. He hates the thought that he might have screwed this up before it even really started. Bruce is probably right, he should give you space. But the thought of just leaving you alone and confused chafes at him, makes him want to just go in there and fix things already. He knows Bruce can feel his tension, can sense the turmoil roiling beneath his stoic exterior. Damn Batman and his stupid emotional intuition.

"Yeah, I get it," he mutters into the phone, his voice tight. "I’ll back off, give them space. But I don’t like it." There's another pause as Bruce responds, his voice low and steady.

It soothes something in him, a part of him that still yearns for guidance and approval, even though he knows he’ll never admit it. It’s a part of him that he usually denies, pushes down, but moments like these have a way of bringing it to the surface.

He's silent for a moment, letting Bruce speak. The older man's voice is steady, a low, grounding murmur that somehow manages to both soothe and irritate him at the same time. He's always been good at that, somehow finding the exact words needed to either calm him down or piss him off even more.

Jason clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth together in frustration. He’s torn. Part of him wants to just march up there, kick down the door and force you to talk to him. But he also knows that would just make things worse. He’s not good at the whole patience thing, but he knows that just charging in like a bull in a china shop is only going to make things more difficult. Damn it. He swings his leg over his bike, settling onto the seat. He takes one final look up at your window, his gaze lingering there for a moment. He can almost feel the weight of your fear and confusion from here, like a tangible thing. It makes his stomach twist into knots, his hands clenching on the grips.

But he knows he needs to let you be, to give you the space you clearly need. So, with a heavy sigh, he revs the engine and pulls away.

You wake up with a start, your body jerking out of a fitful sleep. Your body is covered in a cold sweat, your clothes sticking to your skin in an unpleasant way. You sit there in the darkness, your breathing heavy and your heart thumping hard in your chest.

Your room is still, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft sounds of the city outside your window.

Three long weeks have passed since you last saw Jason. The days have slipped by in a blur of routine and monotony. You go to work, come home, eat, sleep, repeat. It's like you're living your life on autopilot, your thoughts often drifting to the man who showed up at your door that night.

Since that night, you haven’t shifted. Something deep inside you, some instinctual feeling, tells you that it’s not safe to do so. So you stay human, your animal form buried deep within you, a constant low hum of unease. The feeling of something bad happening if you shift is a constant nagging in the back of your mind, a feeling you can’t shake despite your attempts to dismiss it as paranoia.

The longer you stay human, the stronger your instincts become. You catch yourself acting cat-like in subtle ways: tilting your head to the side when you're listening, twitching at sharp noises, even finding yourself kneading at your shirt when you’re frustrated. It’s a constant internal struggle, your instincts demanding to be let out while your rational mind tells you to keep them contained. You know it’s not healthy, not sustainable, but you can’t shake the feeling that shifting is just too risky right now.

You’re acutely aware of how unhealthy this is. You can feel the tension building within you, the constant battle between your human side and your animal side wearing you down mentally and emotionally. Your thoughts are constantly consumed with the need to shift, the need to be in your animal form, the need to let your instincts take over. But something inside you is holding you back, some primal fear that won’t let you let go. It’s a constant struggle you can’t escape, a constant mental strain that's slowly but surely eating away at your sanity.

You groggily stumble out of bed, the cool night air hitting your skin like a refreshing splash of water. It’s late, the digital clock on your bedside table reading 2:47 AM. You shiver slightly, your muscles tight and cramped from your restless sleep. Despite the chill in the air, you can’t help the feeling of relief as you step out onto your balcony. The city is quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of the day replaced with a soothing, almost eerie calm.

In a moment of clarity, you realize you’re being ridiculous. You’re tired, you’re frustrated, and damn it you’re tired of living in constant fear. You’ve been tormenting yourself for weeks over this, letting your instincts fester and your body ache from the strain. And for what? What's going to happen in the middle of the night on a Wednesday? Nothing, that’s what. And you’re not going to keep making yourself ill over some bastard stalker.

With a rush of determination, you finally give in. You let your instincts take over, your body shifting and contorting into your animal form. The relief is immediate, the tension in your body melting away as you shed your human skin. The cool night air is even more refreshing in this form, your senses heightened as you take in the night around you. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again, the weight of your human anxieties falling away like a heavy coat. You felt free.

The world looks different through your animal eyes, the details sharper and more defined. Your ears twitch, picking up sounds you'd never notice in your human form. Your muscles twitch as your animal instincts kick in, a low purring sound rumbling through your chest. It's been so long since you've let yourself be like this, since you've just been. It's exhilarating, freeing, like coming up for air after being stranded underwater for too long.

You pad over to the edge of the balcony, your paws making almost no sound on the wood. You look out at the city, the glittering lights and silent streets a stark contrast to the chaotic hum during the day. It’s quieter, calmer, a sense of peace that you haven’t felt in ages. You take a deep breath, the air filling your lungs and making your fur stand on end. You feel more alive here, more yourself, than you have in weeks.

Your muscles ripple under your fur as you stretch, arching your back and tilting your head back. A low, rumbling purr vibrates in your chest, the contentment filling you almost overwhelming. You close your eyes, letting the sounds and smells of the city wash over you. You’ll deal with everything else in the morning. For now, you’re going to stay like this and enjoy the freedom.

You sit there for a while, enjoying the cool night air and the sensation of being so deeply in tune with your instincts. The city sounds become a soothing background noise, a comforting hum in the air. You roll onto your back, stretching out your body and letting your limbs go limp. Your tail swishes lazily back and forth.

You roll onto your stomach, your muscles coiling as you prepare to spring. With a powerful leap, you propel yourself onto the nearby roof. Your paws touch down silently, the soft pads muting any sound. Your heart is racing now, the adrenaline rushing through your veins as you break into a run. Running as an animal is different than running as a human. It’s more instinctual, more right. You can feel the ground underneath your paws, the muscles in your legs bunching and releasing with every step. You tear across the rooftops, feeling more alive than you have in weeks. The night air whistles in your ears, the city passing by in a blur.

Your stride is effortless, muscles straining as you push yourself faster, the wind ruffling your fur and making your tail fan out behind you. You leap effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, your body a blur of motion. You’re not even thinking about where you’re going, your only focus is on the sensation of speed, the feeling of freedom. Gotham flashes past you in a dizzying array of lights and shadows, your world narrowing down to your heartbeat and the rhythm of your paws hitting the roof.

Time seems to blur together as you run, the hours flying by like seconds. The city blurs past you in a wash of colors and sounds, the lights of Gotham like stars in a night sky. You don’t focus on how long you’ve been running, or how far you’ve gone, or even where you’re going. For once, none of that matters. All that matters is the wind in your fur and the feeling of freedom coursing through your veins. Your body is sore and your heart is racing, but you feel alive.

You're so focused on the run that you don't notice the black boots in your path until you're upon them. You slam on the brakes, your body slipping and sliding as you come to an undignified halt in front of a pair of long, outstretched legs. You hiss in surprise and frustration, your heart racing from the sudden stop. You glare up at the figure towering above you, tail lashing.

Nightwing chuckles, a soft, amused sound that you can hear clearly even over the pounding of your heart. He lowers his eskrima sticks, holding them loosely by his side as he kneels down to your level. The hero's eyes are sparkling with mirth, his smile slightly crooked.

"Well, hello there." he says, his voice smooth and rich.

He tilts his head to the side, studying you with a curious gaze. You're still panting from your run, your body tense and braced for a fight. Nightwing's smile widens at your reaction, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

"You're pretty fast," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice. He extends his hand towards you, the black, latex covering his fingers gleaming in the low light. He stops just millimeters from your face, allowing you to sniff and inspect him for a moment. His scent is clean and crisp, a hint of something sweet mixed in.

After a few seconds, he starts gently petting you, his gloved hand scratching behind your ears in a soothing motion. “You’re even prettier in person, kitten.”

A wave of unexpected pleasure washes over you as he starts petting you. His touch is firm yet gentle, just the right amount of pressure to soothe the tension in your body. His hand moves from behind your ears to scratching behind your chin, the soft hiss of latex against your fur the only sound in the quiet night. The petting feels ten times better after not shifting after such a long time. You lean heavily into his palm.

“You’re a runner, huh?” Nightwing murmurs, his voice a soft rumble. “Bruce isn’t gonna like that.”

His words are casual, almost conversational, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness to them. He continues to pet you, his hand moving in a slow, soothing rhythm.

“Running around Gotham like this,” he continues, his tone dropping lower. “It’s dangerous. You should stick to the rooftops, little one. Makes it harder for the baddies to get to you.”

As your attention is occupied with looking up at Nightwing, you don’t recognise the second pair of boots that approach. You’re jolted out of your thoughts as another pair of warm hands suddenly scoop you up, grabbing your stomach and lifting you off the ground. The sensation is so sudden and unexpected that you don’t even have time to react. A startled yowl escapes you as you’re lifted off the roof and held against a broad chest.

Your body stiffens in surprise, a low hiss escaping your clenched teeth. Your instincts are screaming at you to flee, to lash out, to fight, but the hands have you in an unbreakable grip.

Nightwing straightens up, sliding his eskrima sticks into their holsters with a practiced flick of his wrists. He casts you a glance, his eyes softened with concern as he looks at your tense form in Robin’s arms.

"Careful, Little D," he says, a slight edge to his voice. "The kitty hasn’t been out in a long time."

Damian just scoffs in response, his grip on you tightening. His body is tense, his hands clenching in your fur, but there’s a gleam of curiosity in his eyes that betrays his indifference. His voice is as haughty as ever, a touch of impatience in his tone. "I know that, Grayson. I'm not a child."

Nightwing hums at Robin’s attitude, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against a nearby AC unit with a slight sigh.

"Sure you're not,” he responds back to Robin with a playful tone of annoyance.

Damian just huffs, tightening his grip on you, causing you to let out a surprised, muffled meow in response. His eyes dart down to you, a slight flicker of fascination in his cold, calculated gaze. He loosens his hold subconsciously. Petting your head in a silent apology.

The younger boy doesn’t respond to Dick’s remark, motioning for him to hurry up already.

With a grin, Dick holds his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. He reaches into his utility belt and procures a small, emerald green and black collar. A symbol you can’t recognise embroidered onto the back where the latch is.

This isn't any average collar that you can find at a pet store. This is high-tech, bordering extravagant. There's a small, golden bell hanging from the front, jingling softly with every little movement made, and there’s a silver, gold-edged tag already attached with some information you can't see yet. But what catches your eye, and fills you with a sense of dread, is the blinking red light on the centre, where it latches onto your neck. With these hook-like latches all around the inside that look all too much like they’ll pierce into you.

Before you can even think to react, Nightwing's already moving. He's faster than you can even register, the collar snatching around your neck in the blink of an eye. It tightens automatically, locking into place with a soft click. You can feel the hooks pierce into your fur and you let out a strangled whine.

As the collar locks into place, the bell on the front gleams in the low light, a soft jingle sounding as you jerk your head back in surprise.

Nightwing steps back, taking in the sight of you in the collar with a critical eye. He reaches forward and gives the bell a couple of light taps, the sound chiming softly in the night air.

"Looks good," he comments, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Tim did good."

Damian hums in agreeance with a slight nod, his grip on you still firm and unrelenting. He casts a scrutinising glance over your form, his eyes lingering on the collar for a moment before moving back to you. He brings his thumb to the latch, pushing into the embroidered symbol. “What was the cast?”

As Damian brings his thumb to the latch, pressing into the embroidered symbol, you hear a soft click, followed by a low chime. You feel the collar loosen around your neck, but it still stays in place. For a moment, you consider trying to tear it off, but a warning tug from the collar's hooks and a glare from Damian stop you short.

Dick grins. “It’s our kittens name, D.”

Damian scowls, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his eyes studying your form intently. It's almost unnerving, the intensity of his gaze.

He presses his thumb against the seal harder, his voice a murmur as he utters your name. When you feel the collar tighten around your neck, you try to jerk your head back out of the way, but the collar holds fast, the hooks attaching themselves deeper into your fur. You try to resist, but the more you struggle, the more your mind grows fuzzy. An intense drowsiness rushes over you, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy. Your vision starts to swim, the world around you growing dark at the edges. As the collar locks into place, the hooks latching more snugly into you, you suddenly feel trapped. Your legs buckle underneath you, sending you sprawling into Damian's arms. The latch on the collar is gone, replaced by a solid, unbreakable ring. There is no way to take it off.

The collar appears deceptively normal, made of a thick dark green leather-like material with a simple golden buckle to secure it. The only thing that gives away its high-tech design is the absence of a latch to clip it open. Most people would overlook it, mistaking it for a regular, ordinary collar.

As you black out and lay heavily in Damian's arms, Dick coos softly, bringing a hand out to rub along your fur. His touch is gentle, his tone affectionate.

"Aren't they so cute asleep?" he whispers, his gaze softening as he looks at your unconscious form.

Damian nods silently in response, his embrace around you tightening just slightly, tugging you closer against his chest. He brings his face down, gently nuzzling his chin into your soft, multicoloured fur, hiding the hint of a smile on his lips.

Dick steps forward, a smile on his face as he watches his younger brother hold you close. He reaches out to ruffle Damian's hair affectionately, before speaking up.

"Let's go home."

Guess who spent three days working on this

Anyway, it’s finally out! Send a comment or msg if you would like to be @ in chapter two and for any anon answers that I do for the fic

I had milk and warm cookies while making this, like a child.

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acid-ixx · 3 months ago

Note

Lmao a&a reader sticking pics of all her milestones and events her family missed and unreplied texts all over the house (a father daughter day at school pic sticked twice on Bruce's door) out of anger and pettiness (srry abt the bad English I just had this idea suddenly)

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

oh my god anon, you are so brilliant because this will happen eventually. like as much as i want a hurt, constantly aching pain to happen to the reader, i also portrayed them to be still bitterly petty towards their family. that translates to shoving it in all their faces about just how much they - specifically bruce - lost so much years of bonding with them just because they chose to be ignorant enough.

just picture this: an entire manor, with hallways filled with printouts of all of dick's unreplied texts, picture frames upon picture frames stacked on every corner where it's just you and alfred against the world, leaning on to the old butler in every image, reminiscent of a father figure more than bruce could ever be.

there're also pages of ripped diary entries stuffed under the couches' mattresses. pages which documented all the years and moments where you write and rant about your bitterness towards the family— how 'dick never looks at me, jay won't even spare me a glance whenever i talk to him, i think tim genuinely doesn't think i exist, and maybe damian just wants me dead'.

and all those entries, despite causing you more burden of having to confront bruce in his office about your mental health, about how it's unhealthy to dwell in the past; it genuinely gives you a sense of control within your trapped cage— if you could even call it that.

yet the more you shove it in their face, the more they smother you with attention: trying to overcorrect.

then suddenly your petty plans turned into a ploy, an excuse for them to bond with you even more because of course! of course those bitter reminders are just you wanting their attention individually! of course, it's your stubborn call to them that they do have a chance of reconnecting with you!

just let them spare themselves the heartbreak and instead replace the hurt upon seeing you so adamant of denying them the love; turning it into a way to become closer to you— a genuine apology in their part if you will, despite your refusal to call it that.

whenever you mention how dick never looks at you eye-to-eye, suddenly, his eyes are all over you, like he's burning the memory of your entire form under his eyelids. every time you mention his dismissal towards your request of hanging out, suddenly, it's him inviting you to every small thing. hell, his attention became too much to the point he suggests that you just sleep in his bedroom because, "it's only right that we spend all the lost moments together, right baby bird? now, don't we have another movie we have to catch on? and don't worry, it's only gonna be just the two of us."

he says, with a saccharine sweetness to his voice, masking the overly possessive undertone in the last sentence, as if there never was those past years filled with yearning, as if it was never you who chased after him. the more your diary entries are read, the more dick takes note in every missed invitation he never entertained. it doesn't even matter if you've already watched the movie, you'll rewatch it, with him, and only with him. because in his eyes, your requests to spend time with him specifically means that all your future moments are exclusively spent with your eldest brother.

with just how much he takes your time every day, you almost feel like it's his attempts of filling that void thirteen years without him.

then there's jason, who once knew what your boundaries were. and although he respects it now, he couldn't deny just how heavenly it is to have his angel in his arms. and could you deny all those diary entries rambling about what it's like to be in your big brother's arms? those documentations of your feelings at its purest form just means to jason that you still want, no, yearn to be embraced by him. the second eldest never really initiates contact first unlike dick, but whenever he does, it's always with you. the first time he hugged you, in his lonesome apartment, he couldn't really bring himself to let go despite your complaints— so what could stop him now that they have you in their grasp?

"hey angel, don't you think it'd be nice if i read you 'little women' tonight?" jason asks you, because of that one day where you filled his vacant room with copies of all the books he recommended and promised to read with you - but never fulfilled doing so - it kind of backfired on you. and now you're wrapped around his muscled arms, beside him in his supposedly cozy, yet suffocating bed, his hair pricking the skin of your sweaty forehead, damp from the sheer heat - despite the air-conditioning - because he straight up refuses to give you space. if you just lean back a little more, then you could almost feel the tremor of his voice narrating the entire story, the warmth of his breath hitting against the nape of your neck.

for a book so lighthearted, all you could feel was the heaviness of your heart.

unlike dick and jason, you never once spent a moment with tim. that in itself is what made him motivated to learn all about you on a more personal level. in his eyes, (or rather, through his delusional reasonings), he reckoned that because he never once had any memories with you— your hatred towards him would be the least harrowing thing to deal with. he's always been a mystery to you, you've been a mystery to him, too. through your empty texts with him, entries spanning from not even knowing anything about him at all; he figured that now's the chance to take you away in the least expected moments, cauterize his words with promises for escape from other more smothering members of the family. unlike the others, since he's never once had personal moments with you, he knows your objective prefences, your boundaries and what makes you tick.

"ah, (name)... mind moving your hand to the left? yeah, that's way better." yet despite the fact that you have more freedom when you spend time with him, doesn't mean that he'll spare you the space of being alone when he's just like all the others still: obsessively taking note of every little movement, swooning in secret with a small quirk in your lips, kissing his teeth when he's exceptionally pleased the more your emotions are vividly displayed in front of him. except now that you willingly chose to be his model - you're unaware that he plasters the polaroid's all over his own version of a diary mirroring yours... - for just a moment of respite from the other's overbearing physical affection, it doesn't mean that tim isn't an obstacle himself; he just... knows you more than you know him, more than you know anybody else actually.

in fact, the longer his cryptic stare is pinned only on you, the more you notice how he never really takes his eyes off of you for more than a second.

"who says it's your turn to be with my sibling, todd?" your youngest brother, the one who you unwillingly spent the most time with. your tormentor, the one who you almost despised. damian hates it when you smother him with hints that you're closer to anybody else but him. he hates it when his older sibling generally spends more time with others. and although he's countlessly apologized to you, you never quite find it in your heart to fully grasp his sorry's. even if he offers you friendship bracelets, emerald green stones matching the shade of your favorite ones, whilst looking away with a puff in his cheeks— you just can't see him in a different light anymore; constantly reminding him of the threats he threw your way back them, shoving papers upon papers stained with salty tears and smudged ink; all piled with texts ranting about your endless pain because of him.

but just like dick, your youngest brother just sees it as your stubborn way of calling out his name. he may look like he bites, and yes he does bite, but not at you, never at you. at least, not anymore— but to everybody else who threatens his so-called precious bonding time with his older sibling. weirdly enough, despite his smaller frame, he's the most suffocating, the one whose hold on your body tightens just a bit more every time you move away from him. he's arguably the most possessive, the one who'll fight tooth and nail just because he wants you, his older sibling, to be his beloved muse for a portrait he imagined.

as much as he tormented you in the past, you can never deny how his life centered on you as much as it did now.

lastly, bruce, your father, a figure that was never there, just a silhouette to you. and even until now he still is. you can't comprehend his care, a type of fatherly love you never felt all those years ago. after all this time, you're more petty now than you were in the past; sticking picture frames of you and alfred spending memories where it's supposed to be you two, in hallways you know he frequents. it hurts him, it truly does pain him every time you look at him distantly. but he knows patience is the key, even though guilt devours him at every passing glance— he still loves you so. he should've shown his care early on, but what can he do now that it's too late?

"(name)," he calls your name all too fondly, accurately even — like he's practiced calling your name every night, afraid you'll be gone in his arms — and for a moment, you can almost hear him mouthing the endearing term 'dear' under his breath. as the world's greatest detective, the first thing he does is wanting to entertain the sick idea of reenacting the memories plastered all over those picture frames. just to make the regret lighter, to find a reason to be closer to you than he already makes himself out to be. don't mistake him, he's grateful that alfred was always there to aid you, but he's your father, first and foremost, and just because he missed those birthdays, that graduation, your prom and so much more— it doesn't mean there's no more room for him to still spend time with his beloved child, no? he'll find a valid, yet almost desperate excuse every time; to make a grander celebration. your missed birthdays will be replaced with countless vacations, your graduation picture smiling together with alfred nailed right at the front of his door will soon be a frame with you and the rest of the family. he'll find a way for you to never write those wretched entries about them anymore— he swears, with all his heart, you'll love him as much as he loves you.

and maybe, just maybe, you should've never presented your bare heart in front of them so willingly after all.

a/n: leave comments because why not lmao. idk half of what i wrote here but i'm back to answering asks and anon, i hope you like this because i used your ask to make a drabble 😁 this is the batfam after they become yanderes and how they enact upon their obsessions so ykyk. again, i forgot whatever i've written here.

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robolvrr · 6 months ago

Text

f-r-e-a-k !‿⁠✷｡✧

lost light members react to human porn (and develop some preferences of their own.)

ft. skids! megatron! rodimus! swerve! ultra magnus!

nsfw under the cut.

rodimus prime - top-five ranked

when he first heard actual, genuine human content had reached aboard his ship, he had quickly formed a half-assed meeting to announce that he, of course, being captain and all should review with ultra magnus.. and perhaps rewind too, before dispersing it out to the crew.

of course when ultra magnus expressed his surprise at this new leaf turned, eager to scour through intergalactic protocol he simply let one word out the other audial and made some grave, grammatical errors to distract the mech and let the captain do his own decision making.

he spends a lot of time nitpicking. he doesn't like movies as much so he reserves those to swerve nor does he care too much about books.

a functioning computer however....

he's bored. and curious. two demons that never dwell well together in the same room.

clearing browser history? never heard of that!

good thing the previous owner has lots of bookmarks, because he finds it infinitely easier to sift through links there than carefully type.

"porn...hub? what's that? must be some kinda uh.. uhhh... uh."

cue the fan whirring. he's hunched over and slack jawed, staring at the frankly color-clashing archive and almost pushing himself away when the cursor hovers over a video - and the humans in it start moving.

clicked the first video with a bold "#1 ranked". he really shouldn't. he really, really should just toss this tempting contraband out the nearest garbage disposal.

"unhh! harder! haaarder! ♡"

he's focused hard on the spike - cock, he learns, or dick, humans got lots of funny terms - ruts rough into you, forcing you to melt forward and squeak through sheets.

the loud, exaggerated moans make him pitifully decide otherwise. imagine him, all weak in the knees, sliding down to sit as he watches transfixed.

flesh on flesh hitting sounds a lot better when it's this and not fighting.

sooner or later, he's huffing into his servo, jacking off his spike and squeezing the tip so rough he's almost jealous seeing you bouncing away. you'd be so, so fragging soft. he can imagine squeezing your limbs and twisting you around to his liking.

overloads fast. he's almost ashamed enough to be embarrassed.

now? can't reach his climaxes unless there's some raunchy, wet-coated squeals in his memory banks. doesn't bother searching up anything because he doesn't have the patience to cultivate. you just happen to be at the top so he gladly sticks watching your holes get sticky any cycle.

skids - playboy bunny

"oh for prime's sake, chromedome don't make me feel like i'm trading for somethin' illegal."

won a "mystery stash" from a late night gamble. of course, not all of rodimus's finds stayed quiet.

he isn't sure why it's such a big deal. the cardboard box which spills open easily under a digit's care isn't filled with weaponry or bombs.

it's almost funny, this giant picking up a magazine in a pinch, helm tilted and keeping it an arm's distance away like the pages might bite.

he looks at the front cover for a long, long time.

his processor isn't catching up. then he squints. gets reaaaaal close.

there's you! all dolled up, as the humans would say. except you're really not, because half of your squishy aft is out, and your servos are covering up your chest but aren't doing a good job.

neither is the bright, blue bow christened at your pelvic area, where he realizes with a jolt is lacking any modesty panels of any kind.

flips a page. oh, it's you again. curved over a lounge. cheekily spreading yourself with a... gathering of lace twisted around your frame.

another one. you got something round in your mouth. he looks carefully at your lips.

and then he's flipping through all of it, and digging into the box and oh, he's found a jackpot because it's all you.

now he understands why it's got the markered "collectors items" on the side. he doesn't question too much when he spits lubricant down onto his spike. dedicated some of that cotton candy gossamer all over your february edition of playboy in approval.

megatron - classic erotica

a true mech of literature. now, unlike many of the lost light, he's had his run in with humanity before. not that he particularly got or wanted to enjoy their culture back then.

though when he did find his way back onto a possible path of redemption, he did indulge once upon a time.

at his spark, he's a poet. a linguist. enjoyer of golden age, art and craftsmanship.

earthen literature has its.. moments. he reads novellas and lost to the history manuscripts, plays, all of which have almost all been uploaded to more convenient means as upkeep for the paper is a pain.

however, he has found one book. a funny looking book, with a funny looking cover.

he observes, rigidly, the scandalous embrace of what he assumed to be the characters, how clothing lacked in areas it shouldn't and skin was almost.. glistening. "seven nights of passion." a chuff left his dermas.

ah, to pit with it. why not?

megatron finds himself slowly involved with the chapters despite the comedy of its advertisement. the writer, you, no doubt under a penname, push development shockingly far.. for a human.

and the intimacy? interfacing? so descriptive. while he has not seen what he is reviewing, he can imagine it. images of sweaty bodies, grinding and yearning and crying.

cybertronians have no reason or function to. the thought of a human, pushed to the brink overloaded with stimulation is... stimulating.

it is a shame when it comes to an end but he might in his free-time peruse for more. leaves his plating warm and intake dry.

the authors note suggests that your inspiration drives from personal experience.

his ... array fizzles at that. fascinating.

swerve - r-rated movie night

"wowza. that's hh. haha. woah! they all do that.. ?"

first movie he flipped onto the projector was supposed to be an "action and feel-good film with hints of romance, angst and sci-fi elements."

not even halfway through, you, the imaginary captain of the imaginary "roman's ravager" have your uniform shimmied down to your ankles, mouth mashing against your supposed rival, who everyone has been heckling for the past forty-five minutes.

some of the mechs cheer, other grumble and argue to skip, others squirm and grimace. swerve watched you push the other down, head tilting back as the camera zooms to your face.

"it's just acting, ya' degenerates, stop acting like protoforms!"

it isn't until he feels a servo smack upside his helm that he starts fumbling for the remote. too much noise but now he's getting a comm from mags asking about what the rackets for so! fast forward he goes.

at 1x.

while the chaos starts to settle, he peeks between digits. catches glimpses of your open mouth. the goosebumps down your chest. how you shake at the insinuation that someone is between your legs, servicing.

slag. when's the last time he's even played with his valve?

movie night was a hit regardless of the commotion. he has to clean up after, which thankfully didn't result in any expelled energon or skid-marks.

that also means he's alone. alone, in his bar. all by himself, staring at the rest of the discs with your pictures on the front, credits humming in the background.

it'll be good for the economy. (all of it is pirated.)

maybe it's for the best. because now, he's realizing you really are a great actor, in lots of different genres, able to adapt and really grab his attention.

it's not as if his spark pulses seeing you in costumes, or using that soft voice you do in all your roles when you make a point.

not like he's riding his digits and crunching into a fist when you're running on the beach, sand dappled and leaving little to imagination.

ends up on his back, charged up and shaking. hurts to speak, to move or to dab up the puddle of transfluid, laughing deliriously when his panels are even too much effort to close.

ultra magnus - audio praise

"you're doing such a good job. you're perfect. you know that, right? yes you do, so good for me."

when he first heard you, he damn near crushes the auditory device and full-blown shudders in the confines of his hab. he's sputtering, optics wide and there's a million reasons he should report this to rodimus and question just what he's given him.

"to help ya uh... research? take the edge off pal."

half-contemplates storming back to the bridge himself if it weren't for your sugar-coated mumbles still coming through the unpaused recording.

you'd think he was dealing with a ticking blast with how he warily handles the device, gruffly spitting out curses that he'd otherwise never allow in crew vicinity.

"i want you to reward yourself. you earned it, honey. can you do that for me? here, listen."

to his horror - and crumbling interest - a slick cacophony of sound rattles in his helm. there's panting, a shift of material that he assumes is tangled around you and frag, he's able to think up you and a thousand faces.

what's worse? is he's hypnotized. you don't demand. you coo to him, just loud enough to let him know you'd be broken too. if he let himself let down that wall, just for the twenty minutes you sing in his audials, he'll know it's done with you just as weak.

"g—gooood job ahhhh!" that does it. ultra magnus groans, shutting off his optics entirely. his large servo feels up along his frame as you suggest.

"i wish you were here. hah.. mmn! could see me. see me fucking myself to you. let you kiss me. you deserve it, sweetie. deserve me on you."

magnus and the sobbed growl to his motors reminds him just how lonely he's felt. always monitoring. always stressed. hearing the spit collect at your throat as your commands grow hoarse makes you feel real.

would you... would you kiss him? would you let him pick you up, rest you flat on his servo and have his glossa lap up your want?

he towers over nearly all. having a partner so much smaller, tinier than even an minibot, shouldn't run up a charge but it does.

he overloads when he's sticking digits near the casing of his spark, ignoring the spurts of pre sizzling down his thighs.

"w-was that as fun.. for you as it was for me?"

dazedly falls onto his berth. this isn't leaving his dermas unless he's had a drink.

a/n : a little haha funny idea i had. there's just something so funny thinking of these giant old robots realizing just how much porn is out there.

#maccadam #mtmte x reader #first contact au #transformers x reader #headcanons #/nsft #mtmte #valveplug #rodimus prime x reader #rodimus x reader #megatron x reader #ultra magnus x reader #swerve x reader #skids x reader #my last kaboomie before the work week #/nsfw #transformers x human

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hoshifighting · 1 year ago

Text

I can do it for you

— Synopsis: After years dealing with everything alone, you stumble upon an old wishbook from your past. And you jokingly writes down your ideal boyfriend, Mingyu. To your surprise, Mingyu magically appears in your couch. — WC: 8k — WARNINGS: Smut, fantasy, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, oral (f.receiving), g'spot stimulation, overstimulation, oversensitivity, sex fluids and... HOUSEWIFE MINGYU?!

You've always been one of those independent souls since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Nobody had to tell you how to tie your shoes or pour your own cereal; you were on it like a hawk on a mouse. That's just how you rolled.

Every morning, without fail, the alarm clock would screech you awake. You'd drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, but ready to tackle whatever the day threw at you. Bleary-eyed, you'd stumble out of bed, wishing for just a few more minutes of shut-eye.

Then it was off into the madhouse of morning traffic. Cars honking, people yelling—it was like a scene straight out of a circus. One hand massaging your temple, while the other holds the wheel, again, what would be the excuse about being late for your supervisee?

Once you strutted into the office, it was game time. Arms loaded up with documents, and the sound of your heels echoing through the corridors until you plopped down at your desk. Your boss, with his constant nitpicking, was like a pesky mosquito buzzing around your head, while you practically sizzled your fingertips on the keyboard.

As the end of the month drew near, it was like a race against the clock in the department. Everyone was scrambling to wrap up their projects, racing against time like sprinters gunning for the finish line. The hours seemed to slip through their fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass.

Phones were ringing off the hook, papers were flying left and right, and the clickety-clack of keyboards filled the air like a drumbeat. It was a whirlwind of activity, with no time to spare for even a quick breather.

As you finally left the building, the thought of tackling the grocery store was the furthest thing from your mind. Rush hour was in full swing, and the last thing you wanted was to spend a few more hours stuck in traffic.

With a sigh of exhaustion, you let your purse plop onto the couch, and you dashed towards the bathroom, craving the comfort of a hot shower to wash away the day's stress. But as soon as you twisted the knob to turn on the water, you were met with a disappointing blast of icy coldness. Great, just what you needed—a malfunctioning shower.

You knew the drill all too well. The resistance had probably burned out again, leaving you with no choice but to endure a bone-chilling cold shower. Normally, you'd roll up your sleeves and tackle the problem head-on, but right now, the thought of dealing with it was more than you could bear.

So, with a resigned shrug, you decided to tough it out. A cold shower was better than no shower at all, and besides, you were too tired to bother with fixing it tonight. As you stepped under the frigid stream of water, you couldn't help but curse your luck.

With some unexpected free time on your hands, you found yourself rummaging through the forgotten stuff tucked away in the drawer beneath the TV. Dust bunnies greeted you as you pulled out various items—a picture frame with a photo of your graduation, a stack of letters from high school friends, old books with worn covers, and...

You blinked in surprise as you pulled out what appeared to be a wishbook. Memories flooded back to you as you flipped through its pages, the corners dog-eared and the edges frayed from years of neglect. You vaguely remembered creating this in middle school, jotting down your hopes and dreams for your adult life.

You couldn't help but be taken aback as you glanced through the pages of the wishbook, tracing your finger over each childhood dream that had somehow become a reality.

"When I grow up, I want to drive a red car." You chuckled to yourself as you remembered the day you drove off the lot in that sleek red beauty, feeling like the queen of the road.

"When I grow up, I want to work at my dream job." It hadn't been an easy journey, filled with ups and downs and more than a few setbacks along the way. But through sheer grit and determination, you had landed your dream job, doing what you loved day in and day out.

"When I grow up, I want to have my own apartment." Well, here you were, sitting in your very own slice of paradise. Sure, it might not be the biggest or the fanciest place in town, but it was yours. And that was all that mattered.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity as you gazed at the blank pages at the end of the wishbook. What if you wrote something new? Something unexpected, something you hadn't even considered before?

With a sudden impulse, you grabbed your phone and dialed up your friend. After a few rings, she answered, her voice laced with amusement.

"Hey there, what's up?" she chirped.

"Hey," you replied, a hint of uncertainty in your tone. "I was just thinking... what do you think I've been needing in my life?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line before your friend burst into laughter. "Oh, that's easy," she said between giggles. "You need a boyfriend!"

You couldn't help but frown at her response. "Really? Out of all the things in the world, a boyfriend?"

She chuckled, sensing your skepticism. "Okay Y/N, maybe not a boyfriend exactly," she conceded, "but someone to take care of you. You're always the one taking care of everything that falls into your hands. Have you ever thought about taking a break? Having someone to do it for you for once?"

Her words struck a chord with you, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of recognition. She was right—you were constantly taking care of everyone and everything around you, but who was taking care of you?

You chuckled to yourself as you scribbled down the traits you wanted in a potential boyfriend, feeling a bit silly but also oddly excited at the prospect. As the hours ticked by, you found yourself lost in thought, lost in the whimsical world of daydreams and possibilities.

"A guy who is proactive, kind, maybe a little bit clingy?" you mused aloud, tapping the pen against your chin. "Someone who knows their way around the kitchen... As you continued to brainstorm, you found yourself getting a bit carried away. "Good-looking and tall, with long hair and puppy-dog eyes"

The more you wrote, the more absurdly perfect your imaginary boyfriend became. It was almost like describing a prince straight out of a fairy tale, complete with all the clichéd traits and characteristics.

As you looked over the words you had written in the wishbook, a wave of doubt washed over you. You couldn't help but cringe at the seemingly unrealistic expectations you had set for yourself. Closing the wishbook with a sigh, you tossed it onto the center table, feeling a pang of disappointment.

"It was just a coincidence," you muttered to yourself, trying to rationalize away the strange alignment of your childhood dreams with your current reality. It seemed too far-fetched to believe that your wishes had somehow come true.

With a heavy heart, you made your way to the bedroom, longing for the solace of sleep to sweep you away from the uncertainty of the day. Maybe it was time to let go of the notion that wishes could come true and focus on the here and now.

And there it was, like a cruel joke, that goddamn alarm blaring in your ear, dragging you kicking and screaming out of the sweet embrace of sleep. With a groan of frustration, you stumbled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, bracing yourself for another shitty, cold-ass shower.

The water hit you like a slap in the face as you hurriedly scrubbed away the remnants of sleep. No time for luxuriating in a warm bath, oh no, not in your world.

After hastily toweling off, you raced around the house like a madman, searching for that elusive perfect piece to complete your look. But in the end, it was all just chaos, a jumbled mess of clothes and accessories that left you feeling more frazzled than ever.

As you stormed out the door and into the chaos of the morning rush hour, you couldn't help but curse under your breath at the sea of cars stretched out before you. It was like a never-ending nightmare, a never-ending parade of honking horns and exhaust fumes.

And then there was your boss, with his never-ending stream of shit, nitpicking every little thing you did like a goddamn broken record. You plastered on a fake smile and nodded along, all the while seething with rage on the inside.

You trudged wearily from the elevator, each step sending shooting pains through your feet courtesy of those godforsaken heels. The keys jangled in your hand as you finally reached your apartment door, the promise of relief beckoning you inside.

With a sigh of relief, you swung open the door and kicked off your heels, reveling in the cool touch of the floor against your bare feet. But as you stepped further into the apartment, something felt off.

The air was thick with the scent of food, and a faint hum drifted through the air. Panic surged through you as you realized that someone had invaded your sanctuary.

Heart pounding, you tiptoed through the apartment, checking every nook and cranny for signs of an intruder. But each room you entered was empty, the only sound the echo of your own footsteps.

Finally, you reached the kitchen, and there he was—a tall figure standing at the stove, his back to you as he hummed a tune under his breath. It took a moment for the shock to register, but when it did, you felt a rush of conflicting emotions flood through you.

"Who the hell are you?" you demanded, your voice sharp with disbelief and anger as you confronted the intruder. The guy nearly jumped out of his skin, and you flinched together.

"What are you doing here? Leave!" you insisted, your heart pounding in your chest as you pointed the kitchen utensil in his direction.

The intruder hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice trembling slightly. "I-I'm Mingyu," he stammered, his eyes wide with fear.

You scoffed, the name sounding vaguely familiar but not enough to ease your suspicion. "Mingyu? Who the fuck is Mingyu?" you snapped, your anger boiling over.

But then it hit you like a ton of bricks. Mingyu... the random name you had created for the boyfriend in your wishbook, the one you had jokingly listed out the qualities you wanted in a partner.

Your laughter was hollow and bitter as you realized the absurdity of the situation. "Are you kidding me?" you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief. "I'm calling the police."

But before you could reach for the phone, the intruder lunged forward, grabbing the wishbook from the center table. "No, no, no!" he exclaimed, desperation creeping into his voice.

You watched in confusion as he flipped through the pages, his eyes widening in shock as he read the list of qualities you had written down.

You eyed the wishbook with a mixture of disbelief and apprehension as the intruder waved it in front of you, his excitement palpable. Every detail you had written down seemed to describe him perfectly—tall, with puppy-dog eyes, and even the long hair. It was uncanny.

But despite the strange coincidence, you couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. Keeping your distance, you raised the pan threateningly, the question burning on your lips. "How did you get into my house?" you demanded, your voice sharp with suspicion.

The intruder's eyes widened in alarm, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. "I-I don't know," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I just woke up on the couch, I swear."

Your heart raced as you processed his words. He didn't seem to be lying, but the situation was just too bizarre to comprehend. How could someone just magically appear in your home, especially someone who seemed to fit the description of your fictional boyfriend?

With a wary glance, you slowly lowered the pan, the tension in the air dissipating slightly. "Well, you better start explaining," you muttered, your mind racing with a million different possibilities.

You paced back and forth in front of the couch, your mind spinning with disbelief as you tried to make sense of the surreal situation unfolding before you. "So you're telling me that I manifested you by my wishbook?" you repeated incredulously, your voice tinged with disbelief.

The intruder nodded solemnly, reaching for the wishbook and flipping it over to reveal a small gold star etched into the back cover. "See this?" he said, pointing to the star. "This is a manifestation charm. It's what brought me here."

Your frown deepened as you studied the tiny symbol, your mind struggling to comprehend the bizarre turn of events. "But... how?" you muttered, your thoughts racing a mile a minute.

The intruder's eyes widened with curiosity as he looked up at you. "Where did you get this book?" he asked, his voice tinged with urgency.

You racked your brain, trying to recall where you had acquired the wishbook all those years ago. And then it hit you like a bolt of lightning. "A mystique store," you blurted out, the memories flooding back in a rush. "I bought it from a mystique store years ago."

You sank onto the couch beside him, the weight of the revelation settling over you like a heavy blanket. It was hard to wrap your head around the idea that a simple book could hold such mysterious powers.

You turned to the intruder, your curiosity piqued as you sought answers to the questions burning in your mind. "Where did you come from?" you asked, your voice laced with both apprehension and fascination.

The intruder hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away as if he were wrestling with his response. "I... I don't know," he admitted finally, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "It's all a bit... fuzzy."

You furrowed your brow in confusion, wondering how someone could not know their own age or origins. "What do you mean, fuzzy?" you pressed, your curiosity growing by the second.

The intruder sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I woke up on your couch with no memory of how I got here or where I came from," he explained, his expression troubled. "All I know is that I felt drawn to you somehow, like I was meant to find you."

"You didn't have a life before?" you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief as you looked at the intruder sitting beside you.

He nodded solemnly, his expression tinged with sadness. "Yes, I did. But it's all... blurry, like a dream that I can't quite remember."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Where did you live before?" you pressed, your curiosity getting the better of you.

The intruder's gaze drifted towards the window, his hands gesturing vaguely in front of him. "Somewhere like this," he murmured, his voice distant.

You followed his gaze, staring out at the endless expanse of buildings and lights stretching out before you. It was a sight you had grown accustomed to over the years, but seeing it through the eyes of someone who had never experienced it before brought a strange sense of wonder.

"And now?" you prompted, turning back to the intruder beside you.

He shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Now, I'm here," he replied simply, his eyes meeting yours with hope.

You blinked in surprise as the intruder broke the silence, his words cutting through the air like a knife. "I fixed the shower," he announced, a hint of pride in his voice.

You widened your eyebrows, your mind struggling to process his words. "You... fixed the shower?" you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief.

The intruder nodded eagerly, a pleased smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, it was just a small problem with the resistance. I managed to sort it out," he explained, his tone casual as if he hadn't just performed a miracle.

You couldn't help but stare at him in astonishment, your mind racing with a million questions. How had he known there was a problem with the shower? And more importantly, how had he fixed it so quickly?

But before you could voice your thoughts, he continued, "Oh, and I went to the supermarket and washed your clothes too."

Your jaw practically hit the floor as his words sank in. "You... went to the supermarket?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

The intruder nodded, his smile widening at your stunned expression. "Yep, got everything on your list. And the laundry was piling up, so I took care of that too," he said nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You were at a loss for words, your mind reeling with the sheer absurdity of the situation. This man, this stranger who had magically appeared in your living room, had taken it upon himself to fix your shower, do your grocery shopping, and even wash your clothes—all without being asked.

"But... why?" you finally managed to sputter out, your voice tinged with confusion.

The intruder shrugged, a playful twinkle in his eyes. "Why not?" he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

"Come here," he beckoned, motioning for you to follow him into the kitchen. With a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, you trailed after him, unsure of what to expect.

As he lifted the lid of the pan on the stove, a delicious aroma wafted up, making your mouth water. "Wow," you murmured, impressed by the sight of the freshly cooked food before you. "You cooked all of this?"

He nodded proudly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yep, thought I'd whip up a little something for us to eat," he replied, gesturing towards the table where two plates were already set.

You couldn't help but smile at his thoughtfulness, grateful for the unexpected gesture. But then your eyes drifted to the clothesline in the corner of the room, where an array of freshly washed clothing hung neatly.

"Oh my god," you gasped, your hand flying to cover your face in embarrassment. "You washed everything?"

The intruder followed your gaze, his eyes landing on the recently laundered garments with a hint of amusement. "Yep, everything," he confirmed, his tone light and playful.

Your cheeks flushed crimson as you realized just how intimate some of the items hanging on the line were. "I... uh..." you stammered, at a loss for words.

He grinned mischievously, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Hey, I gotta say, those puppy-stamped underwear of yours are pretty cute," he teased, a playful glint in his eye.

You buried your face in your hands, the heat of embarrassment spreading across your cheeks. "Oh my god, stop," you groaned, mortified by the unexpected turn of events.

[...]

As you emerged from the warmth of the bath, wrapped snugly in your pajamas, you found Mingyu already fast asleep on the couch, curled up into a small ball. Despite the strangeness of the situation, a pang of sympathy tugged at your heartstrings as you watched him sleep.

You couldn't deny that he looked rather adorable, all shrunken and peaceful in his slumber. If you had asked for a short man in your wishbook, he certainly fit the couch.

But as you glanced at your bed, you knew that letting him sleep there was out of the question. He may have magically appeared in your life, but he was still a stranger, and you weren't about to let your guard down just yet.

Sure, you could kick him out onto the cold streets, but the thought left a bitter taste in your mouth. You weren't heartless, after all, and it was clear that he didn't have a place to go. He hadn't asked to be here, and the circumstances of his arrival were still shrouded in mystery.

But as you glanced at him sleeping peacefully, his features softened in the glow of the moonlight, you couldn't help but feel a strange sense of responsibility towards him. After all, he was just as much a victim of whatever strange forces had brought him here as you were.

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to the fact that he would have to stay—for now, at least. You could figure out the details in the morning, once the shock of the day had worn off and your mind was clearer.

As you stirred awake to the aroma of freshly brewed coffeee, you nearly jumped out of your skin before remembering that Mingyu was there. With a mixture of relief and gratitude, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

As you got ready for work, the thought of facing another chaotic day loomed over you like a dark cloud. But as you emerged into the living room, the sight of a steaming mug of coffee waiting for you on the table brought a small smile to your face.

You took a tentative sip, and It was so good that you couldn't help but shake off the idea of going to the coffee shop today.

"Mingyu, I'm leaving," you announced, grabbing your bag and heading towards the door. "I'll be back at 7pm. Do you need anything?"

Just as you were about to step out, Mingyu appeared in the living room, a packed lunch in his hands. "Here," he said, offering you the lunchbox. "Eat well, and I'll be waiting for you."

You couldn't help but smile at his thoughtfulness, but as your eyes fell on him, clad in one of your shirts from a rock band, you couldn't suppress a laugh. The shirt was stretched to its limits, barely covering his tummy while his biceps threatened to tear through the fabric.

"Okay, I'm definitely going to buy you some clothes," you chuckled, shaking your head in amusement.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Can't I walk without them?" he teased, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You widened your eyes in mock horror. "Of course not!" you exclaimed, feigning shock. "You can't just walk naked on the street!"

Mingyu tilted his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Can't I?" he countered, a playful grin spreading across his face.

You couldn't help but laugh at his antics, shaking your head in disbelief. "No, you definitely can't," you replied with a chuckle. "Now, behave yourself while I'm gone, okay?"

Mingyu nodded solemnly, his smile widening. "I promise," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

As you sat down to eat your lunch at work, you couldn't help but notice the curious glances from your coworkers. They watched you with envious eyes as you savored each bite of the delicious meal that Mingyu had prepared for you.

Suppressing a smile, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards Mingyu for his thoughtfulness. Despite the strange circumstances of his arrival, he had gone out of his way to make sure you were well-fed and taken care of.

As you enjoyed the flavors of the homemade meal, you couldn't help but feel a warmth spread through you. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about Mingyu's character and the bond that was beginning to form between the two of you.

As the evening rolled around and you left work, you were determined to fulfill your promise to yourself and Mingyu. You headed to the shopping district, the image of Mingyu looking like a doll lingering in your mind.

You browsed through the racks of clothing, selecting pieces that you thought would suit him perfectly. It was a strange feeling, shopping for someone else with such care and attention, but with each item you picked out, you couldn't help but imagine how handsome Mingyu would look in them.

You found yourself spending more on clothing for Mingyu than you did for yourself, but you didn't mind in the slightest. After all, he was the one who needed them the most, and you were determined to make sure he looked his best.

With each new outfit you selected, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement bubbling up inside you. This was your chance to dress Mingyu exactly how you had imagined your dream boyfriend to be, and you were going to make sure he looked absolutely perfect.

You arrived home to find Mingyu sitting on the couch, your wishbook in his hands. As you entered, he quickly put the book aside and rose to help you with the heavy bags of clothing.

"You didn't need to buy all of these," he said, his expression turning slightly sullen as he glanced at the bags.

You brushed off his concern with a wave of your hand, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "It's fine, Mingyu," you reassured him. "I have a good salary now, and it's nice to be able to buy things for someone else, not just for myself."

As you settled onto the couch, Mingyu's gaze lingered on the bags of clothing beside you. There was a hint of curiosity in his eyes, as if he were eager to see what you had bought.

Mingyu removed his shirt as you sat on the couch, unpacking the bags of clothing around you. You couldn't help but steal a glance at his form, admiring the way the fabric of his jeans clung to his legs and the muscles rippled beneath his skin.

Noticing your gaze, Mingyu chuckled softly. "Like what you see?" he teased, a playful twinkle in his eyes.

You blushed slightly, feeling caught off guard by his remark. "Um, I was just admiring the clothes," you replied, trying to hide your embarrassment.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Well, how about I model them for you?" he suggested, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You couldn't help but laugh at his suggestion, the tension melting away as you relaxed into the playful banter. "Like a parade?" you asked, a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

Mingyu nodded eagerly, already reaching for one of the bags. "Exactly!" he exclaimed, his excitement contagious.

As he began to try on the new clothes, you couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. It was like watching a fashion show, with Mingyu as the star of the runway.

With each new outfit he tried on, you couldn't help but admire how effortlessly he pulled off each look. From casual jeans and a t-shirt to a sleek button-down shirt, he looked absolutely stunning in everything he wore.

s you walked towards him with the silver chain in hand, Mingyu watched you with a curious expression, his eyes following your every move. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you as you approached, a strange tension building between the two of you.

With a slight frown of concentration, you struggled to fasten the chain around his neck, your fingers fumbling with the clasp as you tried to maneuver it into place. Mingyu stood patiently, his eyes fixed on you as you teetered on the tips of your toes, trying to reach him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you managed to secure the chain around his neck, the silver gleaming against his dark shirt. As you took a step back, you couldn't help but feel a rush of adrenaline coursing through you. It was the closest you had ever been to Mingyu since he appeared in your life.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you met Mingyu's gaze with a shy smile. "There you go,"

Mingyu glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusting the silver chain around his neck before walking over to you with a grateful smile.

"Thank you," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours with warmth and sincerity. "You didn't have to do all this for me."

You returned his smile, shaking your head. "It's the least I could do," you replied, your tone light. "After all, you didn't exactly ask to be summoned," you added, making air quotes with your fingers for emphasis.

Mingyu chuckled, the sound warm and melodious. "I suppose you have a point there," he conceded, a playful glint in his eyes. "But I'm certainly not complaining about it."

"Hmm, Mingyu, do you want to hang out?" you asked, a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

Mingyu frowned slightly, looking at you with curiosity. "Where?" he inquired, his tone tinged with uncertainty.

You grinned, feeling a rush of excitement at the prospect of showing Mingyu a good time. "Just wait here, I'll get ready," you replied, hurrying off to your room to change.

It was Friday night, and you were used to spending it with your friends, going out and having a good time. And what better way to show Mingyu a bit of the city than to take him out with you?

You turned around to find Mingyu standing in your bedroom, his eyes lingering on your black dress and the silver chain adorning your neck. His gaze was filled with curiosity as he took in your appearance.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you met his eyes. "Well, what do you think?" you asked, a hint of playfulness in your voice.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. "Are we matching tonight?" he teased, gesturing to his own black shirt and jeans.

You chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through you at his playful banter. "I guess we are," you replied, a smile dancing in your eyes.

Mingyu's eyes softened, a genuine smile lighting up his face. "You look beautiful," he said softly, his words filled with sincerity.

A blush crept up your cheeks at his compliment, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness at his words. "Thank you," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

As you entered the bustling club with Mingyu by your side, the loud music and flashing lights engulfed you both. Mingyu seemed to take it all in stride, moving through the crowd with an ease that suggested he was no stranger to such environments.

You couldn't help but notice the curious glances directed at him as you made your way to the bar. Tall, charismatic, and undeniably handsome, Mingyu certainly attracted attention wherever he went. You couldn't help but feel a sense of pride knowing that you had such a captivating companion by your side.

Taking a seat at the bar, you turned to Mingyu with a smile. "What'll it be?" you asked, raising your voice slightly to be heard over the music.

Mingyu glanced at you, a playful glint in his eyes. "Surprise me," he replied, his voice tinged with excitement.

You grinned, turning to the bartender to place your order, as you waited for your drinks to arrive.

As Mingyu glanced around the crowded club, his eyes filled with curiosity, he turned to you with a thoughtful expression.

"Hey, do boyfriend and girlfriend usually come to places like this?" he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.

You paused for a moment, considering his question carefully. Did Mingyu see the two of you as boyfriend and girlfriend? The thought sent a flutter of excitement through you, but you didn't want to jump to conclusions.

"Well, sometimes," you replied, choosing your words carefully. "Couples come here to have fun and let loose together."

Mingyu nodded thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on yours. "So, are we... like that?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

You felt your heart skip a beat at his question, the possibility of being more than just friends with Mingyu sending a thrill through you. But you didn't want to assume anything without knowing how he felt.

"I'm not sure," you admitted honestly, meeting his gaze with sincerity. "What do you think?"

"Well, you wrote in your wishbook that you wanted a boyfriend," he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Your eyes widened in surprise, realization dawning on you. "Oh, right," you said, a hint of embarrassment creeping into your voice. "I guess I did, didn't I?"

Mingyu shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I guess I just wanted to understand," he admitted. "To see if... if maybe I could be that person for you."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his playful tone. "I suppose you are," you admitted, feeling a warmth spread through you at the thought.

After a moment of silence, you couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at the back of your mind. "Am I even your type?" you blurted out, unable to contain your curiosity any longer.

Mingyu's eyes traveled over you, his gaze intense as he took in your appearance. He seemed to be studying you, his expression unreadable.

You held your breath, waiting for his response, unsure of what to expect. The tension between you was palpable, as you waited for Mingyu's answer.

He bit his lip, a gesture that sent a wave of heat coursing through you. "You're exactly my type…" he replied, his voice husky.

"Is that so?" you teased, raising an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "Well, you'll have to work harder than that to win me over."

Mingyu chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, I plan to," he replied, his voice dripping with confidence. "After all, I'm everything you wanted, right?"

You couldn't help but shake your head at his boldness, feeling a rush of excitement coursing through you at the prospect of what the night might hold.

"Maybe," you replied with a grin, unable to resist the playful banter. "But I'll believe it when I see it."

Mingyu leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered softly, sending shivers down your spine. "I read the last pages of your wishbook," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "And let me tell you, I can definitely make all your wildest dreams come true."

And in minutes, everything happened.

You found yourself naked on your couch, your body laid bare before Mingyu, who gazed at you with desire in his eyes. Your legs were spread wide, draped over his shoulders as he knelt before you, his hands trailing over your skin with a gentle touch.

As you held your wish book in your hand, Mingyu's voice broke through the silence, his tone teasing yet filled with curiosity. "So, what's your first wish?" he asked, his eyes locked on yours.

You felt your cheeks flush with heat, embarrassment flooding through you at the thought of revealing your innermost desires. But with Mingyu's gaze burning into you, you couldn't hold back.

"I... I wished for a guy who could make me cum on his tongue," you stuttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mingyu's eyes darkened with desire at your words, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

As Mingyu's tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe along your folds, a shiver of pleasure shot through your body, leaving you trembling. You gripped the wish book tightly in one hand, your nails digging into the pages as Mingyu's mouth worked its magic on you. "Oh fuck, Mingyu!"

With each flick of his tongue against your clit, you felt yourself unraveling. His arms wrapped around you, holding you steady as you writhed and moaned, unable to control the flood of pleasure coursing through you.

Your other hand tangled in Mingyu's locks, pulling him closer as he continued to devour your pussy. His tongue swirled around your bud, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you in relentless waves.

You moaned his name over and over, the sound filling the air as Mingyu's tongue drove you closer and closer to the edge. You felt yourself dripping with arousal, the combination of Mingyu's saliva and your own juices coating the couch beneath you.

As Mingyu's tongue penetrated slightly into your pussy, a gasp escaped your lips, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body. You looked at him with wide eyes, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you struggled to form coherent words.

"What... what are you doing?" you managed to gasp out, your voice laced with desire and anticipation.

But before you could even finish your question, Mingyu's tongue penetrated you again, sending a shock shooting through your body. Your legs shook on his arms, your whole body trembling with need.

"Oh Mingyu, that feels so good" you moaned, your voice filled with a mixture of pleasure and desperation.

Mingyu's lips curled into a wicked grin as he continued to pleasure you with his tongue, his movements becoming faster. He sucked on your clit, flicking it with his tongue before diving deep inside you once again, driving you to the brink of orgasm with each tantalizing stroke.

As you held onto Mingyu's locks tighter, he moaned in response, the vibrations sending a surge of pleasure on your pussy. You could feel yourself teetering on the edge of your orgasm, your body trembling pathetically.

"I'm... I'm cumming," you gasped, your voice strained with the effort of holding back your release.

Mingyu looked up at you, his eyes dark as he asked, "Are you going to cum on my tongue, just like you wished for?"

You nodded desperately, your whole body tensing with anticipation as you felt the waves of pleasure building inside you. The wishbook slipped from your grasp, completely forgotten as Mingyu's tongue continued to lap your clit.

"Yes," you moaned, your voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, just like that."

And with a final flick of his tongue against your clit, Mingyu pushed you over the edge, making you come undone, riding his face to ride your orgasm, your mind clouded with the intensity of your orgasm.

As Mingyu got up, holding the forgotten wishbook in his hands, he turned to you with a curious expression. "Let's see what your next wish is," he said, his voice tinged with excitement.

Your hands, still trembling from the recent orgasm, reached out to take the wishbook from him. You flipped through the pages until you found the next wish, your heart racing.

And as you read the words on the page, your cheeks flushed with heat at the explicit nature of the wish. It was about a guy who didn't go easy on you, who took control and pushed you to your limits.

You looked up at Mingyu, your eyes filled with apprehension. "Is... is this something you can do?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mingyu's lips curled into a wicked grin as he met your gaze. "I can do whatever you want," he replied.

As Mingyu lowered his pants, revealing his big, throbbing cock, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. It was something you had written in your wishbook — a cock that fulfills you — but you hadn't expected it to be quite so... big.

His cock laid heavy in his hand as he stroked himself, the slick sound of precum making itself known with each movement. You felt your cheeks flush red as you watched.

"It... it won't fit," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper as you met Mingyu's gaze.

Mingyu chuckled softly, "Don't worry," he reassured you. "I'll make it fit."

As Mingyu laid you down comfortably, spreading you wider, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed. His cock slid against your pussy, teasing but not yet penetrating, and you squirmed beneath him, feeling yourself growing wetter.

You almost covered your face in shame, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his intense gaze. But Mingyu's teasing words only served to fuel the fire burning within you.

"That's all you wanted, isn't it?" he teased, his voice laced with desire as he looked into your eyes. "A guy with a big cock to fuck your brains out? Well, lucky for you, I'm here, hm?"

His words sent a thrill of excitement coursing through you, and you couldn't help but arch your hips, silently urging him to take you.

You wanted nothing more than to feel him deep inside you, filling you completely and making you cum.

As Mingyu continued to tease you, he remarked on your hectic work schedule. "You work so hard," he murmured, his voice low and seductive. "You need someone to take all that stress out of you."

His words hit home, resonating with the part of you that longed for release, both physically and emotionally.

You couldn't deny the truth in his words; after all, you had spent so long shouldering the weight of your responsibilities alone.

As Mingyu's cock teased against your clit, the friction making you roll your eyes, you felt yourself teetering on the edge of ecstasy. Every movement, every touch drove you closer and closer to the brink, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all.

And just when you thought you couldn't take it anymore, when you felt yourself on the verge of exploding with pleasure, Mingyu slammed his hard cock inside of your cunt with a force that took your breath away. Your pussy stretched around him, so tight and so full, that you could barely contain the overwhelming sensation.

As you arched your back in pleasure, the sensation of Mingyu's cock buried deep inside you driving you to new heights of ecstasy, he teased you mercilessly.

"I'm still," he murmured between moans "You're almost cumming."

Your pussy clenched around him with each tantalizing movement. Mingyu's cock felt impossibly hard and thick inside you, stretching you to your limits as he held himself still, savoring the exquisite torture of denying you release.

He put your knees on your chest and started pounding inside of you, hitting that spongy spot dead-on with the first thrust. You screamed in your living room, rolling your eyes back as you tremble.

No mercy, just like you wanted.

Mingyu looked at your pleasured face, making sure he was hitting all the right spots to drive you wild. And judging by the way you were moaning and writhing beneath him, he was definitely doing something right.

"You're so wet for me," his voice dripped with lust. "You can't get enough of my cock, can you? You want me to fuck you harder, hm?"

You nodded eagerly, unable to form words.

As Mingyu pounded into you harder, your body tensed, your abdomen trembling as you felt the orgasm approaching. He bit his lip, holding back his moans as your walls spasmed around him, indicating your impending climax.

You gripped the couch tightly, your nails digging into the fabric as pleasure washed over you. But no matter how hard you tried, nothing seemed to relieve the overwhelming sensation building inside you.

And then it hit you, you came, hard and fast, your orgasm ripping through you as you spasmed uncontrollably beneath Mingyu.

You came on him, on the couch, on his cock, unable to contain the pleasure coursing through you. And as Mingyu watched you cumming in a matter of minutes, a proud moan escaped his lips, his eyes filled with satisfaction at having brought you so much pleasure.

As Mingyu held your legs to the sides, spreading you open and angling his cock in a way that his pelvis rubbed against your clit, you squirmed helplessly beneath him. Every movement sent jolts of oversensitivity coursing through your body, and you cried out in pleasure and desperation.

But Mingyu held firm, his gaze locked with yours as he reminded you of your wish for him not to take it easy on you. "You wanted this," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "You wanted me to push you to your limits."

You whimpered in response, the sensation of his cock rubbing against your clit driving you to the brink of insanity. "I can't take it," you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't take it anymore."

But Mingyu only moaned in response, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm as he continued to tease and torment you. "You'll need to take it," he whispered, and you moan satisfied that he didn't stopped.

"Just a little more," he urged, his voice filled with desperation. "You're almost there, baby. Just hold on..."

As you held Mingyu's neck, drawing him closer to you for another kiss, you found yourself lost in the intoxicating sensation of his lips against yours. But with each moan that escaped your lips, it became increasingly difficult to maintain the kiss, the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Mingyu noticed your struggle, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he watched you writhe beneath him. His face contorted in pleasure, mirroring the ecstasy written all over yours, as your walls pulsed and contracted around him with each thrust.

As you trembled beneath Mingyu, tears slipping from your eyes, he kissed your face gently, his lips tracing a path of comfort and reassurance.

"I'm cumming for you," he murmured, his voice soothing and gentle as he tried to calm your racing heart.

But your chest rose and fell in erratic waves, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you closed your eyes tightly, desperate to hold on just a little longer. And then it happened, a silent moan escaping your lips as your body tensed and your pleasure blinded all of your senses.

You came again, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you gasping for air, your entire body trembling with the intensity of it all. And as Mingyu watched in awe, unable to hold back his own release any longer, he let out a surprised moan of pleasure, his own orgasm crashing over him.

As Mingyu's warm cum filled your cunt, mingling with your own juices, you let out a contented sigh, feeling completely spent and satisfied.

Feeling utterly relaxed, you laid your head back on the couch, letting out a deep breath as you allowed yourself to bask in the afterglow of your orgasm. The tension in your neck melted away as you finally allowed yourself to relax.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice filled with concern as he looked down at you.

You nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. "Yeah, I'm good," you replied, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you.

Mingyu leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours as he spoke. "That was... so good," he said, his voice filled with awe. "I've never felt anything like that before."

You chuckled softly, feeling a sense of pride swell within you. "Yeah, me neither," you admitted, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction spread through your body.

You chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. "Who knew that silly wishbook would actually work?" you remarked, shaking your head in disbelief.

Mingyu leaned in to press a soft kiss to your lips. "Well, I'm here now, and I don't plan on going anywhere," he said, his voice filled with sincerity.

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pukefactory · 1 month ago

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•☽────✧˖°˖ SUMMER MEMORIES ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Likes To Draw

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You doodle when you’re bored. You doodle when you’re sad. You doodle when ENA’s talking about a “high-risk divestment strategy involving artificial soap and stolen cafeteria spoons.” And at some point, you started doodling her. It��s not just her whole self—though that too, many times. Sometimes it’s just the curve of her clawed hand reaching for a megaphone. Sometimes it’s her striped suspenders tangled around a heart. When ENA notices, her Salesperson side lights up like a SALE sign. “Ohhhh. What’s this? That triangle is my face! Do you find me marketable? Beautiful? Business-presentable?” You nod. The Meanie stares. “Gross. Now we’re a MUSE? Ew. I’ll be charging you royalties for my likeness.”

☆ She finds the sketchbook one day when you’re away—left on a folding chair by a half-eaten pastry and an unopened bottle of fizzy coffee. She’s not snooping, no, not at all. Salesperson insists she’s “simply browsing local investments!” The first ten pages are filled with swirled lines, nervous clutter, random eyes. But then she sees herself. Over and over. Her bent legs, her hair curling wrong in the wind, her Meanie side squished into a heart-shaped frame. She freezes. Then she flips the pages again. Faster. Slower. Backward. She eventually whispers: “I look like someone’s safe place in here.”

☆ After that, ENA starts posing. Not directly. That would be weird. And vulnerable. So instead, she just happens to linger in dramatic stances longer than necessary. Flinging her arms toward the sky like a puppet cut loose. Curling on a desk with a fake frown. Standing by the megaphone with her head tilted at exactly 37 degrees. “My right angle is better for composition, by the way,” she mutters, fake-casual. “Stop telling them that,” Meanie snaps. “You look like an expired crayon.”

☆ You doodle her in the margins of receipts. On the back of pamphlets. In the corner of forms she begged you to fill out (“Sign here to legally acknowledge the weight of our friendship.”) ENA doesn’t get mad. Not really. She just starts leaving blank forms around on purpose. Sticky notes with “FOR DRAWING PURPOSES” scribbled in all-caps. One day she hands you an envelope. It’s empty except for a note inside that says: “Put more of me inside, please. Thank you for your service to the brand.”

☆ She watches you draw one day. Quietly. Which is rare for her. You’re sitting against a wall by the noise garden, sketchbook on your knees, tongue poking out a little from concentration. ENA crouches beside you and doesn’t say anything for a whole minute. Then five. At the six-minute mark, she finally mumbles: “You only draw the good parts.” Her voice is all Meanie. Soft. Sincere. And she won’t look at you when she says it.

☆ She starts giving you feedback. “Bigger shoulders—make me more powerful! Like a tank top model with clawed ambition!” “YOU MISSED THE HAT. DRAW THE HAT OR SO HELP ME I’LL SUE.” “You made me look too nice in this one. I look like I forgive people.” Despite the commentary, she keeps them. Every doodle you give her—ripped-out pages, napkin sketches, whatever—gets tucked neatly into a growing portfolio. You caught her one night whispering to it like a bedtime story.

☆ You try to draw her when she’s upset. Not meltdown upset—just quiet. Twitchy. Detached. Her mouth stuck in a not-smile. You sketch the tension in her shoulders, the downward tilt of her hat. You don’t show her those pages. But she finds them. Of course she does. “Is this how I look when I’m breaking in half? …Accurate.” She tilts the sketch. “But you drew me like I’m still loved, even then.” She doesn’t tear it up. She folds it gently and puts it in her cap.

☆ One day, she draws you. Sort of. It’s lopsided. Chaotic. The head is too big and the hands are just rectangles. But she gives it to you proudly, declaring: “This is YOU. You’re holding a flower and a sword and a bottle of ink and also a stress ball shaped like my face.” “You look pathetic,” Meanie mutters. “Pathetically important.”

☆ She asks you what each doodle means. You explain: That one was when she made you laugh so hard you choked. That one was when she got you out of the shadow hallway. That one was after she called you “a limited-time offer worth investing in.” ENA stares at you for a long time. Then says, “So I’m…a record? A message? A monument?” You blink. “You’re a muse.” She grins. “I’m also a tax deduction.”

☆ Eventually, she lets you draw her on her. You get a marker. A red one. She offers her arm with theatrical flair. “Brand me. Immortalize my essence. Turn me into a living portfolio!” You doodle a little heart on her clawed hand. Just one. Meanie stares at it, blinking fast. “…Dumb,” she mumbles, voice like cracked glass. Then quietly adds: “…Draw another one.”

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beloveds-embrace · 28 days ago

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(p5/final part of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader || masterlist || cw: ANGST) peep the chapter title in the masterlist :D

It came as a quiet- one so deep and vast that even the winds forgot to blow.

The castle knew before anyone. It held its breath, the great hearths snuffing down to embers, the stones cooling beneath its bones. The will-o-wisps blinked out, one by one, not in fear, but reverence- so that today, no one will be led astray. The trees along the garden paths stopped their whispering, leaves still mid-quiver, branches creaking as they turned inward toward the heart of the estate.

Thrain raised his head beneath your chamber window.

The stag, so old and rooted in legend no bard had sung his name rightly in an age, stared skyward as snow began to fall. Slow, soundless. Not cold. Each flake shimmered faintly with magic, with memory. With you.

Inside, the chamber was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale glow of starlight seeping through frost-laced glass. The scent of lavender and winter clover hung in the air, soft and faded like a lullaby remembered from childhood. Curtains, woven with moon-silver threads and embroidered with wards to keep the darker dreams at bay, shifted gently in the breeze that wasn’t there. The room itself seemed to breathe slower now, as if matching your rhythm- one long inhale, one longer silence.

You lay nestled deep beneath layers of velvet and fur, of wildflower-threaded quilts and fae-woven linens that shimmered faintly with old enchantments. Johnny had insisted on them each morning, draping warmth around your ever-fragile frame even when spring had melted the snow and kissed new green into the garden paths. It was his way of trying to keep you rooted here- on this side of the veil.

Your breathing was soft and faint. The curse had slowed in its cruel unraveling, tugged back again and again by the desperate, tireless magic John poured into you. Every drop of power he possessed, every ounce of his life force, siphoned away over the years in hopes of buying you another day, another breath, another smile. It worked for a time.

But nothing lasted forever, and John knew that.

He had known before the sun set.

He sat beside you, unmoving, save for the way his hand combed endlessly through your hair- gentle, reverent, trembling. His other hand held yours, your fingers loose and still, warmed only by his touch. Your head rested against his chest, your face tilted toward the hollow of his throat like a child tucked beneath a parent’s chin. You hadn’t spoken in days, not truly. Only murmured fragments- echoes of half-remembered songs, unfinished questions, and once, the name of a star he hadn’t heard in years. You’d sounded so happy… John’s heart had wanted to tear itself apart.

You were quiet now in the way ancient things are quiet. Like a garden gone to sleep beneath snow, like a book with no more pages left to turn.

John whispered stories to you anyway.

He spoke of the first time you met- how he thought you were too stubborn to survive the fae court and too soft to ever bend it. How wrong he’d been. How the court, the world, and even he had been reshaped around your steady, patient will.

He told you how Simon had found you one morning feeding the ghosts of the orchard, and how Kyle still carried your pressed flower charms in his armor. He recounted Johnny’s latest disaster in the kitchens and how you’d once laughed so hard at him you cried- and gods, how he wished he could hear that sound again. He told you all of it, weaving memory into magic and memory again, as if with enough words, he might stitch your soul into staying.

And as he held you, his voice frayed around the edges.

"I love you," he said. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The words cracked like porcelain dropped from too high a shelf. “Still. Always.”

Your breathing, already shallow, paused, and he stilled in turn.

Then, you sighed- just once. A sound as soft and weightless as the falling of a single petal from a long-dead flower, peace in each strand. A sound of release, a breath unburdened.

And then- you were gone.

No thunder nor flash of light, and no violent wrenching. Just absence- the soul's candle guttered in silence.

Your fingers slipped from his. Your warmth, so long faint, faded fully. Your face went still in the most peaceful way, a small smile carved on your cheeks like something ancient had simply returned to the earth it loved. The faintest glow that had always clung to your skina your humanity tempered with magic, your life steeped in love- shimmered once, and then dimmed like a star blinking out.

John did not move.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

The grief did not crash into him; it hollowed him, slowly, like the sea does to cliffside stone. He stared down at your face, memorizing what he already knew. The curve of your lips. The flutter of lashes against your cheek. The small scar on your jaw from where you’d once fallen in the Queen’s Gardens.

John did not weep even if several tears tracked down into his beard. His hands, too strong to tremble in battle, now trembled with the soft weight of your body in his arms. He could not weep, for he knew this- this was your peace. He had done his best to find a cure, but- life was not kind.

A low, resonant groan echoed through the castle, neither man-made nor fae.

The very walls- alive with magic older than time itself- mourned you. A wail of stone and a s sigh of timbers. Crystals embedded in the ceiling chimed once and shattered and the lights in the sconces flickered to ash. The wind outside did not howl- but it bent, as if bowing low to the one it had once braided through wildflower hair.

And still, John did not let you go.

He held you through the coming dark, his chest silent but for the uneven quake of breath between shaky breaths, his magic still curled around you like a desperate tether. And for hours, he simply rocked you. As if in this moment, you were still alive. As if holding you long enough might unmake the inevitable.

But death, like magic, answers to no king.

And your body stayed still and at peace.

You had left with no anger in your heart, no hatred nor guilt. You left only love, quiet and worn and fierce- threaded through every inch of the man who now mourned you.

A soul as lovely as yours could never die cruelly.

It simply… drifted home, and John understood that even if he felt something shatter so deeply it echoed across every realm.

You were gone.

No cry and no shudder, just the soft parting of a thread from a tapestry.

Later, it was Simon who walked in first. He did not speak, only looked at John- stone-eyed and trembling, and knelt beside the bed to touch your cooling hand. Kyle arrived moments later, lips parted as if he might beg you to wake. But his voice failed him and so he sat on the floor, pressing a kiss to your palm and weeping quietly into your skirts.

Johnny didn’t believe it.

He shook his head, muttering, “No, no, not yet, not today, she promised she’d stay-” over and over, until Simon caught him and held him still while he sobbed like a child.

The castle keened.

The bellflowers shriveled in their hanging baskets. The ivy browned and curled. The air itself bent with sorrow, and the spirits of the hallways- kindly, playful little creatures- huddled in corners, their small eyes wide with grief.

Outside, Thrain bowed his antlers low and walked slowly through the gates of the high keep. His hooves did not echo and no one stopped him.

He climbed the stairs, impossible though they were for a creature of his size, until he stood in the doorway of your chamber. And all the men- wounded and raw and grieving- stepped aside for they knew.

He had come for you.

With reverence, Thrain knelt beside your bed. He took in your face- still so gentle, still so full of grace, even in death. He pressed his massive muzzle to your chest and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a breath of magic so quiet even the fae barely felt it- your soul slipped free like morning sunlight spilling through an open window.

It rose, soft and warm, radiant with the echo of every kindness you’d ever given. Every time you’d kissed a servant’s brow or sung to the garden or asked a crying will-o-wisp what was wrong. Every time you’d called Thrain your dearest friend, every time you’d held hands with the men, and every time you’d forgiven John with that smile- always that smile.

And Thrain caught your tender soul.

Delicate, light as wind through reeds, and glowing like the first star of twilight. He cradled it in a curl of his antlers, the shadows of your memory flickering through the air around him- your laugh, your hum, your gentle little sighs of thought. He stepped carefully back from the bed.

John sank to his knees, and he still did not cry. There was no breath left in him to do so.

Thrain walked. Out of the castle and through the mourning halls, the bowing dryads, the crumbling roses, the silent sprites. Through the gate, down the weeping forest paths, across the river that had frozen at the moment of your death.

He walked and walked, until no living soul would reach his pace and spot.

And when he reached it, the veils parted for him alone, and he stepped into starlight.

The trees there had no bark, only silver and the roots sang hymns and chants. The sky was soft and black and full of ancient light. Thrain stood at the edge of the great pool of souls, and he bent his head low.

He did not let you fall.

He lowered you with gentleness carved from centuries of patience and pain, until your soul touched the surface of the pool like the caress of a mother’s hand.

And the water welcomed you, for you were a memory that would never die. A memory that caressed the space between his antlers just before he returned alone.

And the men- your men- stood at the gates, waiting, and they bowed their heads as he passed.

And John, still dressed in the clothes he wore when you left him, touched the place in the air where your soul had once lingered and whispered, for the last time:

"I love you."

The castle echoed the words for centuries.

And the world, though emptier, remembered you in everything that still dared to be kind.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Always.”

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aleese1111 · 16 days ago

Note

Seong je protective over reader🙏

Honestly go crazy

the ribbon she wore | geum seong je x bullied!reader

summary: at ganghak high, she’s a quiet target for cruel games—until geum seong-je walks in. he almost walks past her, just another victim in the background… until he sees the ribbon she once wore while patching him up. he didn’t plan to step in. but some memories don’t stay silent.

warnings: violence, bullying, emotional distress, brief language, mild trauma, physical aggression .

author's note: i did not go crazy on this because i personally think geum seong je is not that type of man who lays a hand on women.. he consider himself romantic afterall . requests ,,

the gym echoed in emptiness, save for the distant squeak of rubber soles and the faint hum of old ventilation systems. a cold draft slipped through the slightly ajar windows near the ceiling, brushing across the glossy floor. fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sterile white light over the scuffed wooden panels and the faded half-court lines. it was break time, but the gym remained deserted, save for the low murmurs and sharp, cruel laughter resonating from one corner.

she stood pressed against the far wall, her shoulders hunched, trying to make herself smaller. her backpack had already been yanked away, its contents strewn across the floor—books, pens, a half-open water bottle slowly leaking a thin stream that soaked into the pages. her breathing came out in short, uneven bursts. one of her pigtails had unraveled, hanging limply over her cheek, and her glasses sat crooked on her face. the cracked arm of the frame dug lightly into her temple.

"god, you're so pathetic," the taller girl spat, leaning into her space with a satisfied smirk. she shoved a biology textbook hard into her chest, making her stumble.

"didn’t you say you were gonna tell the teacher last time?" sneered the other girl, crouching just enough to pick up one of her scribbled notebooks, holding it up like it was dirty laundry. "what’s she gonna do, huh? save you from being such a know-it-all freak?"

she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. "i didn’t say anything," she said quietly.

the taller girl laughed. "oh, so now you’re lying too? wow. miss perfect over here’s got claws."

the guy with them—leaning lazily against the folded bleachers—watched on with disinterest, chewing gum, his phone in hand. he barely acknowledged what was going on, except to glance up occasionally and snicker.

the other girl suddenly lunged forward, knocking her glasses to the floor with a harsh flick of her fingers. the lenses clattered, bouncing once before skidding under a nearby bench.

"oops," she said, feigning surprise. "guess you’ll have to read the world in blur now. maybe it’ll match your personality."

the girl flinched as a hand grabbed her collar, pulling her forward and shoving her back again. her head hit the wall with a muted thud. pain throbbed through her skull, but she didn’t make a sound. she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

that’s when the gym doors groaned open.

geum seong-je stepped in, his presence like a ripple through still water. he wore the bordeaux school uniform, its deep maroon fabric tailored to a sharp edge that clung to his lean frame with casual indifference. no hoodie, no earbuds—just the crisp collar slightly askew, his sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. a cigarette dangled loosely from between his fingers, unlit but familiar, like a habit he hadn’t yet decided to break. his eyes swept over the gym, indifferent at first, shadowed by an unbothered calm that veiled something far more dangerous beneath the surface.

he strolled across the court with no rush, hands in his pockets. his gaze passed over the girls, narrowing faintly at the noise but not settling on them.

"yo," he called out to the guy near the bleachers.

the guy looked up and grinned. "finally. thought you ditched."

"almost did. had to smoke out back."

"smelled like trash?"

"worse. like that stray dog that follows you around."

they both laughed, the guy tossing his phone into his backpack. seong-je cracked a faint smile, the closest he got to something resembling amusement.

as they continued trading jabs, the bullying in the background escalated.

the taller girl had now pulled out the contents of the bullied girl’s pencil case, tossing pens across the court one by one like stones into a river. the other girl grabbed her water bottle and emptied it over her hair, slow and deliberate.

"think this’ll help you cool off, brainiac?"

the cold water trickled down her scalp, soaking her shirt and collar. her lips trembled.

"say something," the first girl demanded. "go on. quote a textbook at me. fix your grammar. explain the science of why you're such a loser."

the guy with seong-je chuckled under his breath. "damn. they’re going all out today."

seong-je turned his head slightly. his brows furrowed.

"they’re still at it? thought they'd be done by now."

"they’re bored. that girl’s like a wind-up toy—poke her and she shakes."

seong-je scoffed. "screaming like stray cats."

he turned back, walking past them toward the bleachers again. he didn’t look at the girl. he hadn’t seen her face yet—just another blurred victim in the churn of daily violence.

but then—

as he passed the scene, something flickered in his peripheral vision. a flash of light blue.

the ribbon.

he slowed. stopped.

the taller girl raised her hand again, this time with a clenched fist.

before it could fall, seong-je’s hand closed around her wrist with unrelenting force.

everything stopped.

the girl's face twisted in shock. "seong-je?! what’s your—let go!"

his voice was low. cold.

"back off."

she tried to yank away. his grip only tightened.

the other girl backed up instinctively, nearly tripping over the scattered books. the guy by the bleachers blinked, confused.

"yo, what’s wrong? it’s just some loser girl. you don’t even know her."

but seong-je did know her.

he remembered the way she had sat beside him at the empty bus stop weeks ago, the night sky draped over them like a blanket. she’d seen him bloodied, nose caked with dried crimson, his lip split.

she didn’t scream. she didn’t ask.

she just opened her bag, trembling hands digging out a tiny first aid kit.

she patched him up.

her voice was soft, like a whisper, her eyes unsure but kind. it was the gentlest thing he’d felt in years.

he let go of the girl’s wrist.

only to shove her back hard enough to make her stumble.

"she’s mine," he said, voice like thunder rolling under ice. "touch her again, and i’ll make sure you never touch anything again."

the two girls looked like they’d seen a ghost.

"what the hell is your problem?! she’s nothing—"

"not to me."

the guy stepped forward, trying to de-escalate. "come on, man. chill. this is a joke. you’re acting like she’s your girlfriend or something."

seong-je turned slowly, his gaze sharp. deadly.

"out. all of you."

they hesitated.

he took a step forward.

that was enough.

the girls grabbed their bags, muttering curses under their breath, but their fear betrayed them. the guy followed, muttering "damn, fine" under his breath as they pushed through the gym doors.

and then—

silence.

the only sound was the soft drip of water from her soaked shirt onto the floor.

seong-je turned back. she was still crouched there, arms wrapped around her knees, face hidden by wet strands of hair.

he walked toward her, slowly, until he stood a few feet away.

"it’s you," he said quietly.

she looked up, her eyes wide. red-rimmed. she blinked through blurry vision, struggling to see.

he reached down, knelt beside her.

then, from his jacket pocket, he pulled a small folded cloth—worn and frayed at the edges. the same cloth she had used on him at the bus stop.

"you carry it?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

he shrugged. "didn’t feel right to throw it away."

she took it with shaking hands, dabbing at her face. her glasses were still under the bench.

seong-je retrieved them wordlessly, wiped the lenses with the edge of his shirt, and placed them gently into her palm.

"they’re cracked," she murmured.

"still usable. like you."

she blinked. "was that... a joke?"

"don’t get used to it."

a small smile tugged at her lips, tired but real.

the bell rang, distant, ending break.

he stood.

she followed, swaying slightly. he didn’t offer his hand.

but he stayed close.

they didn’t speak again as they walked out together, side by side.

not friends. not strangers.

something in between. something unknown. but real.

and for now, that was enough.

#weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 2 x reader #weak hero class #weak hero class 2 #whc2 #geum seong je x reader #seong je x reader #kdrama x reader #x reader #aleese1111

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uncuredturkeybacon · 25 days ago

Text

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

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

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

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

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

Instead, you see her.

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

You wipe your hands on a towel and step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you say, smirking.

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

“WNBA?”

She nods.

“Which team?”

“Wings.”

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

“Very.”

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

“You’re not gonna ask who I am?”

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

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

“I’m Paige.”

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

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

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

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

“My spot?”

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

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

“Maybe this’ll be mine.”

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

She tilts her head. “That an invitation?”

“That’s a promise.”

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

“Thanks for not...making it a thing.”

“Making what a thing?”

“My name. Who I am.”

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

She leaves with that soft smile still on her lips.

The next day, she’s back.

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

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

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

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

“Halfway through a protein bar in my car.”

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

She leans forward. “Surprise me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t yesterday. I looked it up.”

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

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

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

“You’re brutal.”

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

Over the next week, she keeps coming.

Always alone. Always to the counter seat.

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder. “The restaurant?”

She nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re saying that like it’s a dig.”

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

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

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

“Want dessert?” you offer.

She perks up instantly. “What kind?”

“You’ll see.”

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

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

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

It’s comfortable. Strangely so.

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

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

She hums. “That’s a good line.”

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

She laughs, gaze soft.

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

But you don’t.

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “You start it?”

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

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

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

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

“Not the curry again,” she pleads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” she says. “Kind of like you.”

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

She grins. “You like me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you expect?”

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

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

You smirk. “Emotionally.”

She grins. “Still feels like a compliment.”

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

Outside, rain taps gently on the windows.

Neither of you says much. The silence feels sacred.

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

You look over. “Of course.”

“Why a restaurant?”

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Same drug. Different medium.”

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

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

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

“I like feeding you.”

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

The door opens.

Then closes.

She’s gone again.

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

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

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

“Well, well.”

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

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

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

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

She falls in step beside you without being asked.

You don’t stop her.

You walk through the stalls together.

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

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

“Different how?”

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

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

She nods. “I get that.”

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

It’s so easy, it scares you a little.

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

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

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

Paige: No dinner tonight?

You sigh. A pause.

You: Had to close early. Apartment trouble.

Paige: Want company?

You stare at the message for a minute.

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

You hesitate.

You: Sure. Door’s open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at that.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

You pause. Not defensive. Just… pulled back.

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

She nods. Doesn’t push.

You appreciate that more than she knows.

“You?” you ask.

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

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

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

She glances over. “For what?”

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

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

After she leaves, the apartment feels different.

Not empty. Just… touched.

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

You don’t mind it.

Not at all.

It’s raining again.

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

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

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

You glance up.

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

You blink. “You’re drenched.”

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

“You walked here? In this?”

“I missed dinner.”

You freeze.

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

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

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

She doesn’t answer.

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

“Paige?”

She looks up.

And that’s when you notice it.

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

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

You walk over slowly, meeting her where she stands.

“What happened?” you ask, softer now.

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

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

“I played like shit tonight.”

You wait.

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

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

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

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

You don’t say anything for a moment.

“You want something warm or something cold?”

She blinks. “That’s your response?”

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

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

“I’ve been called worse.”

She looks up at you.

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

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

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

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

She eats slowly.

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

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

That earns a snort.

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I’m scared,” she admits.

You look up. “Of what?”

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

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

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

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

And the air between you stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s… hopeful.

Before she leaves, you hand her a paper bag.

“What’s this?”

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

She stares at you for a moment.

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

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

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

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

Paige: You off today?

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

You: Yeah. What’s up?

The dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Paige: I’m outside.

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

You push the cart toward her.

The doors slide open with a whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you ever stop?” she asks.

You glance over. “Stop what?”

“Moving. Doing. Feeding. Fixing.”

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

She tilts her head. “Do I let you?”

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

She doesn’t look away. “I want to.”

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

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

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

You keep your voice even. “And?”

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

The air thins.

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

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

She takes that in like it’s a promise.

And maybe it is.

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

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

You ask, eventually, “Why today?”

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

“Why show up now?”

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t answer with words.

She just leans her head against your shoulder.

And stays there.

For a long, long time.

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

You’re closed.

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

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

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

“Still feels like trespassing.”

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

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

“You’re oddly specific.”

You smile despite yourself.

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

She nods. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll add it to my seduction plan.”

She snorts, nearly choking.

You both laugh.

And then, without warning, it fades.

Not awkwardly. Not abruptly.

Just… slows.

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

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

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

“I had a weird day,” she says.

“What kind of weird?”

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

You nod. “Those are the worst.”

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

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

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

The air shifts again.

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

She says it like a confession.

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

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

She shakes her head.

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters.

You should say something.

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

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

And there it is.

That nearly.

The almost.

The invisible thread pulling tight between you.

Neither of you cross it.

Not yet.

But she doesn’t leave for a long time.

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

A touch that says, I’m here.

Paige: You awake?

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

You: Yeah. You okay?

Paige: Can I see you?

You meet her twenty minutes later.

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

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

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

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

You don’t ask where you’re going.

You just walk.

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

Paige breaks the silence first.

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

You smile. “That sounds… miserable.”

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath catches. “Sometimes.”

The light changes. You both cross.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. “Why did you come tonight?”

She stops walking.

You do too.

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice is just as quiet. “Promise?”

You nod. “As long as you don’t run.”

“I’m not good at slow,” she admits.

“You’re doing fine.”

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

But her fingers find yours.

And she doesn’t let go.

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

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

It’s already real.

There’s a knock on your door.

No text. No warning.

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

You wipe your hands and open the door.

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

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

You blink. “I didn’t get a text.”

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

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

She exhales, relieved. “Good.”

The two of you end up in the kitchen.

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

You boil the water. She preps garlic.

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

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

“What part?”

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

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

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

She doesn’t mean physically.

You feel it too.

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

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

“Let me taste,” you murmur.

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

You nod. “Perfect.”

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

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

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

You look at her.

Really look.

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

But you don’t kiss her.

And she doesn’t kiss you.

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

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

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

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

You hand her a towel. She dries.

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

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

You don’t answer.

Because you want it too.

And you’re scared of how much.

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

You wake to a text.

Paige: Are you working today?

You: Always.

Paige: Not tonight.

You pause.

You: What’s going on?

Paige: I want to take you somewhere.

She picks you up at seven sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

She looks at you. “Come on.”

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

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

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

She laughs. “Shut up.”

Then she’s quiet.

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

You say nothing. You want her to finish.

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

She steps closer.

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

Your throat tightens.

She swallows hard.

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

You take a step closer.

You don't answer with words.

You reach for her hand.

She lets you take it.

Fingers laced. Easy. Natural.

“Yes,” you whisper.

She beams.

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

No kiss yet.

Not quite.

But almost.

Almost, again.

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

Because now you’re moving forward.

Together.

You don’t dress up.

Neither does she.

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

“You ready?” she asks.

“I’ve been ready.”

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

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

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

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

She beams.

She made most of the food herself.

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

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

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

“You say that, but—”

“I mean it.”

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

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

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

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

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

You hum softly. “This isn’t empty.”

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

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

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

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

You don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“You always can.”

She exhales. “What made you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

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

She’s quiet.

So are you.

But you’re both here.

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

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

You look at her.

She’s already smiling.

You don’t say anything.

You just kiss her.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

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

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

And you give it to her.

Because after this?

There’s always one more.

You don’t talk about labels.

You don’t need to.

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

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

Date two is spontaneous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At another, her lips find your forehead.

Date three is grocery shopping.

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

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

You blink. “The frozen foods section?”

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

You laugh. She grins.

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

Date four is a drive-in movie.

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

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

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

Just you.

There are other moments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

You never even think about it.

It’s not perfect.

She still disappears into her head sometimes.

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

But neither of you run anymore.

And every day, it gets easier to stay.

It happens on a Saturday.

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

Paige: Wanna come to the game tonight?

You pause mid-swipe.

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

You: Are you sure?

Paige: I’m very sure.

You: Okay. Where should I sit?

The reply comes quick.

Paige: With me. Before. In the tunnel.

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

“You look good,” you say.

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

“You look nervous.”

She shrugs. “I am.”

“About the game?”

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

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

“It’s safe with me,” you whisper.

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

This is with her.

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

You step in.

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

You.

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

You blink at it. Then at her.

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It helps.”

You reach for her hand. Squeeze it.

She exhales.

“Wait here?”

You nod. “Go warm up, Bueckers.”

You sit court side that night.

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

Right at the edge, where she can see you.

She glances over just before tipoff. Winks.

You feel it in your knees.

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

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

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

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

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

You pull her into your arms anyway.

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

“I had a reason to be,” she breathes.

You pull back slightly.

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

And then she says it.

Three words.

Eight Letters.

Soft. Certain. No build-up.

“I love you.”

You don’t freeze.

You don’t flinch.

You just smile.

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

She kisses you before the press can catch up.

And this time, neither of you hide.

It’s her idea.

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

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

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

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

You stare at her.

She stares back.

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

It’s a cabin two hours north.

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

You step out of the car and breathe.

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

“I did,” she answers.

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

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

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

She smiles. “That tracks.”

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

The next morning, she wakes you with pancakes.

Terrible pancakes.

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

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

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Then grin.

“This is disgusting.”

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

“You love me.”

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer right away.

Because you want to.

You want forever.

You want more.

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

You bury it.

Later.

You’ll deal with it later.

Right now, you have this.

Her. Here. With you.

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

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

You don’t have plans.

No dinners, no reservations, no getaways.

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

You wake before her.

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

You shift slightly, brushing hair out of her eyes.

She stirs, blinking into the morning.

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

“You snore,” you counter.

She snorts. “Do not.”

“You do.”

“Lies.”

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

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

You gasp, scandalized. “I do not.”

“I have receipts.”

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

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

Now it’s yours.

You don’t get out of bed until noon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She throws a dishtowel at your head.

Later, you walk to the bookstore downtown.

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

Inside, you lose her for a while.

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

She looks up and smiles when she sees you.

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

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

And something inside you breaks gently open.

That evening, you cook together again.

No distractions. No music.

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

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

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

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

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

You hold her like she’s already a memory.

But you don’t know why.

Not yet.

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

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

You nod.

So do you.

So badly it hurts.

But all you say is, “Me too.”

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

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x reader #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh #wnba x reader #dallas wings

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r0ugesun · 10 months ago

Text

running with the wolves

Beta read by my wife @moonstruksandco ( ˘ ³˘)˘ᵋ ˘ )♥

Synopsis: Cregan Stark, the formidable Lord of Winterfell, eagerly awaits the arrival of his new betrothed, y/n, who has bewitched him since childhood. As winter sets in, he hopes to transform their arranged marriage into a union of love. However, y/n arrives with her own doubts, unsure if she can return his deep affection. Will their marriage blossom into love, or remain a cold duty? Cregan is determined to show her that their bond can be more than just an obligation on their wedding night.

Warnings: 18+ slow burn, smut, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, p in v sex (unprotected), breeding kink, rough sex, oral sex(both f/m receiving) missionary, mating press, doggy style lots of cum (I think all stark men cum bucket loads)

8k+ words likes and reblogs are highly appreciated ෆ/⟳ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

(Authors note: omg hayy I don’t know that much about Yorkshire accents aside from ackley bridge so I’m sorry in advanced if it’s not right :>)

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The wind howled through the ancient halls of Winterfell, carrying with it the biting chill of the northern winter. Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North, stood by the great hearth in the main hall, his keen grey eyes fixed on the entrance. The time had come for the arrival of his new betrothed, y/n, the most beautiful amongst house Tyrell.

From the moment he first saw her, Cregan had been captivated. Even as a young lad, her grace and elegance had set her apart. Now, as a grown woman, she was even more bewitching, and Cregan's heart swelled with a mix of anticipation and determination. He was resolved to turn their arranged marriage into a union of love.

As Cregan stood by the hearth, he watched the window, the snowflakes drifting lazily to the ground, a distant memory surfaced, warm and vivid against the icy present. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be transported back to a time when he was just a young lad of twelve, visiting Highgarden with his family.

He remembered the journey vividly, how different the South had seemed compared to the North. The air was warmer, the colors more vibrant. He had wandered through the lush gardens, marveling at the flowers and plants that couldn’t survive the harsh winters of Winterfell. It was in those gardens that he first saw her.

Y/n had been around his age, a vision of beauty even then. She sat on a stone bench, engrossed in a book, her expression serene and detached. Her hair, shining in the sunlight, cascaded down her shoulders, and her delicate features were framed by the backdrop of blooming flowers. She seemed almost like a fairytale princess, so enchanting that he could scarcely believe she was real.

Without even realizing it his feet began to move on their own, he was like a moth being drawn to the flame that was her. As he approached her, His heart pounded in his chest, an unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling. She glanced up briefly from her book as he neared, her eyes meeting his for just a moment before returning to her reading.

“H-Hello” he said, trying to muster as much confidence as he could. “What are yeh reading?”

She responded without looking up this time, her voice calm and distant. “Hmm a collection of poems” she replied. “Do you like poetry?”

Cregan, caught off guard, nodded. “Aye. Though I don’t read much of it.”

She patted the space beside her, still not lifting her gaze from the pages. “You can sit if you want.”

He sat down slowly, feeling a strange sense of destiny in that moment. She continued to read aloud, her voice weaving the words into a tapestry of emotion and beauty. He listened, captivated not by the poetry but by her otherworldliness her grace, and the way she brought the words to life. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, completely in star struck, while she remained indifferent, too engrossed in her book to notice his adoration.

That was the last time they spoke just a few exchange of words. The rest of his visit to Highgarden was spent with his father and training with Y/N’s brothers and learning the ways of a lord, much to his chagrin. But whenever he could, he would steal glances at her from a window while she read in the garden, and across from her at dinner, for which his mother often scolded him.

"Cregan, it's impolite to stare" his mother whispered sharply during dinner one evening, nudging his foot under the table.

He tore his eyes away from y/n, his cheeks burning and crimson red. "I weren’t starin’, Mother.”

“Yeh most certainly were” she replied, her tone firm. “It’s not appropriate. Focus on yer meal.”

“But she’s… she’s so…”

“Enchantin’?” his mother finished for him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Aye, she is. But yeh must remember yer manners, lad. Staring is unbecoming of a young lord.”

Cregan sighed, casting one last, fleeting glance at y/n, who was still in her own little world not casting a single glance his way. “Aye, mother….”

Despite his mother’s admonitions, his fascination with Y/N only grew, even as she remained blissfully unaware of his admiration.

Cregan opened his eyes, the memory fading as the cold reality of Winterfell settled back in. He sighed, turning away from the window. Some things, he mused, never truly changed.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

In the dimly lit carriage, y/n huddled under the blankets, trying to stave off the biting cold that seemed to seep through the very fabric of her clothes. Her mother sat beside her, wrapped in her own covers and trying to offer some semblance of warmth and comfort. The carriage jolted over the rough, snow covered road, and every bump made her shiver more.

Her brothers, true to their duty, were outside braving the harsh northern winter with their horses, though y/n could scarcely imagine how they managed. She, however, had the luxury of being confined to the carriage, a prisoner of her own anxieties and fears.

The stories she’d heard about Cregan Stark haunted her thoughts. The gruff warden of the north with a claymore sword so heavy it was said to be the size of a small man. To her, the very idea of marrying such a man was nightmarish. She couldn't remember much about him from his family’s previous visit to Highgarden all those years ago, but the tales of his fierceness and the imposing aura of the North made her dread the moment she would finally meet him.

The carriage seemed to creak with the weight of her mother's discontent. Her mother’s complaints, murmured under her breath but audible enough for y/n to hear, were laced with disdain. “I cannot believe we’ve had to send our only daughter off to marry a Stark”

“Their way of life, covered in stinking animal pelts, living amongst brutes who value strength over grace. It’s hardly the life for a Tyrell.” She said with disgust.

Her father’s stern gaze flicked towards her mother, his patience evidently wearing thin. "We’ve discussed this, Eliza. The match is made, and it’s for the good of House Tyrell. Stop lamenting what cannot be undone."

To him, this marriage was merely a strategic move, a means to secure more power for Highgarden. His daughter's feelings were of no consequence, his focus was solely on the political gain.

“Do you have to be so callous?” her mother’s voice broke through the gloom. “She is our daughter.”

Her father’s gaze remained unyielding. “The alliance with the Starks is necessary for the gain of our house. Y/n is to be a dutiful wife to a powerful lord it’s what she was raised for, if she does her duty right she’ll bear him many children further securing our power”

As her father’s harsh words continued to echo in her ears, y/n’s anger flared. She straightened up, glaring at him . “If you wanted to gift Cregan a broodmare, you should’ve gotten him one of the whores you visit in the brothels” she spat out, her voice trembling with defiance.

mother’s gasp of shock was barely audible over the creaking of the carriage. Her father’s eyes were wild, a hot fury flashing in them. Before y/n could react, his hand shot out, delivering a hard, stinging slap across her face. The sharp force of it made her head snap to the side, and she recoiled, stunned by the sudden violence.

“How dare you!” her father’s voice roared with anger.

y/n’s mother was frozen, her hand going to her mouth in shock. She looked at her husband with a mixture of horror and helplessness. “Henry, please—”

“Be silent!” he snapped, cutting her off. “I will not tolerate such insolence!“

He turned his icy gaze back to y/n, his face a mask of unrelenting severity. “You are about to become the wife of a powerful man. you are fortunate that I secured this arrangement, otherwise you would just end up being Cregans whore in some brothel anyway.”

Y/n’s heart sank as she heard the finality in his cruel words. She knew better than to argue with him—his decisions were made with an iron will that left no room for dissent.

as the carriage continued its slow journey through the snow, y/n's thoughts were plagued with anxiety and uncertainty. The grandeur of Winterfell loomed ahead, and with it, the reality of her new life as Cregan Stark’s bride. She could only hope that, amidst the cold and the gruffness of her new home, she might find a way to endure this new chapter of her life.

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As Cregan stood by the hearth, still lost in his own thoughts, the door swung open with a crash and his friends burst in, laughter and shouts echoing through the great hall.

“Cregan, ye dog! Heard the news, did we!” Jorah boomed, striding up to him and clapping him on the back with such force it nearly sent him stumbling forward.

“Aye, lad, congratulations!” Gendry called out, raising his tankard high. “A Tyrell, no less! Must’ve done somethin’ right to be landin’ a lass like that.”

Cregan, smiling, shook his head as he tried to make sense of the sudden uproar. “Cheers, lads. Bit early for a celebratory drink, ain’t it?”

Bram, always one for a jest, stepped forward with a grin. “Well, Cregan, we heard she’s real beauty, fairest in all the Seven Kingdoms. Quite the catch for a dog like you. Ain’t right, really, a face like hers and a face like yours.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, is that so? And what about ye lot, then? All of ye been lookin’ in the mirror lately?”

The room erupted in laughter, and Bram waved a dismissive hand. “Aye, we might be a rough lot, but at least we ain’t got to worry ‘bout our faces bein’ compared to a rose.”

Robb, always quick with a quip, leaned in with a wink. “Might be true she’ll forget all ‘bout yer ugly mug once she gets a look at what’s really under yer tunic. you’ve got more to offer than just yer sorry looks.”

Cregan’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he laughed along, trying to maintain his composure. “Ah, so ye’re sayin’ it’s all in the size of me… character, is it?”

“Aye, that’s right!” Robb said with a grin. “Best thing about ye, Cregan, is that even if your face don’t make the cut, yer other qualities surely will.”

Cregan shook his head, laughing despite himself. “Well, if it’s me ‘other qualities’ that’ll win her over, then I reckon I’d best be makin’ sure she gets a good look at all of ‘em.”

Jorah slapped him on the back again, nearly sending him reeling. “Look at ye, all flustered! Never thought I’d see the day. Don’t worry, lad. What lass wouldn’t want a strong Northman?”

“Aye, just keep it down a bit, or you’ll have me blushing so hard I’ll be usin’ me face as a lantern” Cregan said, his grin widening.

The friends continued their banter, the atmosphere warm with camaraderie and laughter. As they raised their mugs in a final toast, Cregan felt a renewed sense of anticipation and affection for the future, no matter the teasing jabs from his mates.

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The room was alive with laughter and chatter as Cregan and his friends carried on with their banter. Jorah was in the middle of a lively tale from a recent hunt, while Robb and Gendry argued over the best way to handle a particularly stubborn horse.

The door creaked open, and in walked Lady Gilliane Glover and Lord Rickon Stark, their presence immediately silencing the room. Lady Gilliane, a woman of dignified grace, and Lord Rickon, tall and commanding, made their way over to their son.

“Cregan, me lad!” Lady Gilliane called out, her voice warm but authoritative. “Got a bit o’ news for ye.”

Cregan turned, a smile fading as he saw his parents. He stood, brushing his hands on his tunic. “Mother, Father, what brings ye here?”

Lord Rickon gave a nod, his face a mix of seriousness and pride. “Your brother spotted Y/N’s carriage on the road. They’ll be arrivin’ soon.”

The room quieted, the friends sensing the shift in the mood. Jorah nudged Cregan with a grin. “Looks like the real fun’s about to start, eh?”

Lady Gilliane gave a small, amused smile. “Aye, that’s right. Thought ye’d want to know. They’ll be here within the hour, so best be ready.”

Cregan’s heart raced, and he glanced at his friends, trying to mask his nerves. “Well, no time like the present, I suppose. Best get meself sorted.”

Lord Rickon placed a reassuring hand on Cregan’s shoulder. “Remember, lad, first impressions count. Show her what a proper Stark man ye are.”

“Aye, Father,” Cregan said, nodding. He turned to his friends with a determined look. “Ye lot best behave yerselves when she arrives. Don’t be givin’ her any more trouble than need be.”

The friends raised their mugs, grinning. “Aye, aye, Cregan! We’ll be on our best behavior,” Robb said, winking.

Lady Gilliane’s gaze softened as she looked at her son. “We’ll leave ye to it, then. Just remember, Cregan, she’ll be as nervous as ye, if not more. Show her the warmth of the North.”

As Lady Gilliane and Lord Rickon exited the hall, Cregan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The anticipation of meeting Y/N was building with every tick of the clock, and he knew the coming hours would be crucial.

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Y/n sat in the carriage, the stark contrast between the verdant landscapes of Highgarden and the harsh, icy expanse of Winterfell weighing heavily on her. The snow-clad scenery outside felt alien and unwelcoming compared to the lush greenery she had left behind. Each jolt of the carriage seemed to deepen her sense of displacement.

Her mother’s hand, warm and steady, was a source of comfort amid her growing anxiety. Y/N clung to it, drawing solace from its presence as she tried to quell her rising fears.

“We’re almost there, dear” her mother said softly, her voice a gentle balm against the cold atmosphere of the carriage. “Remember, we’re in this together.”

Y/n managed a small, appreciative smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you, Mother. It’s just… it’s so different from home.”

Her father, ever the pillar of stoicism, was peering out the window, his gaze fixed on the approaching Winterfell.

The carriage began to slow, the crunch of snow under the wheels signaling their arrival. As they came to a stop, y/n could see her father alighting first, his figure steady and authoritative as he approached Lord Rickon Stark.

“Lord Rickon” her father said, stepping forward with a formal nod. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”

Y/n and her mother remained in the carriage, the cold air seeping through the cracks in the doors. Her mother's hand squeezed hers gently, offering a fleeting moment of comfort in the face of her overwhelming anxiety.

"Mother" y/n whispered, her voice trembling. "What if I can't do this? I-I’m scared"

Her mother turned to her, eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. "Oh, my dear, I know it seems daunting. But you have a strength within you that you may not yet realize. You have always been resilient."

Tears welled up in y/n's eyes. "I feel so far from home. Everything here is so cold, so harsh."

Her mother reached up, brushing a tear from

y/n's cheek. "I know, darling. Highgarden's warmth and beauty are hard to leave behind. But you must remember, you have the ability to adapt and thrive. This place will feel like home in time."

Y/n nodded, trying to take comfort in her mother's words, but the knot in her stomach remained tight. "And what of Father? He seems so determined, but... he never cares for how I feel."

Her mother's expression darkened momentarily before she masked it with a gentle smile. "don't let him weigh you down. Focus on yourself and your own strength. You are here to build a new life, and I believe in you."

The carriage door opened, and the cold air rushed in, a stark reminder of the world awaiting her. Her father was already engaged in conversation with Lord Rickon Stark, their voices carrying a tone of formality and mutual respect.

"It's time" her mother said softly, giving y/n's hand one last reassuring squeeze. "Show them the grace and strength you possess. You are more than capable y/n."

With a deep breath, y/n steeled herself and stepped out of the carriage. The cold air bit at her skin, but she walked forward, her mother following closely behind.

Y/n's mother nudged her gently, drawing her attention away from the imposing figure of Lord Rickon. "Y/n, dear" she whispered, "Lord Cregan is approaching you."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat as she turned to see Cregan making his way towards her. He was even taller and more formidable than she remembered, his broad shoulders and strong build making him appear larger than life. She stiffened, her body tensing with apprehension.

Cregan's eyes, a deep and thoughtful blue, met hers as he stopped before her. He could see the trepidation in her gaze, the way her hands clutched the folds of her cloak. Despite the fear evident in her demeanor, she managed to muster a polite greeting.

"Lord Cregan" she said, her voice steady but tinged with a slight tremor. "It is an honor to be here."

Cregan offered a warm smile, though he felt a pang of hurt and self-consciousness at the sight of her fear. He noticed the redness around her eyes, the telltale signs that she had been crying. The realization made his heart ache—she was far from home, surrounded by strangers, and faced with the daunting prospect of marrying him, a man she barely remembered.

"Lady y/n" he responded, his voice gentle. "The honor is mine. Welcome to Winterfell."

Y/n nodded, her posture rigid. "Thank you, my lord."

He could see her struggling to maintain her composure, her attempts to be polite masking the underlying fear and uncertainty. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that she was safe here with him, but he knew his words might not carry much weight given the circumstances.

"Ye must be tired from yer journey" Cregan said, trying to ease the tension. "I hope the accommodations we’ve prepared for ye are to yer liking."

She glanced around, her eyes briefly meeting his before darting away. "I'm sure they will be, my lord. Thank you."

Cregan's heart softened at her evident discomfort. He could only imagine how overwhelming this experience must be for her—leaving the warmth and familiarity of Highgarden for the cold and formidable North, betrothed to an intimidating stranger.

"Please, if there is anything ye need, do not hesitate to ask," he added, his tone earnest. "I want ye to feel at home here."

Y/N nodded again, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Lord Cregan."

As the formalities continued, Cregan remained by her side, acutely aware of her apprehension. He could see the way she shivered slightly in the cold, her delicate frame dwarfed by the heavy cloak she wore. The vulnerability in her eyes struck a chord within him, igniting a protective instinct he hadn’t anticipated.

He knew it would take time for her to adjust, to feel comfortable in this new and unfamiliar place. And while her fear and anxiety might hurt him, he understood the reasons behind them. She was far from home, thrust into a situation beyond her control, and he was determined to show her that she had nothing to fear.

As the crowd began to disperse, Cregan leaned in slightly, his voice low and sincere. "I hope ye will come to find Winterfell as welcoming as Highgarden, Lady y/n. We Northerners may seem cold, but we are loyal and true. Ye have my word on that."

Y/n looked up at him, her eyes searching his for a moment before she nodded, a hint of hope mingling with her fear. "…I will do my best."

He smiled softly, hoping to convey his sincerity. "And I will do my best to make this place a home for ye."

With that, they parted, y/n retreating to her quarters with her mother while Cregan watched her go, a mix of emotions churning within him. He was determined to prove himself to her, to show her that beneath his intimidating exterior lay a heart of gold capable of warmth and compassion.

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The day of the wedding arrived, casting a serene hush over Winterfell. The godswood was adorned for the occasion, the ancient weirwood standing sentinel over the ceremony, its pale bark and blood-red leaves seeming to echo the gravity of the moment.

In her chambers, y/n adjusted her maiden’s cloak for the final time. The rich green of House Tyrell’s sigil contrasted sharply with the snowy landscape visible through the window. Her father, though distant and stern, was prepared to escort her. As they approached the godswood, y/n’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on her.

Her father’s expression was somber, but he offered her a curt nod, signaling it was time. Together, they walked through the snow, the crunching of their footsteps the only sound breaking the silence. The guests had gathered, their breaths visible in the chill air, and they fell into a hushed reverence as y/n and her father approached the heart tree.

Cregan waited beneath the weirwood, his eyes fixed on the approaching bride. As she neared, his breath caught slightly, a mixture of awe and anticipation in his gaze. The grandeur of y/n’s beauty was amplified by the solemnity of the godswood, her presence seeming almost ethereal in the fading light.

When they reached the base of the tree, Cregan’s voice rang out clearly, cutting through the stillness. “Who comes? Who comes before the gods?”

Y/n’s father’s voice was steady as he replied,

“Y/n of House Tyrell comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Cregan’s response was filled with a fervent resolve. “Me, Cregan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. I claim her. Who gives her?”

Y/n’s father turned to her, his voice formal but lacking warmth. “I, Henry of House Tyrell, her father, gives her.”

He then addressed y/n, his tone clipped. “Lady y/n, will you take this man?”

Y/n’s voice trembled slightly but was resolute. “I take this man.”

With the formalities completed, Cregan and y/n joined hands and knelt before the weirwood. They bowed their heads, submitting to the gods in silent prayer. The moment was charged with a profound intimacy, the ancient tree bearing witness to their vows.

After a few moments, Cregan gently removed

y/n’s maiden’s cloak, revealing the intricate embroidery of House Tyrell on her dress. With great care, he draped over her shoulders a new cloak—the sigil of House Stark now displayed proudly.

The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers ringing out as Cregan and y/n stood together. The ceremony was complete, the ancient bond of the godswood now symbolizing the beginning of their shared life.

As they walked back towards the castle, Cregan stole glances at y/n, his admiration and anticipation palpable. Despite the harshness of Winterfell’s climate and the gravity of their new life, the day had marked a hopeful new chapter for both of them.

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Y/n's heart pounded as Cregan guided her through the cold, imposing corridors of Winterfell. The castle's heavy stone walls seemed to close in on her, amplifying her sense of isolation. Cregan's presence beside her was both comforting and intimidating, she couldn’t shake the fear that gripped her heart.

They arrived at Cregan's chambers, where a warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft, inviting glow. He gestured for her to enter first, and after a brief hesitation, she stepped inside.

"Please, make yerself comfortable," Cregan said, closing the door behind them. His northern accent was thick, adding a rugged charm to his words. "Would ye like somethin' to drink? A bit o' wine, mayhaps, to help ye warm up?"

Y/n nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, thank you."

Cregan poured a glass of wine and handed it to her, his gaze lingering on her as she took a small sip. He could see the tension in her posture and wanted to ease her fears, to show her that he was not the monster she imagined.

"Y/n," he began, his voice low and earnest, the thick accent wrapping each word in a soft embrace, "I know this must be overwhelmin'. I want ye to know that I understand yer fears, and I swear I’ll do everythin' in me power to make ye feel safe and cherished here."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. "Thank you, my lord," she said, her voice quivering. "I… I don't know what to expect."

Cregan took a step closer, his gaze filled with a yearning that spoke of deep emotion. "Ye can call me Cregan" he said, the warmth in his northern accent making his words even more poignant. "And I need ye to hear me now, for it’s somethin’ I’ve carried with me for years. From the moment I first beheld ye, me heart was forever altered."

Y/n's breath hitched, her eyes searching his face for the truth behind his words. Cregan's expression was tender, his gaze reflecting a vulnerability she hadn’t expected. He took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to bare his soul.

"I remember the first time I saw ye in the gardens of Highgarden," he said softly, his voice weaving a tapestry of emotion. "I was just a lad, new to the beauty of the south. Everythin’ around me was lush and vibrant, but when I saw ye, it was as if my world fell apart. Ye were like a vision of ethereal grace amidst the greenery. The flowers and the trees—they seemed mere shadows compared to ye. In that moment, it was clear that ye were the true beauty of the garden."

Y/n's eyes widened, and a flush of color spread across her cheeks. She could hardly breathe as she processed his confession. "Since then?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Cregan nodded, his gaze steady and full of longing. "Aye, since then. Ye were a beacon of light in me life, and that memory has lingered, burnin’ bright in me heart. I’ve longed to be near ye, not merely for the sake of duty, but because ye’ve ensnared my heart in a way no one else ever could."

Her heart fluttered wildly at his words, the warmth of the fire mingling with the warmth of his confession. She had always felt like a pawn in her father’s game, never imagining that someone like Cregan could see her so profoundly.

"I didn’t know" she said softly, her voice catching in her throat. "I thought... I thought you would be distant and cold."

Cregan's smile widened, his eyes soft with pure affection. "Aye the North may be cold, but my heart is only filled with warmth for ye. I want ye to see the real me, to know that I am here for ye with all that I am."

She looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of sincerity and yearning that shifted her perception. Perhaps this marriage could be more than a mere alliance. Maybe it could be the beginning of something profoundly beautiful.

"Thank you, Cregan…." she whispered, feeling a newfound sense of calm and hope. "I... I want to try."

Cregan’s smile was full of warmth and relief. "Tha’s all I ask, Y/n. We’ll take this one step at a time, together."

As they stood there, hand in hand, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, Y/n felt a spark of hope ignite in her heart, seeing Cregan in a new light.

Cregan's eyes never left Y/n's as he took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted this moment to be perfect, to reassure her of his intentions.

"Y/n" he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "may I kiss ye?"

Y/n's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing scarlet. She hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, Cregan. You may."

Cregan moved closer, his hand gently cupping her cheeks as he leaned in. He pressed his lips to hers in a soft tender, almost hesitant kiss, his touch gentle and reassuring. Y/n responded, her initial nervousness melting away as she felt the warmth and sincerity in his kiss.

When he pulled back, he looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort. Seeing none, he smiled softly. "Ye're so beautiful, Y/n."

She blushed again, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Cregan."

He took her hand, leading her to the bed. As they stood beside it, he gently picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Y/n gasped softly, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carried her. He laid her down on the bed with the utmost care, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

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Cregan's gaze remained locked on Y/n’s face, his eyes filled with a deep, reverent admiration. He lowered himself beside her on the bed, his hand still cupping her cheek. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “I can’t believe yer finally mine. My wife.”

Y/n’s heart fluttered at the sincerity in his voice. The way he looked at her made her feel cherished, his admiration lighting a fire within her. Her apprehension melted away as she reached up, cupping his face in return. “And I’m grateful to be yours, Cregan.”

Their lips met again, this time with more fervor. The kiss deepened as Cregan’s hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. Y/n’s hands roamed over his shoulders, pulling him into the kiss with equal intensity. The warmth of his touch, combined with the gentle urgency of their embrace, made her feel as if she was floating.

Cregan’s breath mingled with hers as he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve wanted this so much” he whispered. “I’ve wanted ye.”

Y/n’s eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze and the sincerity of his words. She felt a new, desperate longing surge within her, her body responding to his touch with an eagerness she hadn’t expected. “Please, Cregan” she breathed out, her voice trembling with emotion.

Their lips met again, each kiss more passionate than the last. The world outside seemed to fade away as they lost themselves in the moment, their breaths coming in sync as their yearning for each other deepened with every touch.

Cregan's kisses grew more intense, his touch transforming from gentle caresses to an urgent, burning desire. He pulled back just enough to look into Y/n's eyes, his own dark with passion. "I want to see all of ye, to feel ye" he said softly, his voice rough with need.

With deliberate care, he started to undress, his movements slow and deliberate. He tossed his cloak aside, revealing his strong muscular frame. Y/n's breath caught in her throat as she watched him, his hardened form visible through his small clothes, making her heart race with a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement.

Cregan's hands moved to his shirt, sliding it off with a practiced ease. His gaze remained locked on Y/n as he undressed, his eyes filled with a burning intensity. His hands lingered on the waistband of his smallclothes, his hardness evident and stirring a deep, aching longing within Y/n.

When he was finally freed his cock, Cregan approached Y/n with a tender but determined expression. He reached for her cloak, slipping it off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His fingers moved deftly to her dress, his touch gentle but purposeful as he began to unlace it.

The fabric fell away, revealing her bare chest to his gaze. Cregan's breath caught at the sight, his eyes roaming over her exposed skin with a mixture of reverence and desire.

"Ye're stunning," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "I want to cherish every part of ye."

Yn's skin tingled under his gaze, her heart pounding as she felt both exposed and cherished.

Cregan's hands continued their exploration, his touch both reverent and possessive. He leaned in to kiss her again, his lips trailing hot, desperate kisses across her neck and shoulders.

His hands roamed over her bare skin, his touch igniting a fierce desire within her. She gasped, her body arching into his touch, as he pressed her into the bed with a controlled but eager force. His kisses became more fervent, his hands gripping her waist as he explored her body with a possessive urgency.

"I've longed for this moment" Cregan said between kisses, his voice rough with need.

Yn responded with equal fervor, her hands gripping his shoulders as she kissed him back with a desperate passion. "Show me, Cregan" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Show me how much you want me."

The room was filled with the sounds of their mingled breaths and wet sloppy kisses as they lost themselves in the moment. Cregan's touch was a blend of tenderness and raw desire, each movement and kiss building a profound connection that left them both breathless and yearning for more.

As the kiss deepened, Cregan's touch grew more urgent, his hands roaming over Y/n's body with increasing desperation. His kisses, once tender and exploratory, became more demanding, his breaths ragged as he tried to control his growing desire. Yet, despite the intensity of their embrace, Cregan seemed to hold back, his movements tinged with an inner struggle to remain gentle.

Y/n could sense his restraint and the tension in his body. She was overwhelmed by the fire burning within her, her own desire driving her to push past his tentative touches.

"Cregan" she gasped between kisses, her voice trembling with need. "I want you. I want you to claim me fully."

Cregan's breath hitched, his eyes dark with a mix of surprise and longing. "Y/n... I-I don't want to hurt ye" he murmured, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure, he promised himself that he would be gentle, only touching her as if she were made of the most delicate glass and now he’d already been more rough than he intended.

But Y/n's voice was resolute, her gaze fixed on him with a desperate intensity. "No, Cregan. I want you to make me yours completely.” She whined, but she saw the look on his eyes he wouldn’t relent unless she pushed him towards his breaking point. “I want you to fuck a baby into me. I need you ple—“

Cregan didn't let you finish. His lips crashed against yours in a kiss that ignited a wildfire within. He held your face tenderly yet firmly, his touch a lifeline as you clung to him, desperate for more. His tongue explored the depths of your mouth, tasting every inch with a hunger that bordered on feral.

The clash of your teeth, the fervor of your kiss, it was a battle, a dance of dominance that you were willing to lose.

Cregan's tongue delved deeper, drawing a breathless moan from you. His scent enveloped you, intoxicating and heady, making your knees buckle with longing. It was as if the tether to your senses was fraying, leaving you to melt into a molten pool beneath his commanding presence.

The heat coursing through your body was a familiar sensation, yet it had never burned this intensely. It surged through you, tightening your nipples and pooling between your thighs, setting every nerve aflame.

Lost in the haze of his searing kisses, you scarcely noticed when he eased your back farther onto the bed, his body a solid, protective weight above you. Your eyes met, a silent conflagration passing between you, before he claimed your lips again with a gentler fervor, the same intensity simmering beneath the surface.

"Do you truly want this? With me?" Cregan's voice was a hushed murmur against your lips, a plea and a promise intertwined.

"Yes, husband" you breathed, the words a vow of your own.

His lips brushed your ear, his breath a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers cascading down your spine. "I am going to make love to ye now."

Your nipples hardened at his words, a raw moan of anticipation escaping your lips as he took in your form, the vulnerable softness of your skin a feast for his hungry gaze.

Cregan lowered his head, his lips tracing a path of fire down your neck, over your collarbone, each kiss a desperate silent vow. His hands followed, exploring, caressing, leaving no inch of you untouched.

"Yer exquisite" he murmured, his voice a reverent whisper against your skin. His touch was a balance of possession and adoration, a worship that left you breathless.

The cool air kissed your overheated skin as he continued to explore you, Every touch, every kiss, was a symphony of sensations, a crescendo of passion that left you aching for more.

his eyes drinking in the sight of you, slowly consumed with lust for him, with a reverence that made your heart stutter. "My wife" he whispered, the words a sacred incantation.

Cregan leaned in, capturing your lips once more in a kiss that was both fierce and possessive. His hands roamed your body with a fervent curiosity, memorizing every curve, every dip, leaving a trail of molten fire in their wake.

Your body responded to him, arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.

His kisses grew more insistent, his touch more demanding, as he made his way down your body. He worshipped you with every kiss, every caress, until you were trembling with need beneath him.

"Cregan," you breathed, your voice a soft plea.

His eyes met yours, dark and intense. "I'm here, Y/n" he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "I'm here."

Cregan's gaze was fixed on your taut, aching nipples. He wasted no time, his heated mouth enveloping one of your tight, sensitive peaks. You gasped as your back arched in response, the initial shock of his touch quickly melting into a rhythm of pleasure.

Each time his cheeks hollowed as he suckled, your gasps turned to desperate pants, while his fingers teased the other abandoned nipple, pulling and twisting it gently.

Cregan's mouth pulling harder on your nipple, his tongue lavishing attention on the delicate bud. Every flick of his tongue sent waves of sensation through you, stirring a throbbing need between your legs.

The pulsing ache demanded more, and your hand, almost involuntarily, slipped between your thighs. The damp evidence of your desire left you breathless and mortified.

"Show me yer hand" Cregan's voice rumbled, his tone firm.

"It's... it's embarrassing-"

Without hesitation, Cregan parted your thighs and deftly removed your small clothes, leaving you exposed before him. His gaze settled on your glistening core, and a satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

"C-cregan!"

"Y/n" he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a mix of adoration and hunger.

"Ye've got the prettiest little cunt."

his words made your entire face burn and turn a dark crimson. The raw honesty in his voice left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

“D-don’t look so closely!”

Without wasting another moment, he lowered his head between your thighs, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh.

your body trembling with need. When his tongue finally made contact, a moan escaped your lips, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you.

Cregan's tongue moved with practiced skill, each stroke and flick sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. His lips latched onto your clit, sucking gently before releasing it with a soft pop, only to dive back in with renewed fervor.

The lewd slurping sounds filled the room, mixing with your breathless moans and the crackling of the fire.

Your thighs quivered, the sensation of his mouth on you pushing you closer to the edge. "Cregan" you gasped loudly, your voice shaking. "Please, don't stop."

He didn't need to be told twice. His tongue delved deeper, exploring every inch of your soaking wet cunt, his fingers joining in to tease and caress. The combined sensations were overwhelming, your body arching off the bed as you rode the waves of pleasure.

When you finally came, it was with a cry of his name, your body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you. Cregan didn't relent though, his tongue continuing its relentless assault, lapping up your juices with a moan, prolonging your climax until you were a trembling, breathless mess.

Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark with desire.

He moved up your body, his hands bracing on either side of your head as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

You could taste yourself on his lips, the intimate act deepening the connection between you.

But it still wasn’t enough for you, gathering your courage, you whispered, "Cregan?"

His eyes opened, soft and warm as they met yours. "Aye, love?"

You bit your lip, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks. "Can I... can I touch you?"

A spark of interest flared in his eyes, and he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. "Touch me? Where?" He said teasingly.

You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to where his cock lay, painfully hard and twitching. "There" you whined softly, reaching out tentatively.

Cregan's lips curved upwards. "Aye, love. Ye can touch me."

Your hand wrapped around his shaft, the heat of him searing your palm. You marveled at the feel of his skin, so smooth and yet so firm beneath your touch. Cregan's breath hitched, his muscles tensing as you explored him.

"Like this?" you asked, looking up at him for guidance.

He nodded, his voice rough with restraint.

"Aye, just like that. A bit firmer, love."

You tightened your grip slightly, your hand moving up and down his length in slow, deliberate strokes. The sight of him, so vulnerable and exposed, filled you with a heady sense of power and intimacy.

Cregan's hand covered yours, guiding your movements. "Tha's it, love. Yer doin' so well" he moaned, his voice laced with praise and pleasure.

As you continued to stroke him, you noticed a bead of precum forming at the tip. The sight of it, glistening and inviting, sparked a boldness within you. You couldn’t help yourself, you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick it away. Cregan groaned loudly, his hips bucking

involuntarily at the sensation.

"Fuck! Y/n" he gasped, his hand tightening around yours.

"Do that again."

You obliged, your tongue swirling around the thick head of his cock, tasting the salty essence of him. The act felt both daring and incredibly arousing, each lick eliciting a new sound of pleasure from Cregan.

Encouraged by his response, you took him deeper into your mouth, your lips closing around his shaft as you began to bob your head.

You were still unaccustomed to his size though, what you couldn’t fit in your mouth you stroked with your hand.

Cregan's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you pleasured him.

"Ye're so fuckin’ good to me, love" he groaned, his voice thick with need. "So perfect."

The praise spurred you on, your pace quickening as you took him deeper, your hand stroking the base of his cock in time with your movements. Cregan's breaths grew ragged, his body tense with the effort to hold back.

When he finally came, it was with a guttural moan, his release bursting in your mouth.

You swallowed eagerly, wanting to take all of him, to show him the same pleasure he had given you.

As you pulled back, you looked up at him, your eyes wide and full of adoration.

Cregan's chest heaved, his eyes glazed with satisfaction as he pulled you into his arms, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss.

But the night was far from over and the hunger in his eyes told you he was far from satisfied. You felt a renewed wave of desire wash over you, your body eager for more of him.

"Are ye ready for more, love?" he asked, his voice husky with desire. His hand trailed down your body, caressing your breasts and waist, finally coming to rest between your legs.

His fingers teased your wetness, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Yer so wet for me."

You nodded, your breath hitching as he continued to stroke you. "Yes, Cregan. I want you. I want you to take me."

His eyes darkened with a primal need, and he positioned himself between your legs, spreading them wide. "I'll be gentle at first, love," he promised, guiding his cock to your entrance.

"But I won't be able to hold back for long."

You felt the tip of his cock pressing against you, and your heart raced with anticipation.

He pushed forward slowly, entering you with a smooth, deliberate motion. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and painful sting as he stretched you to accommodate his large size.

Cregan's eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with love and desire. "Yer so tight, love. So perfect" he groaned, pushing deeper until he was fully seated inside you.

The feeling of being completely filled by him was indescribable, a blend of fullness and heat that made you gasp. "Cregan," you moaned, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He began to move, his thrusts slow and gentle at first, allowing you to adjust to the sensation. But as your moans grew louder and your hips began to move in time with his, his restraint faltered. His pace quickened, each thrust deeper and harder than the last.

"You feel so good, Y/n," he growled, his voice rough with need. "I can't hold back any longer."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he pounded into you.

The force of his thrusts drove you higher, making the bed hit the walls roughly, a testament to how greedily he was fucking into you.

Cregan shifted his position, lifting your legs higher and pressing them against your chest. The new angle allowed him to penetrate you even deeper, and you screamed his name as he took you harder.

"That's it, love. Take all of my cock," he urged, his eyes locked on your face, watching your every reaction.

The pressure built within you, the pleasure mounting to an unbearable peak. With a final, powerful thrust, you shattered, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your body convulsed around him, gripping his cock as he continued to drive into you.

Cregan was relentless, his own release building. He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling you onto your hands and knees. He entered you from behind, his hands gripping your hips as he pounded into you with abandon.

"Fuck, Y/n" he groaned, his voice a rough whisper. "I'm gonna fill ye up. Every last drop."

Cregan's movements became more erratic as he neared his release, his breathing heavy and labored. You could feel the tension building within him, every muscle in his body coiling tighter and tighter. His thrusts grew deeper, more powerful, and you knew he was close.

With a final, powerful thrust, Cregan's hips stilled, pressing deep inside you. His entire body tensed, and he let out a loud, guttural groan, his face contorted in pleasure. You could feel the hot rush of his cum filling you, pulse after pulse, more than you had ever imagined. The sheer volume of it overwhelmed you, a torrent of heat flooding your insides.

"Fuck, Y/n," he groaned, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Take all of it. Every last drop."

He held himself inside you for a moment longer, his cock throbbing with each spurt of cum. Then, slowly, he began to pull out, the sensation almost too much to bear. As he withdrew, you felt a gush of his cum ooze out of you, warm and thick.

Cregan watched, mesmerized, as his release leaked from your entrance. The sight seemed to ignite something primal in him, and he quickly brought his fingers to your dripping core. He gently pushed two fingers inside you, making sure to plug the flow.

"Can't let it go to waste" he murmured, his voice a mix of possessiveness and tenderness. "Want every drop to stay inside ye."

His fingers moved within you, ensuring his cum was thoroughly spread.

You felt another wave of pleasure as he gently massaged your sensitive walls, the sensation of being so full and claimed by him overwhelming you. Cregan leaned down, kissing the small of your back, his breath warm against your skin. "Yer mine, Y/n. All mine," he whispered, his fingers still inside you, holding his seed in place.

You lay there, breathless and trembling, feeling utterly claimed and cherished by him.

Cregan slowly withdrew his fingers, ensuring that every drop of his cum remained inside you. He gently flipped you onto your back, his eyes filled with an intensity that made your heart race.

As he settled beside you, his strong arms wrapped around your body, pulling you close. His warmth enveloped you, a comforting contrast to the cool air of the room.

He pressed his lips to your forehead, a tender kiss that lingered. Then, he moved to your cheeks, planting soft, loving kisses on each one. His lips brushed your nose, and then he found your lips, kissing you with a gentleness that was almost reverent.

"Y/n" he murmured between kisses, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm so glad ye're mine."

You felt a swell of affection in your chest, the sweetness of his words and the tenderness of his touch filling you with a profound sense of belonging. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as he continued to kiss you.

Cregan's kisses were endless, each one a declaration of his love and devotion. He kissed your eyelids, your temples, your jawline, and your chin, his lips exploring every inch of your face with a loving intensity that made you feel cherished beyond measure.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "So perfect. I want to spend every moment of our lives together, showing ye how much I adore ye."

He held you tighter, his hands stroking your hair, your back, your sides. His touch was soothing, a balm to your still-racing heart.

The rough, demanding lover from moments ago was now a gentle giant, cradling you in his arms with infinite care.

Cregan pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Are ye alright, love?" he asked, his voice soft with concern. "Did I hurt ye?"

You shook your head, smiling up at him. "No, Cregan. You were perfect. I'm more than alright."

His expression softened even further, a look of relief washing over his face. "Good," he whispered, pressing another kiss to your lips. "I'll always take care of ye, Y/n. Always."

You nestled closer to him, resting your head on his broad chest. The rhythmic beat of his heart was a comforting lullaby, and you felt a deep sense of contentment wash over you.

A red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground with no one around to see it. The thought lingered in your mind, a symbol of the unexpected beauty and love that had blossomed between you.

Cregan continued to kiss you, his lips never straying far from your skin, as he held you in a protective, loving embrace.

In that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. Cregan's sweet, endless kisses and his tender words were a promise of a future filled with love, passion, and unwavering devotion.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

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pandapetals · 24 days ago

Text

Ain't No Grave

Chapter One: Cold, Dark Earth | next chapter

Summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: angst, trauma, pain, mentions of blood, killing, guns, knives, not graphic gore but could be triggering, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, established relationship, jackson setting, eventual smut, cliffhanger ending

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics. Okay, is this possible? I don't know? I was talking to my sister about TLOU, and this idea came to mind. Would cutting the infection off from the host keep the person from turning? So I googled it, and apparently in the game it’s lowkey implied that some guy tried it, but he died from losing too much blood. It ate away at my brain (see what I did there?). So, whatever. AU, I guess.

The wind slid through the cracked windows of the old pharmacy, carrying the scent of stale wood and something faintly metallic. Snow crunched beneath Joel’s boots as he moved ahead of you, his rifle slung loose in his hands, his eyes sharp and restless despite the familiar ground.

“Don’t wander off too far, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low enough it barely stirred the dust in the air.

You gave a quick nod, glancing around the ruined shelves and overturned chairs. Hoback was usually quiet. Safe, even. You’d patrolled this stretch of backroads and boarded-up shops so many times you could trace the steps blindfolded. But something about the heavy stillness of the building made the fine hairs on your neck stir.

“I’m gonna check out the—”

“Ain’t nothin’ new there,” Joel cut in, a flicker of a shake to his head. His gaze didn’t leave the shadowed hallway leading toward the back rooms.

You huffed a small sigh, fingers brushing over the cool metal of your revolver as you holstered it against your thigh. “I just like the comfort of it.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown, before he grumbled something under his breath you didn’t catch. You stepped in close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, the scrape of his stubble rough against your lips. His jaw clenched, but his hand brushed against your back as you pulled away; the touch was brief and wordless. The air felt heavier when you stepped out of the pharmacy’s shell. Snowflakes clung to your lashes, the wind sighing through the empty streets like a warning you couldn’t quite name.

Your boots crunched softly against the frost-laced pavement as you made your way down the narrow street, the hush of falling snow muffling the world around you. Hoback always felt more like a ghost town than the others. The buildings sagging under years of weight, windows either shattered or caked with grime, old signs hanging by rusted chains. Still, the bookshop’s faded green awning was somehow intact, a stubborn little fragment of a world long gone.

You knew there wasn’t anything left to find in there. You’d swept the place half a dozen times on past patrols — shelves picked clean, pages scattered like dead leaves across the floor. But your feet carried you there anyway, drawn by its small, stupid comfort.

The bell above the door had broken off long ago, but you could almost hear the phantom jingle it might’ve made. You let your fingers brush the weathered frame as you stepped inside.

It smelled like old paper and cold, dusty air. The kind of scent that clung to your memories more than your clothes. Light filtered through a cracked window, falling in crooked lines over empty shelves and the battered remains of what used to be stories, recipes, and memories. It was all useless, but standing there made something tight in your chest loosen, if only for a moment.

You crouched to pick up a discarded paperback, its cover bleached and curling at the edges—some forgotten romance novel. You didn’t read the title. You just held it in your hands, letting your thumb trace over the faded lettering like a prayer to a world that didn’t remember you.

You drifted through the bookshop, letting your fingers graze over the warped spines of sun-bleached paperbacks and water-damaged hardcovers. The air inside was thick with dust and the faint, sweet rot of old paper, a scent that made your chest ache for normalcy.

It wasn’t much. Four narrow aisles and a cramped little counter in the back, but you could picture it. Could almost hear the faint ring of a bell over the door, a kid’s laughter echoing between shelves, the low hum of a radio playing some old country song Joel would pretend not to like.

You smiled to yourself at the thought, imagining him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar look on his face, where he was trying to seem annoyed but couldn’t quite hide the softness underneath. He’d grumble about wasting time, about you chasing ghosts in abandoned buildings, but he’d let you have this. Just like he always did.

Your gaze landed on a display stand still clinging to a sun-faded sign: Staff Picks. A cracked copy of Little Women sat on top, its cover barely holding to the spine. You reached out and turned it over, the pages feathering beneath your touch. It felt like having a memory.

For a moment, the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt gentle. Safe.

You wondered what Joel was doing now — probably pacing outside the pharmacy, muttering to himself, pretending not to worry. He always did that when you wandered off on patrol, even though you both knew you could handle yourself. It was his way of caring without saying the words out loud.

You tucked the battered book into your jacket pocket, knowing it was stupid, knowing he’d give you that look when he saw it. The one equal parts exasperation and affection. The one you lived for.

The snow tapped against the windows like a hundred tiny fingers, and for a second, it was easy to pretend. Easy to forget what's waiting out there.

Then a flicker of movement caught your attention.

Your breath caught. Something shifted in the glass, a shape darting past the corner of the window too fast to track. Your hand went instinctively to your revolver as you stepped toward the door, pulse already pounding against your ribs.

You eased it open, the cold biting at your face, and stepped back out into the street.

The world felt wrong. Too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in against your ears made your skin itch.

Then the first one came.

A runner burst from between two abandoned cars, half its face torn away, skin slick and raw from the cold. It moved too fast for something so broken, arms flailing as it charged. You didn’t think — you raised the revolver, squeezed the trigger, and the shot cracked through the air like a whip. The bullet punched clean through its skull, and it dropped mid-stride, folding to the ground in a twitch of limbs.

You barely had time to breathe before the second one was on you.

A clicker.

Its ragged snarl rattled in its throat as it lunged from the side of the building, catching you off guard. Its weight slammed into you, knocking the revolver from your hand as you hit the frozen ground hard enough to jar your bones.

You gasped, the wind driven from your lungs. The creature’s fungal-plated head snapped and twisted, that sickening clicking filling your ears as its gnarled fingers scrabbled at your jacket.

Panic clawed up your throat.

You kicked out, trying to shove it off, your fingers scrambling for the revolver lying just out of reach in the snow. The clicker’s breath was hot and sour against your skin, its teeth inches from your face.

“Joel—!” you managed to choke out.

Your fingers scrabbled for the knife at your hip, the cold numbing your skin, but the clicker was on you — heavy, rank, its fungal-plated skull snapping and clicking inches from your face. Its weight pinned you to the frozen ground, jagged teeth gnashing, the wet rasp of its breath hot against your cheek.

You shoved your forearm hard against its throat, the rough, fungal growth scraping your skin as you fought to hold it back. Your other hand fumbled at your belt, fingertips brushing the hilt of your knife — so close — but the creature thrashed violently, knocking your wrist aside.

A guttural snarl ripped from your throat as you pushed back, your muscles burning, boots digging into the snow for leverage. The clicker’s head jerked, teeth clamping down on your wrist. The pain was immediate, sharp, and searing, a flash of white-hot agony that tore a ragged scream from your chest.

Blood spilled hot against the snow.

“Fuck!” you hissed, the world narrowing to the monstrous face above you, the gnawing pain, the cold.

Then a gunshot cracked through the air.

The clicker’s head snapped back in a spray of dark, wet matter before collapsing on top of you. Its weight went limp, pinning you beneath its corpse.

Boots pounded against the snow. Joel was suddenly there, yanking the dead weight off you with a rough grunt. His hands were on your face, your shoulder, searching for injuries even before you could catch your breath.

“Darlin’,” his voice broke low and panicked, “Jesus—fuck, you okay?”

You didn’t answer. Your gaze had already dropped to the crimson bloom seeping hot and fast from your wrist, the blood shockingly bright against the snow.

Your stomach turned. The world tilted.

“No…” You whispered, the word scraping from your throat, brittle and raw. “No, no, nooo…”

Joel’s eyes were on your face, searching, desperate, and then they followed yours. Down to your wrist. To the jagged, weeping bite mark carved into your flesh.

Time fractured.

You saw it in his face. How his jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, the sudden, eerie stillness in his eyes like a man standing at the edge of a cliff with no way down. The air between you seemed to thicken, sound dropping away except for the dull roar of your heartbeat.

Joel’s hand dropped from your shoulder. His gaze darted once to the revolver half-buried in the snow, then back to your wrist. You could see the gears turning, survival instinct kicking in like a switch flipped.

“No… wait, Joel — don’t,” you choked out, shaking your head so fast it blurred your vision. Your pulse thundered in your ears. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

But he wasn’t hearing you. Not really. His expression had gone dark, distant in a way you’d only seen once before, years ago when a raider had pinned Ellie in a fight. This was Joel when everything else dropped away, when nothing was left but blood, instinct, and the crushing weight of what he was about to do.

You reached for him, fingers clutching at his jacket sleeve. “Joel… please…”

He blinked then, as if your voice broke through a thick fog, and his face crumpled—not with weakness, but with something far worse. Grief. Fury. Resolve.

“I ain’t losin’ you,” Joel muttered, his voice rough and low, already yanking his belt free from the loops of his jeans. The leather snapped as it came loose, his fingers clumsy in a way you’d never seen.

Your eyes widened, heart slamming against your ribs. You looked down. The bite was ugly and raw, blood mixing with the snow like spilled ink.

“Joel—” your voice cracked, a wet hitch in your throat you couldn’t swallow.

“Don’t look at it.” His growl was sharp, almost harsh, but when your eyes shot to his face, it wasn’t anger you saw. It was terror. Pure, unfiltered terror.

“Focus on me,” he barked, dropping to his knees beside you. The snow soaked through his jeans. He gripped your face, his calloused palm rough and warm against your chilled skin. His thumb pressed under your eye, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Right here, darlin’. Eyes on me.”

Your breath came in ragged bursts. The world had shrunk to the pounding of your pulse, the burning pain in your wrist, and the wild, frantic look in Joel’s eyes. “What are you—?” you stammered, the words half-formed, your mind scrambling to keep up.

“I have to—” His throat worked around the words. “I can’t lose you, sweetheart. Not like this.”

God, his hands. His hands were shaking. Joel Miller, the man who could drop an infected with a single shot, who’d rebuilt fences and broken skulls without so much as a tremor, was shaking. A fine, bone-deep tremble in his fingers as he looped the belt tight around your arm, just above the bite.

You’d seen him scared before. You’d seen him furious, reckless, blood-soaked, and teeth bared in a fight. But this wasn’t either.

This was Joel drowning.

And somehow, that terrified you more than the bite ever could.

His hand left your face and went to his backpack, yanking the zipper so hard it nearly tore. He rummaged through it like a man searching for his last breath, pulling free the hatchet he always carried on long patrols. The steel caught the light, blade stained and nicked, and your stomach lurched.

“No—no, Joel, wait,” you stammered, trying to sit up, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might split your ribs.

“Lie down.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and trembling all at once. He didn’t shout, but the force of it rooted you in place.

“Please, Joel, I—”

“Lie. Down.” He dropped to his knees beside you, one hand at your shoulder, the other bracing the wrist above the bite, just above where the makeshift tourniquet tightened. His fingers were steady now. Deathly steady.

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your throat closing up around words you couldn’t get out. He looked wrecked. Eyes wild and wet, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump.

“I need you to look at me, sweetheart.” His voice dropped low, rough and wrecked as he pressed your good hand to his chest, over his heart. “Right here. Don’t you dare look away.”

Your vision blurred, panic clawing up your throat, but you clung to the feel of his heartbeat under your palm — frantic, uneven, alive.

“Listen to me,” Joel said, the words breaking apart like splintered wood. “I can’t lose you. Not to this. Not like this.”

Tears slipped hot down your temples into the cold, and you shook your head frantically. “Joel, please—”

His thumb brushed your cheek once, a final mercy. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Then he raised the hatchet.

Bile burned the back of your throat, panic rising in a thick, suffocating wave, but you forced yourself to look at him. To find Joel through the blur of tears and blood and terror. This was your final moment, and if you were going, you’d carry the memory of him with you.

The furrow in his brow. The blood smeared along his jaw. The desperation shone in his eyes. You memorized every line of his face like a prayer you no longer believed in.

He’s going to kill me.

It had to be done.

You could already feel the wrongness blooming in your blood, the infection creeping toward your heart. You were going to turn. Joel knew it. You knew it.

He sucked in a ragged breath, his knuckles white around the hatchet handle, shoulders squared like a man about to cut off his own soul.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice cracked and broken.

His face twisted, a flash of unbearable grief.

“I know, baby. I know.”

Then he swung.

The hatchet came down in a quick, brutal arc, and the pain detonated through your body like fire. It wasn’t sharp — it was blinding, hot, and suffocating, stealing the air from your lungs before your scream tore free. A sound so raw and ragged it didn’t feel human.

Blood spattered across the snow, hot against the freezing air. Your body arched, a primal, instinctive jolt you couldn’t control, the agony so complete it felt like your bones would shatter from the inside.

Your vision blurred, black spots swimming in and out, the world tilting, distant and wrong.

You could still hear him, though. Joel’s voice, rough and breaking, calling your name, ordering you to stay with him, his hands frantic on your shoulders, pressing against the bleeding stump.

But you were already slipping, the edges of him going soft, the white sky closing in.

Even in that darkness, you clung to his face. The last thing you’d ever see.

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