#shake it this way… shake it that way… and stir it all around… and it's done!

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 9

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Chapter Word Count: 9.5k+]

[Chapter Summary: There was a kind of farewell threaded through everything—spoken without drama, carried in glances and gestures, in the way hands didn’t linger but didn’t let go. You didn’t expect the weight of it, or the way comfort found you in the smallest places: in old shoes, in the soft edge of his voice, in silence that didn’t ask for more.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The house breathes around you. Not in silence, but in that particular hush of well-tended spaces—alive with rhythm, yet never loud.

You hear the soft shuffle of slippers on polished floors, the gentle thud of distant doors closing with care. Somewhere upstairs, someone is vacuuming, the sound muffled like it’s been politely turned down just for you.

You don’t have to look to know someone is dusting the stair rail again, same as they do every morning. The chandelier lets out a soft mechanical sigh as the air shifts. You listen to it all like it means something—because it does.

This kind of quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of other people’s motions, of intention, of care. Of life, still moving, even when yours feels like it’s pausing to catch its breath.

Your mother is already in the kitchen by the time you step in, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her movements practiced and unhurried. She stands over the stove, stirring something slow and fragrant in a wide pot, steam curling up to kiss her face. The rice cooker hums beside her, its lid covered with a neatly folded cloth she must’ve placed there out of habit.

She doesn’t startle when you enter – just shifts slightly to make room for your silence, then adjusts the flame, wipes a splash from the counter with the back of her hand.

It’s a kind of quiet choreography, the kind you grew up watching. Everything she does is muscle memory by now, but there’s care in it too. A softness.

“Made too much,” she says, without turning around, already expecting you’d be joining her with the day that awaits.

“You always do,” you settle into your usual seat at the counter, the wood smooth and cool beneath your palms.

She doesn’t answer right away—just lifts the lid from the pot and stirs with a gentle hand. “Do you want me to pack some for him?”

You blink, amused. “Change of heart, Eomma?”

“Those flowers looked like it could grow in our garden,” she tries to hide the smile slipping out but her eyes already betray her. “Guess he could get a point for that. Just for now.”

There’s an ache in your chest – the good kind – to hear the slightest warmth in her voice. “He spoils me.”

“He owes you,” though she’s back to her motherly protection, you’re thankful to see the slight change.

The silence that settles between you isn’t sharp. It lingers the way shared understanding does—unspoken, but unmistakably there. You watch steam rise in ribbons from the bowl as she sets it aside and rinses the ladle under a thin stream of water.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she says after a while. “Is it work?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you say, your voice softer than before, “about where I want to be. Later.”

She dries her hands slowly on the towel hanging by the sink, then turns to face you. The light catches on her skin—sharp at the collarbone, soft at her jaw. Even in the stillness, she holds herself with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask for attention.

“You were always gentler than me,” she says. “I built my life on noise. You… you always found your peace in the quiet.”

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes drifting toward the window. “Busan was always the quiet, wasn’t it?”

Your mother is silent for a moment. Then, “Your father proposed to me in Busan. We were still striving then. He didn’t even have a ring.” There’s a faint smile on her lips. “We were staying in this rental room by the port. You could hear the foghorn at night. I was going to tell you that story one day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She hesitates. Then says, “Because it always felt like yours. That city. The way you lit up when we went. The way you listened to the sea like it was speaking just to you. Even back then, I think I knew—if you were ever going to heal, or start over, or fall in love… it would be there.”

You look at her more closely now, something stirring low in your chest.

She takes a slow breath and adds, quieter – “Maybe I built everything in Seoul… but I started everything there, too.” She steps closer and places a hand on your wrist. Not firm, not demanding—just there. A quiet tether. “If that’s where you want to be… I’ll make sure it’s yours. Make sure it feels like home again.”

 “That sounds dangerously close to you giving me your blessing to quit everything and disappear.”

“Disappearing is dramatic,” she deadpans. “I’m imagining something more peaceful. Like an early retirement. Or a very long vacation.”

You huff out a laugh, the tension unspools just a little. “You always did know how to rebrand my crises.”

“I’m excellent at it,” she returns to the stove. “Should’ve gone into PR.” She slides the rice container into a cloth bag and folds the towel over the top with practiced care.

You drift toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside as morning light filters in—gentle and calming.

Outside, the sky still wears the last of dawn’s haze, soft and silver at the edges. The chill lingers on the breeze, not sharp, just enough to wake your skin.

Jeongguk’s already there—like he always is now—leaning against the driver’s side of his car with one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a bouquet of purple tulips.

Smaller than yesterday’s. Still lovely. Still him.

You smile faintly. “He’s here.”

Your mother simply closes the bag, sets it gently in front of you. “Tell him to eat properly,” she murmurs. “He looks thinner these days.”

You glance at her. “He’s the same.”

“He isn’t.” Placing a gentle kiss on your cheek, she walks away, off to get ready for the day that awaits ahead. Doesn’t say anything else. Knows she’ll see you later.

Reaching for your scarf, you take the bag in hand, slip on your shoes by the door, breathing in the morning air that greets you outside like an old friend – brisk, clean, edged with something familiar. The scent of tulips fades in quickly – sweet, earthy, familiar, carried in on the wind.

Jeongguk holds them out as you approach, a little tentative, like he’s still learning how much is too much—and what’s just enough.

“These look suspiciously normal-sized,” lifting a brow, you take the bouquet. “No wild field this morning?”

Tucking his hand back into his coat pocket, a quiet smile slips on his lips. “Thought I’d save you the trouble today.”

Ignoring the flutter in your chest, you follow him toward the car, walk in sync, routine, old habits. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re settled, then rounds to the driver’s side and climbs in. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he starts the engine.

“That your mom’s cooking?”

You lift the cloth bag slightly. “She says you’re getting thinner.”

“Thinner?” He scoffs. “I’ve added the eight ab back recently. That’s premium real estate.”

You blink. “You’re counting now?”

He nods. “I monitor growth. We’re talking micro-sculpting at this point.”

“Didn’t you call me last week, interrupted my meeting, because you got stuck halfway through a sit-up?”

“That was a tactical pause,” he says flatly. “Part of the method.”

You reach over, and poke his stomach. “Too bad. Kinda miss the flabs. That version was more huggable.”

He softens instantly. “I’m suddenly feeling donuts and samgyeopsal. You know that 24-hour one by Uni? Maybe your mom was right, I am getting skinny.”

You laugh, head falling back against the seat. The kind of laugh that surprises you with how easy it is. “As long as you have those for later. I’m not really in the mood for a big breakfast.”

“Breakfast might be your favorite meal, but I know you never eat much in the morning. Don’t worry – just the usual café for now.” He smiles, eyes fixed on the road—the way they always are when he’s trying to keep things light, careful not to let the moment sink too deep.

Morning unfolds around you in quiet layers – storefronts stirring to life, café windows fogging over with warmth, a delivery truck double-parked beneath the weight of crates and chatter. The city doesn’t rush. It stretches, exhales.

And beside you, Jeongguk drives like he’s not part of it. Like this—his hand steady on the wheel, the other folded into yours over the console—is the only version of morning that exists. His thumb brushes over your knuckles now, lingering longer on your wedding ring, absentminded but constant. Like a promise he doesn’t say out loud.

The café is tucked between an old bookstore and a laundromat, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Its wooden sign is weathered, the paint at the corners flaking like it gave up trying to be noticed.

It’s ritual by now, somewhere between the second morning and the seventh, the place just stuck, but you always look forward to this. It’s more than you ever got in the past three years.

Inside, the air carries the warmth of toasted bread and cinnamon, soft enough to feel like memory. A low jazz melody winds through the space, mellow and unbothered. Plates clink gently. The espresso machine hisses, not with urgency, but with rhythm. Conversations murmur around you, blurred at the edges. No one looks too long. No one moves too fast.

It’s the kind of morning that doesn’t take anything from you. That lets you arrive without shape. That lets you stay.

Jeongguk returns with a tray balanced in one hand, the collar of his coat still turned up from the wind outside. Barley tea for you, his usual black, two soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon sugar toast, and your mother’s rice rolls—still warm through the paper wrapping, like they’ve carried a piece of home with them.

He sets everything down with a practiced kind of ease, sliding into the seat across from you like this is how it’s always been.

“You’re getting predictable,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the warm tea. “Same order. Same seat. Same scowl.”

“It’s your favorites,” he says, “And, maybe I just wanted to get something right for once,” tears a piece of toast in half. “Anyway, just happy you didn’t bail this morning. Was ready to eat your share out of spite.”

You snort. “So noble of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m complicated like that,” he mutters, tries keeping a straight face, but you notice the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. Tries to shrug it off by handing you the bigger piece. “Bread based revenge and all.”

You both eat without rush, letting the moment stretch. Time feels like it’s favoring you today – soft around the edges, unbothered by urgency. He peels the eggs with deliberate care, and as always, sets one gently into your bowl without a word.

It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes just long enough to offer a small, almost shy smile — the kind that seems like he’s grateful for this rhythm between you, like it never left.

A breeze filters through the cracked window beside you, carrying in the faintest scent of roasted beans from next door.

You wrap your fingers around the tea cup, letting the warmth sink into your palms. “No calls? No emergencies?”

He shakes his head, easy. “Took a leave.”

It catches you off guard—not in a dramatic way, but just enough to stir your thoughts.

Jeongguk’s never been one to slow down, at least not in the past few years. Sure, there were days he slacked off or get burned out, but the ones where he chased perfection always carried more weight.

He’d worked late into the night, refining pitches and brand decks no one had asked for yet. That was just how he was—quietly driven, unable to rest until everything met or surpassed expectations.

You want to ask what changed. Why now. What he plans to do with the time he’s carved out of a life that never really slowed down.

But the questions stay lodged in your throat — too close to overstepping, and you’ve worked too hard to keep this peace. This fragment of normalcy.

Instead, you offer a softer one, “You sure your team can survive without you till then?”

“They’ll thank me for the silence,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “Taehyung’s probably halfway to Daegu. I know he misses his family.”

You smile behind your cup. “Look at you, being all selfless and mysterious.”

The morning drifts gently between you — sunlight pooling across the window, the low murmur of jazz curling through the air, the scrape of a ceramic plate as he divides the last of the toast.

Outside, a car hums past, tires hissing softly on damp pavement. You lean back a little, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

“Haven’t seen that in a while.” Jeongguk breaks the silence, eyes flicking toward your blouse.

You glance down. “What?”

“You wore that once in Jeju. The hotel with no heating. The umbrella incident.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s a very specific memory.”

“Hard to forget when you babbled for forty-eight hours straight and threatened to file a class-action suit.”

“It was forty-eight minutes,” you huff, folding your arms. “And it was a bad hotel. Was going to close my first big client and they gave me a shitty conference room. Had to use the umbrella nearby for the pipes that bursted that day.”

“Pretty blouse though. Think it brought you luck. Got to close that deal after all.”

You look at him. His gaze is soft but steady — not lingering, not loaded. Just... noticing. Like it matters to him that he remembers, and that you’re wearing it now.

Your eyes drop again. Smoothing out the fabric at your wrist, unsure what to do with the way his attention settles — warm, familiar, and too much all at once. “I’m skipping dinner tonight.”

“Again?” His tone lifts, borderline betrayed. “Was breakfast supposed to be compensation?”

You should’ve seen the dramatics coming. Still, you roll your eyes. “Go find something to do. Bother someone else.”

“I wanna bother you,” Jeongguk blurts out, pouty and reckless, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of thing he used to say when he’d drape himself over your arm and call it his “emotional support limb.”

You turn to your tea, lifting the cup just high enough to hide the smile threatening at your lips. “Well, you can’t. It’s Jin’s anniversary dinner. I’ll be out late.”

He groans like you’ve personally betrayed him. “And I can’t tag along?”

“Nope. Go away.”

“Will you be wearing a pretty dress?”

The question catches you off guard, soft and sudden. You try to brush it off, toss the crumpled receipt at his chest. “Nothing new. But I guess it’s… decent enough.”

“That’s your way of saying pretty,” he mutters, still pouting. “This sucks.”

“You’ll live.”

He slouches deeper into the seat, dramatically defeated. “Debatable.”

But he’s smiling again. And so are you — not wide, not showy. Just enough to carry the rest of the day.

Breakfast had to end at some point. You didn’t want to, never wanted to. Jeongguk doesn’t seem like he didn’t either. You’re not sure. Just noticed the way he kept ordering almost like he was trying to stretch out the morning.

You follow him to the car. He moves with his usual ease—opens the door for you, then, this time, leans over to fasten your seatbelt, his hand brushing lightly against the side of your waist.

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look down at your phone, pretending to check a message, allowing him to settle in after.

The drive settles into a comfortable quiet, the kind of silence that’s familiar and easy between you. No need for words or music — just the soft hum of the road beneath you. His hand reaches over, finding yours across the console, fingers intertwining naturally.

You don’t speak, but the small pressure of his thumb moving over your knuckles says everything.

When Jeongguk pulls up outside Seora, you fix the strap of your bag and glance toward the glass entrance.

The morning air feels sharper here. Realer. Breakfast already feels like it happened hours ago — soft, slow, somewhere else entirely. This part of the day had to come eventually, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Beside you, Jeongguk watches. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask, just sees — like he always has.

And even though you try to keep your hands tucked beneath the cuffs of your sleeves, the slight tremble gives you away.

Silently, he reaches across the console. Takes your hands in his — warm, certain — and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, to your ring. It’s so gentle you almost miss it. But your eyes lift on instinct.

He doesn’t know what you’re walking into. Doesn’t ask. Just says, “You’ll do good. Whatever it is, you’ll kill it. You always do.”

And for a moment, it’s enough. Just that quiet certainty in his voice — like the past hasn’t touched it.

The boardroom looks smaller than you remember.

Not physically — the walls haven’t moved, the polished glass table still stretches from end to end, and the minimalist light fixture overhead still hums with its usual low thrum.

But there’s something about the air today. Something quieter. Weightier. Like the room itself knows what this is.

There’s a version of you here — younger, stiffer, barely holding it together in heels that didn’t quite fit and a blazer you borrowed from your mother’s closet. Her voice had echoed in your ears that morning, “Straight spine. Firm grip. You’re not asking to be here — you belong here.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding, your palms already slick.

You remember that first day clearly. The door had felt heavier when you pushed it open. The eyes that lifted to meet you weren’t cruel — just… expectant. Measuring. Curious to see if the daughter of the legend would crumble or crown herself.

Seora was already powerful then. The kind of brand that didn’t just follow trends — it forecasted them. Your mother had built it with unapologetic vision, sharpened by years of instinct. And now, she was stepping back — not entirely, but enough — and all of it was landing on your shoulders.

The transition wasn’t gentle.

You’d barely sat in the CEO seat when the board began circling. Whispers of delay. Dips in projected growth. A shift in market behavior.

And you — too young, too soft, too untested — were an easy place to point the uncertainty.

“I want to go back to fabric-first,” you said, voice even despite the tremor in your fingers. “Not silhouettes. Not celebrity faces. I want to build a collection that moves like memory. Not trend.”

They looked at you like you’d spoken in poetry instead of numbers. Someone coughed. Another asked, “And the investors? What will you tell them when this doesn’t land?”

You answered, “I’ll tell them I bet on the long game. And then I’ll show them why I was right.”

Your mother hadn’t said a word that meeting. She hadn’t stepped in to save you — hadn’t looked your way once, in fact.

But afterward, when you passed her in the hallway, she’d paused, adjusted the cuff of your borrowed blazer, and said quietly, “Next time, wear your own clothes.”

It had been her way of saying you’ve earned it now.

The first collection came out seven months later. Sparse. Intentional. Textures and seams hand-picked by you. Critics had called it a risk. Then a revival. Then a reminder that art, when done honestly, outlasts algorithms.

You didn’t cry when the glowing reviews came in – praise flooding your inbox, critics calling your work a quiet masterpiece. Not until you were alone in your office, shoes kicked off, heels blistered, watching the light fade through the tall windows as silence folded around you like a long exhale.

That was the moment you finally belonged.

And now, standing in this room again — years later, steadier, softer in different ways — you feel the full circle of it press gently behind your chest.

Maybe it’s the light — filtered in through the sheer blinds, diffused and quiet — or maybe it’s just the way empty chairs always feel a little more final than full ones. The room smells faintly of fresh paper, polished wood, and someone’s morning espresso coming from the hallways.

There’s a rhythm to this place that lives in your body; the creak of the leather chair you always pulled back too quickly, the slight buzz in the overhead light above the third seat to the left, the exact spot your heels used to click when you were late and trying not to show it.

You run a hand over the table's edge as you pass. It's smoother than it used to be — or maybe you're just noticing it now.

For a moment, you pause at your usual seat.

You don’t sit. Not yet.

The door clicks open behind you, and Mark steps in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, shoulders a little too relaxed for a morning like this.

“You trying to win the punctuality award now?” he says lightly, setting his cup down beside you. “Little late for that legacy grab.”

You smile without turning. “There are worse reputations to leave with.”

“Mm.” Mark glances around the quiet room. “Always thought you’d go out in chaos. Yelling into your phone, throwing last-minute notes at interns, maybe flipping a chair for dramatic effect.”

You raise a brow without turning. “I’m not that chaotic, Tuan.”

He leans against the table, elbow brushing the edge of your sleeve. “That’s ‘cause I’m always around to keep you steady.”

You huff a soft breath. “Should I say thank you?”

He pretends to consider it. “Nah. Just promise you’ll actually enjoy that vacation, yeah? At least one of us gets an early retirement.”

You glance at him then, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You know, I can always talk to your parents about it. They love me.”

Mark grins — but it’s quieter than usual. “That they do.”

A pause stretches between you. He nudges the seat beside yours gently with his knee but doesn’t sit yet. His voice stays light, but his eyes don’t quite follow.

There’s something there. Not pressing. Just present.

And he doesn’t say anything more.

The others file in not long after — a few from legal, two from international, your lead brand strategist, and finally, your mother.

She doesn’t say much at first. Just offers you a quiet nod as she takes her seat. She doesn’t sit at the head — not yet. Waits until you do.

You let the room settle before speaking — not because you need the silence, but because you want to remember it. The way it holds people you’ve trusted. Grown with. Fought beside.

Your fingers rest lightly on the table. You don’t grip. Don’t fidget.

Just breathe in. And begin.

“I won’t pretend I’m not emotional. Most of you have seen me cry over less — like that one logistics error that turned into a two-hundred-piece embroidery delay and a minor existential crisis.”

Laughter bubbles — soft, genuine. Even your mother smiles behind her cup of tea.

“But this… this isn’t panic. It’s not pressure. It’s something else. This is full-circle.”

Your eyes flick to your mother, seated quietly across from you. Not the woman who raised you — not just — but the woman who handed you a world and asked, without saying the words, what will you do with it?

“Seora didn’t start with me. It started with her. Her dream. Her name. Her fight. And years ago, she gave it to me — not as a gift, but as a responsibility. One I wasn’t sure I was ready for at the time.”

A few heads nod. Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“But I tried. And I kept trying. And together — with all of you — we grew it into something that didn’t just hold her story, but carried mine, too. Yours. Everyone who touched this place. We didn’t just expand the brand. We expanded its voice. Its heart.”

You pause for a sip of water. Not because your throat’s dry — but because your chest is tight in that very specific way that happens when something is about to end.

“I’ve loved every version of this chapter. Even the ugly ones. The long nights. The near-disasters. The off-white debates. But I know when a season has done its work.”

You look around the room. The people who made your dream theirs. The ones who trusted you even when you weren’t always certain how to lead.

“So I’m stepping back. Not out of defeat. Not because I’ve lost love for this place. But because I believe in the shape of what’s next. And I believe in the people sitting at this table to carry it forward.”

A glance toward your mother softens your expression, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Especially her.”

The words hang — not like an ending, but like a thread waiting to be carried forward. “She won’t ask for help. Not in the way I did. But she’ll need it, just the same. So keep building with her. Push forward with her. She knows this company in her bones — but you’ve all become part of its heartbeat.”

You pause, voice softer now. “Keep fighting for the version of Seora that makes space. That dares. That tells stories.”

Another silence — but this one feels full, not heavy. Like breath held, not grief swallowed.

And just as it threatens to linger too long, “Also… if any of you email me past midnight, I will block you. With affection, obviously.”

Laughter rolls in, catching on the edges of something bigger.

The applause fades slowly, giving way to the soft scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices. One by one, they rise — not in a rush, but with the kind of pause that means something.

Minjae is the first to approach. “You proved every single one of us wrong,” he says, not unkindly. His handshake is firm, his smile quieter than usual. “Take care of yourself kiddo.”

Next is Hana, always pragmatic. “I still think your spring silhouettes in ‘16 were too ambitious,” she teases, then adds, “but they sold out in a week. You were right.”

Iseul, pulls you into a quick, careful hug. “Call if you get bored,” she says against your shoulder. “Or if you miss arguing.”

Others follow — brief nods, murmured thank-yous, the kind of glances that carry entire seasons of shared pressure and persistence. You take each one in without needing to hold on.

Someone from logistics leaves a neatly wrapped sketch on the table beside you — a rendering of one of your earliest Seora designs. Inked carefully. Labeled with the original file name only you would remember.

You press your hand over it for a moment. Not to take it. Just to feel the paper beneath your palm.

Your mother is last to stand. She offers a small, steady smile — the kind that carries both pride and relief. Her eyes meet yours for a heartbeat. “You did well. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mark lingers near the door, shoulder propped lazily against the frame like he’s been waiting for this part all along.

Only silence remains with just the two of you in the room now. He moves toward you – not with fanfare, just his usual quiet weight.

“You gonna cry now?” he says, voice low.

You smile faintly. “Not here.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” He helps you gather a few loose folders, but you don’t rush. The moment doesn’t want to be rushed. “You want me to help pack your things?”

“Not yet,” you say. “I want to do it slowly.”

He nods. Doesn’t question it.

There’s a box half-packed beside the window, the edges already taped but not sealed. Some things you’ve scattered around the boardroom, just enough to ease the coldness that once filled the space. The rest can wait. You want the quiet of the room by yourself — just once more.

“You’ll still answer my calls, right?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or are you ghosting the whole company now?”

“I’ll screen you creatively.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t know how to guilt-trip your mother.”

You smile again — softer this time.

He stands at the edge of the room like he’s about to leave. “I’ll be back, you know.”

You glance up. “To visit?”

He shrugs — but this time, it feels heavier. Surer.

“To get you.”

You blink. “Get me?”

He doesn’t look away. “Seora’s not Seora without you.”

You try to answer, but nothing comes.

So instead, you move toward the box and brush your hand across the top. He tapes it gently, just once, but doesn’t seal it. Just presses his palm over the center like he’s holding something still.

“You’ll let me know when you need someone to show up,” he says — voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t matter where, right?”

You nod. Don’t say anything more.

Because it’s already understood.

The house greets you in silence.

Not the kind that feels hollow or abandoned—but the kind that folds around you gently, like a long-held breath. It wraps around your shoulders as you step inside, steady and full, as if the walls themselves know how much space you need right now.

You climb the stairs slower than usual—not from tiredness, but something quieter. Like your body knows this moment holds weight. Like something is waiting to unfold.

The late afternoon light bathes your bedroom, golden and soft against the floorboards.

A framed photo sits on your dresser—taken after your first international runway show, years ago. You’re barefoot on a cobblestone street, gown gathered in one hand, laughing as your mother stands beside you with her arm linked through yours.

The glass catches the sunlight now, washing both your faces in gold, like the past hasn’t quite let go.

You set your bag down with care. Sit on the edge of the bed without really thinking. Your heels click once against the floor—sharp, then soft. You let the sound fade.

The door eases open behind you, quiet and deliberate.

You don’t look up. Know it’s your mother the moment she steps into the room—trailing the familiar scent of vanilla, her presence soft and steady, like it always has been.

Draped over her arm is an ivory shawl, its hand-stitched edges delicate with age. You recognize it instantly.

“You wore this to your first board dinner,” she says softly, almost like she’s remembering it aloud to herself.

A quiet laugh slips out of you, weary around the edges. “You made me take it off halfway through because I spilled wine on it.”

A small smile touches her lips. “Yes. But for the first half, you looked beautiful.”

She crosses the room and lays it beside you, smoothing the fabric with practiced hands. “It’s warmer than it looks,” she adds. “And lighter than you remember.”

You look up at her then. The corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like something held back.

“Just in case the evening gets long,” She stays for a moment longer than expected, hesitating—then, almost like it’s an afterthought, she pulls something small from her pocket. A square box. Carefully wrapped. No ribbon. No tag.

“This was delivered earlier.” her voice is quiet, measured. “It was left for you.”

You take it from her slowly, the weight of it strange in your hands. She doesn’t explain further. Just reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear like she used to when you were little, and leaves you with your silence.

And then you’re alone.

But not really. Not with the box still in your lap. Not with the weight of it already pressing gently into your thighs like it knows what it’s carrying.

You run your fingers along the edge—once, then twice. The wrapping is simple. No name. No flourish. But it’s careful, the way it’s been folded. Deliberate in a quiet way, like someone thought about this. Like someone meant it.

You peel the paper back slowly, each motion softer than it needs to be. As if rushing might ruin whatever’s inside.

And then you see it.

A bracelet.

Silver. Clean-lined. Minimalist, but not plain. The kind of thing you might have picked for yourself in another lifetime. But it’s the charm that holds you still—small, barely larger than a fingernail, shaped like a tulip just starting to bloom.

Your breath stops.

Because it’s not just any charm. And this isn’t just any bracelet.

Tucked beneath it, pressed against the velvet like a secret, is a worn piece of black cardstock. There’s a faded gold foil stamp in the corner. A tulip icon.

You’ve seen it before—peeking out from the folds of Jeongguk’s wallet, half-slipped inside his camera case, once forgotten in the crease of his coat pocket when you helped him pack for a trip.

You never asked about it. But it had always been there. Like background noise. Like something he couldn’t quite throw away.

You stare at it now. At the bracelet. At the charm.

Because you know this shape.

You’ve seen its twin for years, just beneath the edge of his sleeve. On his wrist, always. When he reached for your hand. When he leaned forward to pour your tea. When he held your ankle on his lap to rub the soreness out after a long day in heels.

“This one’s just always felt right on me,” he’d said once, half-laughing, when you asked why he never took it off.

You’d only been teasing—asking if it had magical powers or if it was secretly tracking him. He hadn’t offered anything else, just that simple shrug and that quiet look he always gave you when he meant more than he was saying.

You never thought much of it. Just figured it was something he liked. A piece of his personal style. A little Jeongguk-ism that made sense in a quiet, steady way.

But now—now there’s a second one.

You don’t know exactly when he bought it, or how long he’s had it tucked away. But the cardstock suggests it’s been a few years.

You’re not sure if he meant to give it to you when things were still whole, or if he held onto it through the mess because some part of him still remembered what it was supposed to mean.

There’s no note. No name.  And yet… this is him.

Undeniably him.

You reach out and touch the charm with your thumb. It’s cool. Smooth. Familiar in a way that hurts.

Because how many times did you see it on him? How many times did you trace that edge with your eyes without realizing you were memorizing it?

A sound escapes you—half laugh, half breath. Fragile. Almost embarrassed by its own tenderness. “Jeon Jeongguk, you cheeky little shit.”

You lift the bracelet, wrap it slowly around your wrist. The clasp closes with a soft click. Effortless. Like it belonged there all along.

You sit still for a long moment, eyes on your hand. The charm settles right above your pulse. And somehow, just feeling it there—solid, quiet, real—it brings back the ghost of something you thought you’d lost completely. Something simple. Something good. Something yours.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in a while, you let yourself remember. Not the fights. Not the silence. Not the years of distance.

But Jeongguk.

The way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were the softest part of his life.

The way he kissed you when you were half asleep, muttering that you’d never know how much he loved you. The way tulips meant something—something only the two of you ever understood.

He’s not here now. But the bracelet is. And maybe that’s his way of saying he didn’t forget.

That not everything slipped away. Not everything was abandoned.

Some things—just a few—still choose you back.

Soirée sat tucked away on a quiet street in Gangnam, its dark wooden door framed by climbing ivy and tiny flickers of candlelight. Garden light spills through tall windows, falling across crystal and candles.

Everything smells like lemon water and wax. Inside, the soft murmur of well-dressed guests mingled with the clink of glasses and the distant trill of a violin.

Guests move easily, familiar with one another but never close enough to pry. You catch glimpses of faces you recognize — people who’ve been part of Jin’s life in pieces; friends from charity events, family acquaintances, names you only heard in passing. Their smiles are polite, edged with just enough warmth to feel genuine without crossing the distance.

You make your way inside, pausing only when you catch a familiar laugh echo from the far end of the room.

It’s Jin’s.

You spot him easily — tall and polished in a navy suit, one arm draped casually around his wife’s shoulders. He’s talking to an elderly couple you vaguely remember from his wedding photos, his smile soft and something older than it used to be.

When his wife leans in to adjust the boutonnière on his lapel, he doesn’t flinch or laugh it off. He just lets her.

And for a second, something settles low in your chest. Not quite envy — more like a memory brushing past your chest.

You think of the bracelet still tucked under your sleeve. Jeongguk’s bracelet. Yours now too.

You step away before you can feel too much all at once.

Dinner is polite. Elegant. You nod at old friends and pretend to remember names. The room glows with soft laughter and candlelight, the kind of warmth that clings to skin and memory.

Halfway through dessert, someone taps a fork against a glass.

Jin rises slowly from his seat near the head of the table. His jacket is slightly askew, his tie loosened at the throat — like he’s already halfway into the part of the evening where he can be himself again.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Just looks at his wife — that same look you remember from when you were young, witnessing the couple in their early phases, when Jin thought love meant grand gestures and handwritten poems.

Now he just smiles.

“This time last year, she told me to stop being dramatic,” he says, nodding toward his wife. “So this year I promised I’d keep it short.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves through the room.

Jin’s fingers tighten slightly on his glass. “I used to think loving someone meant saying everything all the time — every thought, every moment, every word that could possibly matter. But she taught me that love doesn’t always need volume.”

He pauses. Lets the quiet stretch just enough.

“Sometimes, it’s just… staying. Even when it’s not easy. Especially when it’s not easy.”

His wife blinks quickly, the tears she’s holding back catching the light from above.

Jin raises his glass. “To the quiet things. And to the people who make them feel loud anyway.”

Glasses clink. A few people laugh again — one of those soft, emotional kinds, too full to be casual. Jin sits down and wipes at his nose like he’s blaming the wine.

Speeches come one after the other – from Jin’s wife, their closest friends, more toasts take up the evening.  

You linger near the window a little longer than needed, sipping some sparkling wine and a delicate slice of raspberry cake you don’t remember picking – long enough to pretend you’re just admiring the garden. Long enough to ignore the quiet way Jin steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he says.

You don’t glance over. Just hum. “Couldn’t miss you getting sentimental. You did promise that.”

“I was going to say more,” he admits, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “But I figured you’d heckle me.”

You turn, brows raised. “You think I’d heckle you during your anniversary dinner with the missus?”

“I know you would.”

You sigh — exaggerated, dramatic. “I’m not bitter, you know.”

“No?”

“I was never bitter. Just… stuck.”

“And now?” he asks, quieter.

You don’t answer. Not really because you don’t want to — more because you’re still figuring it out yourself. So you shrug. Let it hang in the air.

“Are we here to talk about my emotional development,” you say, “or are we finally getting down to business?”

Jin lets out that ridiculous windshield-wiper laugh — one you’ve grown used to over the years, but it still manages to embarrass you every time it draws unwanted attention.

“On the one night I’m supposed to be celebrating love and domestic bliss,” he says between chuckles, “you really want to drag me into logistics?”

“Come on. I know you’re itching to know.”

“Well, your mother already sent a draft.” He raises a brow. “I skimmed.”

You scoff. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re impatient.”

“You gonna help me or not?”

His expression softens. “Always, Sunshine. You know that.”

A quiet pause settles between you — not awkward, just full.

Outside, the lights in the garden flicker back on. Warm gold against shadow. Somewhere across the room, cutlery clinks against porcelain. The violinist resumes something soft and barely there.

You let out a breath, low. “I…” The words struggle to get out of your throat but still needed to. “I want to do it right. I’m not trying to rewrite anything. He’s always going to be part of her — I know that. I’m not taking that away.”

“No one said you were.”

“I’m just— I’m the one who kept it going. Made sure she still had love. Warmth. That her space stayed hers even when everything else felt like it wasn’t.”

He nods slowly. “You’ve always done that for her.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

You look at him then. He’s not being diplomatic. He means it.

“She should be somewhere that belongs to her. Not borrowed.”

“She will be,” he says gently. “She’ll be home. In the way that matters.”

You swallow hard. Blink up at the ceiling once.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he adds after a moment. “But it’s not impossible. You’ve already done so much. I should be able to handle the rest.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Sunshine.” His voice is steady. “We’ll make this work. I’ll be with you until then.”

The air outside bites gentle at your skin once you’re left alone.

You slip out through a side door, away from laughter and linen, away from polite smiles that mean well but ask too much. The garden is mostly empty — just the soft hush of the fountain, the clink of distant glass, the violin’s song muffled by walls.

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, fingers brushing the silver at your wrist. It’s not cold enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

You pull your phone out without thinking. His name is already there. As if some part of you knew, before you even stepped into the night. You press it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

Your throat tightens at the sound. “Are you busy?”

There’s silence. Not hesitation — just a moment held between breath and heartbeat. “No.”

You look out at the garden pond, where the lights ripple like a memory you haven’t named yet. “I’m tired.”

He’s quiet for half a second. You hear some rustle in the background, things dropping. Don’t question him. Let him speak. “Still at Jin Hyung’s anniversary dinner?”

You nod before you answer. “Soirée.” Even though he can’t see it. “Can you come get me?”

This time, he doesn’t wait. “Already on my way.”

You don’t reply. Just close your eyes and let the night settle. The bracelet is cool against your skin. Your heels ache. Your heart less so.

Somewhere, inside, someone laughs too loud.

But out here, you wait — for headlights, for footsteps, for something that feels like home again.

You don’t wait at the curb. Too many eyes inside. Too many questions.

So you slip through the side garden, past the candlelight and music, until you reach the far lot near the service gate — where the concrete turns to gravel and the air finally feels like yours.

Jeongguk’s car pulls up before you even call again. Headlights low. Windows tinted. Familiar in the way his voice has been lately; quieter, but still sure.

He gets out the moment he sees you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

But when he opens the passenger door, you catch the way he lingers by the seat — like he’s bracing himself, like he’s been waiting for this moment without knowing what it’s supposed to be.

“I brought these,” he finally says, reaching back into the car. “You told me to find something to do. Was cleaning the house. Found them.”

He pulls out a pair of worn canvas shoes — your old chucks, still intact, still marked with the tulip doodles he once scrawled across the fabric. The colors have faded, but they’re still there. Soft and stubborn.

Your breath hitches. “Thought I lost these in the move. These were my lifesavers back then.”

He nods. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend the rest of the night in those heels. These always got you through, didn’t they?”

Jeongguk opens the passenger door fully, gestures for you to sit. You blink — surprised — but sink into the seat anyway. He helps you tuck the shawl closer around your shoulders, his hand brushing over your arm for just a second too long. You don’t pull away.

Then – without a sound – he kneels. Right there, in the gravel, without hesitation.

“Gguk—”

“Let me.” He’s gentle when he unbuckles the first strap. Careful with the second. His hands never rush, even when your breath catches as his thumb brushes your ankle.

You watch him — quiet, stunned — as he slides the old shoe onto your foot like it never left you. And then the next.

When he stands again, he doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. Already knows with the way your feet swings happily. “Ready?”

You nod. Not because you are — but because he makes it easier to be.

Silence becomes both your comfort along the way. The city falls behind you, buildings turning into memories, until the road grows quieter.

Until the tram tracks start to appear — crooked and rusted, swallowed by weeds and time. The fairground behind them is closed now, just a skeleton of what it used to be.

The old tram creaks as it settles around you. Still and quiet. A place that shouldn't feel safe, but somehow does — maybe because it's been touched by memory too many times to stay cold.

Jeongguk follows your lead, head ducked slightly, careful not to bump against the rusting arch. Puts his hand over your head when you nearly bump yours into one of the hanging light fixtures. He says nothing as you both slide into the side bench. The air is cooler in here, still, like time held its breath.

Outside, the fairground slumbers — all overgrown grass and empty stalls, the ghosts of laughter clinging to rusted poles. It should feel eerie. Forgotten. A little too quiet.

But it doesn’t. Not with him beside you.

“You remember the fireworks?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongguk leans back against the glass, gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of sky. “Ah,” he says, “the sparklers you made me sneak into your bag.”

“They weren’t illegal.”

“They were still banned from park grounds.” His mouth twitches. “You made me light five in a row and nearly set your sleeve on fire.”

You laugh — soft, real — and press your hands between your knees, like the sound surprised even you. “Still worth it.”

He turns to you with the kind of glance that lingers. That doesn’t need a smile to be gentle.

You look down at your shoes. The canvas worn soft over time, tulips still faintly blooming where his pen once touched.

“I forgot how this place sounded at night,” you murmur. “Everything else fades. Everything’s peaceful.”

“Just like us before,” he says, quieter now. He shifts slightly, thigh brushing yours as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Thank you,” you meet his eyes in the low glow of the tram’s single flickering bulb. The stillness wraps around you both like breath. “For not hesitating when I called. You sounded like you were in the middle of something.”

“Cleaning the house can wait,” Jeongguk lets out a breath, as if he was holding it the entire time. “You? You come first.” The silence returns, but it’s full of something now. Not heavy. Not light. Just… there.

You pull your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, like it could somehow fold you small. Like it might be enough to hide your face too — but fabric only stretches so far.

And Jeongguk… doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fill the quiet.

Quietly, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you in one fluid motion. Not dramatic. Not even something he thinks about. Just instinct. Like routine.

Like him.

The fabric settles over your arms. Warm from his body, heavier than it looks. His fingers skim your shoulders — brief, unintentional — and it’s not the chill that raises goosebumps.

You shift beneath it, not sure what to do with your hands.

So you do what you always do when the air gets too thick — drift to another subject. “Besides cleaning the house, what else did you do today?”

“Cleaned the studio in the basement,” Jeongguk leans back again, this time more relaxed, his head tipping lazily to the side as he watches you under hooded eyes “Found your Chucks.”

You glance down — at the tulips still faintly etched into the canvas, stubborn as ever. “What else?” you ask, eyes flicking back toward him.

He smiles, a little sheepish. “Experimented with some new recipes. One might’ve involved pickled radish and maple syrup.”

You groan. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

“I’m serious! The sweet-salty combo? Kind of genius.”

“You know I love your cooking,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “But the hot sauce in the fruit salad was enough. Can’t you just be normal and feed me?”

“Just say when. What. I’ll cook you anything you want.” His laugh fades into something quieter, something softer.

You don’t say anything for a while, just let the silence settle again. It wraps around the two of you like the dusk outside — pale and tender, not quite dark yet.

Eventually, you shift. Lean just slightly until your shoulder finds his, the familiar press of him warm beneath his jacket. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets you settle. One breath, then another.

“Long day?” he asks, looking ahead the tracks in the open.

You nod once against him. “Felt like it never really ended.”

He hums — low, understanding. “One of those?”

“Mmh.” Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “One of those where everything feels… bigger than it should be.”

He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch again, this time with your breath syncing up to his.

“I think I’m just… tired,” you add, quieter now. “The kind that sits in your bones.”

Jeongguk shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head against yours. Not pressing, not prying — just there, like he always used to be.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “You can just sit here. I’ll be here.”

For a second, you don’t know how to take it.

But then — his hand shifts, just barely. Fingers brushing down, then resting gently near yours. Not touching. Not asking. Just there, close enough for you to find if you want to.

Like he used to.

His shoulder stays steady beneath you, not stiff, not uncertain. He leans into the moment without saying a word more, gaze fixed somewhere outside the tram — like he’s giving you space even while anchoring you.

And just like that, something in your chest eases.

You believe him. Maybe not with your whole heart. Maybe not in the way you once did. But in this quiet, flickering moment — with rusted tracks beneath you and time standing still — you believe him enough.

Your hand shifts beneath the fabric draped over your shoulders, brushing faintly against the inside of his jacket — where his warmth still lingers. You don’t reach for him. Just stay close enough to feel the outline of where he was, where he is. It steadies you more than it should.

“…Thank you,” you whisper, after a moment. “Thank you for being with me.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, carefully, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles linger just a second longer than they need to. Like muscle memory.

You should look away, say something dumb, laugh it off — but you don’t. The air feels different now. Charged and quiet.

And for a moment, all the noise inside you stills.

You draw in a breath. “Would you be mad if I asked you something?”

He shakes his head. Voice soft. “No. Please…”

The night outside hums low. A moth flutters near the broken tram light. The smell of old metal and wood, the hush of memory — it all folds in around you.

You glance at your knees instead, at the way your shoes nudge against his. Then up, to his face in profile. He’s looking at you now, really looking — eyes gentle, unreadable.

You know the question will change everything.

But you ask anyway. “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The silence that falls breaks your heart.

You should’ve seen it coming. Already regretting the stupid words that came out. Already regretting the sparkling wine that lingers in your stomach. How can a stupid sparkling wine make you say stupid things? You’ll never know.

But then Jeongguk breaks the quiet. “You don’t have to ask.”

And with that, you close the space between you.

The kiss starts soft – the kind you lean into with caution, not certainty. A quiet press, uncertain but real. But it deepens quickly, like breath you didn’t realize you were holding, like memory flooding back in motion.

His lips part against yours, and you feel it — the slow burn he’s been holding back since the moment you settled into his car or maybe even before that.

Your hand rises instinctively — fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw before sliding up, threading gently into his hair.

He’s warm. Too warm. And under your palm, you feel it — the slight tremble when you grip just a little harder.

He exhales into the kiss. Like it’s killing him to stay gentle. Like it’s killing him not to.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “You’re still you.”

You don’t answer. Just kiss him again — deeper this time. A silent confession.

Jeongguk pulls you closer, hand settling at your waist — not desperate. Just grounding. Just wanting to memorize the way you still fit.

When your thumb strokes the earring dangling on his lobe, you hear it — soft, involuntary.

“Baby.” It slips out. Like it never left his vocabulary. Like maybe it never could.

Your grip tightens in his hair, a breath caught between want and heartbreak.

“Wait,” his forehead drops to yours, breath uneven and warm. “God, you’re making this hard for me to stop.”

You don’t pull away. Just hold him there, eyes still closed, like maybe if you don’t move, the moment won’t end. You hate how small your voice comes out when you ask, “Do you want to stop?”

Jeongguk’s hands tremble where they rest on your waist, like he’s afraid even this fragile hold might break you both. He pauses — not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud might unravel him.

“Baby, no…damn it, no,” his voice comes low, threaded with restraint. His fingers brush your face, wipes the corner of your eyes where you don’t realize the little tears had started to build. “But we still have so much to talk about. I have so much to say to you.”

Your chest tightens at the name — not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it used to be yours. Maybe it still is. You don’t know anymore.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit, breathe.” he says gently, like a promise. “Then let me take you home after. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

You nod — not because you’re ready, but because you trust him to mean it.

Just for now.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead — slow, steady, reverent.

And then you both just sit there.

Fingers still tangled. Hearts still racing. The silence between you no longer sharp, but soft. Settling.

Outside, the rusted tram tracks stretch into the dark, curving toward somewhere that used to feel like the future.

But for now, you let yourself stay here — between what was, and whatever comes next.

[baby-yongbok]

Take It - Bang Chan Hard Thought

⤷ WC - 349

⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You’d been teasing him all night. 

Nothing too obvious — just that short little skirt, the way you leaned a bit too far over the counter, the half-smirk when you caught him watching. Chan chose patience. Calculation. He doesn’t pounce. He waits until you're squirming with the need you tried to stir in him.

So when he finally drags you to the bedroom, there’s no pretense. No slow undressing or playful banter. He rips your panties down your thighs, flips you onto the bed, and gets right to work.

You weren’t expecting it to be like this.

He’s deep already. Your legs are shaking, back arching off the mattress, toes curling, hands clawing uselessly at the sheets as Chan pounds into you, pace relentless. One hand’s locked around your throat — just firm enough to make you feel how small you are under him - while the other pins your thigh down, stopping you from closing your legs 

“Too much?” he taunts, voice low, hot against your neck. “But you wanted this, right? You wore that little skirt for me?”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy, mouth slack, but your body tries to twist away, overstimulated and desperate.

That’s when he grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze to his.

“Don’t run from it,” he grits out, slow and brutal with his next thrust. “Take it like a big girl.”

You whine, thighs trembling, tears welling, and your hips attempt to twist again. 

“Nuh-uh,” he snarls, low and close to your ear. “Take. It.”

He punctuates with hard thrusts and your breath stutters.

“Yeah,” he hisses. “That’s it. Cry if you want. You’re still gonna take every fucking inch.” You relax with your exhale — or at least try to — your moans pick up, your cunt clenching with overwhelming pleasure.

“There we go,” he breathes, the edge of approval in his tone sharp enough to cut. “Open those legs. Show me you can take what you begged for.”

And then he fucks you like he owns you. Like he’s making you into something — his. Bruised and breathless and blissed out, one moan at a time.

❥Thank You For Reading! Please Reblog or Comment to let me know how you liked it! It makes my day! 💕

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[wqlfstqr]

hiii i LOVE your work!!!! i was wondering if you could write something for percy, like maybe he gets his wisdom teeth taken out and wants to see us but he’s all loopy? not sure if your taking requests rn so if not it’s okay!!! <3

◟𖥻 wisdom teeth : percy jackson

▰▰ pairing: percy jackson x fem!reader

Percy gets his wisdom teeth removed. His filter? Gone. His love for his girlfriend? Louder than ever.

Warnings: use of y/n, no cabin mentioned for reader, prob medical inaccuracies.

Percy has been out cold for a while, mouth open, cheeks puffy, drool on full display. And she has been sitting beside him the whole time, hand resting over his. But eventually, she does need a bathroom break.

"Go, I'll keep an eye on him." Sally gives her a soft smile. "Besides, he's sleeping. He won't even notice."

But, as fate would have it, he does notice. Once she shuts the door behind her, Percy immediately stirs in his sleep, and then Sally hears a groggy whine.

"y/n?" he mumbles in a pitiful whisper.

Sally smiles gently at her son. "Hey, honey. You're awake."

That doesn’t seem to soothe him as he blinks around the room in panic, like he's some kind of lost puppy. "Where's y/n?"

"She went to the bathroom, sweetie, she'll be right back soon."

"She left me?" He gasps. "she can't leave me, she's my emotional support human."

By the time she finally comes back, Sally already has her phone out and is recording, giggling behind the camera as Percy looks over at the door and his eyes get comically wide.

"baby!" He beams, trying to stretch his arms towards her. "What took you soooo long? I almost died in here."

She looks at Sally first, holding back her laughter as she walks towards Percy, standing just beside his bed. "I was gone for two minutes, Perce."

He's immediately reaching for her hand. "Too long." He whines, pulling her hand to his chest dramatically. "Don't ever leave me again."

With her free hand, she brushes some curls off his forehead, giving him a soft smile. "I won't leave, Perce, I promise."

"You're so pretty." Percy mumbles, looking totally in awe. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, I do have a boyfriend."

Both her and Sally have to hold back a chuckle when he pouts at her.

"Aw man." He replies, shaking his head, then he looks around as if he's making sure there’s no one close to hear him and whispers "I can be a much better boyfriend, I swear."

"Percy, you already are my boyfriend."

"Yes! See? I knew that other guy couldn't stand a chance." He nods to himself, completely sure, then turns his head to Sally with his mouth open and an attempted grin. "Mom, can you believe how lucky I am?"

Sally nods behind her camera. "Yes, sweetie, very lucky."

Percy goes back to looking at his girlfriend, giving her a loopy smile as his head falls back on the pillow.

"I'm gonna marry you someday." He suddenly tells her. "You wanna marry me?"

Her eyes soften, but her heart feels like it's going to jump out of her chest at any moment. "Yes, Perce, someday."

His smile widens as if he won some kind of trophy, mouth full of gauze. "I'll ask you properly later, don't ya worry." He promises.

There’s a pause, she thinks maybe he already got tired of trying to talk. But he doesn’t drop her hand, or stops looking at her.

Then— "We're gonna live by the sea." He nods to himself. "In a pretty blue house, with our children, and you can wear those sundresses you have. God, I love those. You always look so pretty."

She smiles, leaning to press a kiss on his forehead. That's exactly when the nurse comes in, clipboard in hand and a cheerful smile. "Alright, Percy, we're just gonna do a quick check to see if you're good to go home."

Percy looks absolutely horrified when y/n starts to pull back, and he immediately shakes his head, refusing to let go of her hand. "No! don't go."

"I'll be right here, baby, they just need to check on you before—"

"I don't trust her" Percy interrupts, narrowing his eyes in the nurse's way. "She's trying to steal you away from me."

The poor nurse can only laugh. "I promise i'm not."

"She's evil." He whispers dramatically to his girlfriend, loud enough for everybody else to hear. "I don't trust her. Don't like her vibe."

"Percy, she's just doing her job." Sally says through a laugh.

"Then she can do it while y/n holds my hand." He insists, wrapping both arms around her arm, refusing to let go.

After he threatens to bite the nurse, she has no other choice but to work that way. And thankfully, she makes quick work out of checking everything's alright, all while Percy refuses to stop glaring at her.

Once she's done, He sighs dramatically, the gauze in his mouth freshly replaced by the nurse. "I swear, that nurse's a homewrecker."

And the ride home? he gets even worse there, in the car he refuses to sit alone and pulls her with him at the backseat. Then, for a few minutes he's just mumbling nonsense and pointing things he sees passing by the window.

It isn't until maybe ten minutes later in traffic that he finally drops his head on her lap and starts to fall asleep again, her fingers gently brushing through his hair.

"I love you." he mumbles, eyes closed. "thanks for leaving your boyfriend for me. I swear I'll make you as many blue pancakes as you want when we get married."

She lets out a soft laugh, Sally looks at them through the rearview mirror with a smile of her own. "You're are my boyfriend, Percy." she whispers.

He hums sleepily. "Good. The other one didn’t deserve you."

She giggles, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. He melts under her touch, scooting even closer.

"Your hair smells like dreams." he adds with a little dreamy tone.

"Dreams?" She asks, but he doesn’t reply, so she assumes he's already asleep.

They get to the apartment not long after, and Percy is insistent that he can walk by himself. He can't. So Sally and her have to walk with him clinging to them like a koala.

By the time they get inside, he immediately beelines to the couch and flops down. "Percy, your room is right there." She tells him, but he just grumbles in response before he pulls her down with him, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"This is your life now. You live on the couch. With me." He decides.

She doesn’t try to fight it, because she knows it's helpless. After a few minutes his breathing slows and he stops mumbling nonsense, so she figures he's finally asleep.

Until he mutters, "Mrs. Jackson sounds really good, doesn’t it?"

"It does, Perce, It does."

He doesn’t add anything, so she just smiles and kisses his temple, holding him a little tighter. Eventually, his breathing slows and he falls asleep. No more mumbling about marriage or evil nurses.

And she stays there, holding him close, until Sally insists she should have something to eat. So she manages to get out of Percy's hold, and he doesn't wake up this time, he keeps sleeping, curling on the couch.

It's about two hours later when he finally wakes up again, blinking at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. "Why does my mouth taste like cardboard?"

She's sitting on the floor beside the couch. "You had gauze in it." She replies, giving him a glass of water. "Here, drink."

He sits up slowly, taking the glass from her. "Did that stop me from talking?" He asks, already dreading her answer.

There’s a moment where he can see her trying to hold back a giggle. "Oh no, you actually talked a lot."

He puts the glass down, running his hand through his hair with a sleepy groan. "What did I say?"

"Where do you want me to start?" She starts, clearly amused. "Maybe when you threatened to bite the nurse if she took me from you? Or when you flirted with me like I was a stranger and told me to leave my boyfriend?"

"Just show him the video." Sally calls out from the kitchen.

"There’s a video?" Percy looks horrified, but then his curiosity gets the best of him. "Okay, it probably isn't that bad."

She pulls out her phone and plays the video. And it definitely is that bad. He watches with an increasingly mortified expression as past Percy almost cries when he wakes up without her, then when she comes back he tells her that she deserves a better boyfriend and then—

'I'm gonna marry you someday. You wanna marry me?'

There’s a pause. And Percy stares at the screen, completely horrified, for a moment. Until he simply shrugs.

"Damn right i'm gonna marry you." He says, voice still scratchy but smug. He lets his head fall back against the couch cushion and adds, "Don't need anesthesia to know that."

Her cheeks burn, but Percy grins, reaching for her hand. He's fully awake now, but still very much in love.

"You still down for that little blue house by the sea?" He asks playfully, though he can't help but feel hopeful.

She squeezes his hand. "Only if the blue pancakes offer is still available."

He grins. "For you? Always."

[electric-guillotines]

An Absolute Menace

Wanda x female reader

Summary: Of course you were ovulating on a day when Wanda had to go in for what amounted to superhero office work. Obviously, the only right thing to do was make it her problem as well...

Content: 🔞 fluff, smut, mommy kink, finger sucking, dom/sub, dommy mommy wanda, enchanted strap, ovulation, dumbification, breeding (if you squint), praise and degradation

Word Count: 3, 639 Can be read below but is also available on [AO3]

This is a follow up to a previous story, Take Me Softly

You were disturbed from sleep by the press of lips against your brow and a hand gently shaking your shoulder, and despite the softness of it you can’t help but whine as you hear;

“I have to go, malysh (baby.) ”

Petulant though you were, you opened your eyes to see Wanda hovering over you, smiling so sweetly, dressed to leave, and you pouted, winding your arms around her neck.

“Don’t forget your lunch,” you murmured sleepily. “I put it on the top shelf.”

Wanda chuckled warmly at your expression. “Thank you. Always thinking of me even when you look like a kicked puppy,” she teased, stroking a finger down your nose.

Rather than fix your face, you grumbled a protest against such comparisons, only making it worse as the sound of Wanda’s laughter graced your ears again.

Warmth bloomed in your chest. 

Smiling despite yourself, you let out a dramatic sigh and flopped limply on the bed like a wilting flower. “I cannot thrive in these conditions, abandoned, alone, oh! I will wither without my hourly dose of affection, I will!”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. This is common knowledge about girlfriends.”

You could hear the smirk in Wanda’s voice, a rush of warm air tickling your skin. “Wouldn’t that apply to me?”

You looked up at her, nodding solemnly. “Which is why you should stay.”

Wanda let out a reluctant groan. “Steve insisted they need me to come in. I’m the only witch on hand after all.”

Right, the team needed Wanda’s help with something about magic.

Sighing, albeit with far less theatrics, you sat up to hug your girlfriend. “Go,” you said, kissing her cheek. “Go be amazing. I will survive. Barely.”

Wanda laughed, hugging you nearly tight enough to press the air from your lungs, like she could somehow carry the imprint of your body the rest of the day. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she assured, gently pushing you back down into the blankets, “go back to sleep, malysh (baby.) ”

You hardly needed the encouragement, drifting back into peaceful oblivion as soon as she left the room. It wasn’t until you stirred again later and stretched out in search of your absent girlfriend that the petulant yearning returned, simmering in your chest, leaden and warm.

The more you lingered in bed, contemplating the empty space beside you, the more that sour tug in your chest wormed its way down your spine, the warmth becoming heat, the yearning becoming hunger.

No.

Starvation.

Biting your lip, you rose from bed and tried to shake off the sudden longing. Despite your dramatics earlier, you were in fact an adult, capable of self-sufficiency and independence. You could get through the day without Wanda, you had been without her for longer and this would be nothing, so you showered, dressed, and went about your day.

Coffee was brewed, breakfast was had, emails were checked—the morning run was uneventful. After a quick shower, you settled into the den with your tablet, ready to pass the time by drawing whatever came to mind as you watched a guilty pleasure of yours from the late 2000s.

Lost Tapes was a speculative series centred on the existence of cryptids and folkloric creatures, using the framing device of found footage. It struck just the right mix of absurd earnestness to make it both easy background noise and a source of inspiration.

Usually, after a few episodes you would have a couple pages worth of sketch dumps, yet…

You found yourself distracted, mind wandering to dark, needy corners and nudging your hand every other pen stroke. What came to life on the tablet wasn’t a collection of monsters but a pair of tangled bodies, ravenous and sensual.

Staring down at the sketch, you chewed your lip, trying to ignore the slow burning heat in your gut.

A devious little voice in your head suggested sending the image to Wanda.

Your skin tingled.

Unconsciously, you deepened some of the details, the dip of nails into back muscles, the shine of a leather harness, the tapestry of scratches across both bodies.

The thought of Wanda pinning you down and ravishing you wasn’t a new one, but it was always one that delighted you. For whatever reason, today the thought burned through you like a grease fire spilling across the floor, dangerous and hard to control.

Swallowing, it occurred to you how sensitive your body felt. Your nerves were buzzing, the heat pulsed between your thighs, and every little movement made you painfully aware of how wet you were.

Pulling out your phone, you quickly opened the period tracking app to double check where you were in your cycle.

Of course.

You were ovulating. 

On a day when Wanda had to go in for what amounted to superhero office work.

Against the tiniest voice of reason in your head, you sent the sketch to Wanda with a text;

Did some drawing in the den, thought of you ❤️

Five minutes later, Wanda responded;

That’s quite the vivid thought you were having, malysh. The line weight is beautiful x

Tactful, composed—that wouldn’t do.

I would love to bring it to life right now, let mommy ruin me until I forget my own name, pinning me under her body as she makes me hers over and over again… 

The response took longer, the three dots stopping and starting multiple times until Wanda finally replied;

You are playing a dangerous game teasing mommy while she’s away.

All you sent in response was a heart and closed your phone. 

Determined to get through the rest of the day, you made sure to tidy up around the house, prep food for later, and do laundry, but while you took care of such domestic endeavours you continued sending messages. Little reminders of your vivid thoughts, and pictures of you throughout the day that skirted a razor fine edge between innocent and provocative.

Each time the message status changed to ‘seen’ sent a pleased little thrill through you, unconsciously clenching your thighs together and biting your lip as you waited to see if Wanda would take the bait again.

She warned you only twice more and nothing further, but Wanda kept looking at each new message, still read the words and lingered on the pictures as her icon shifted from offline to online and back again.

You knew it was getting to her and the thought of how she would be when she got home had your head feeling warm and foggy by the time you heard her keys in the door.

It was with a heavy, honey-like sense of heat in your belly that you listened for her, sitting quietly in the den. 

There was no call, no announcement of her presence in the house, she hadn’t even sent a text to tell you she was on her way back. Instead, you barely allowed yourself to breathe as you heard the light thud of her footsteps moving down the hall, the floorboards softly creaking here and there the closer she got, until finally Wanda stepped into the doorway.

Your breath caught in your throat, taking in the sight of her looming at the threshold, the bright hallway and the dim light of the cosy den leaving her partially silhouetted.

The faintest red glow lit Wanda’s eyes like embers in a campfire.

You just peered up at her, your eyes black and your limbs darkened, dressed in soft pajama shorts and a patterned red sweater that hung off one shoulder. It belonged to Wanda once upon a time, it was the first item of clothing you ever borrowed from her, and kept borrowing whenever you wanted her affection but couldn’t get it.

The weight of her presence pinned you in place, watching her approach with slow, deliberate strides until she was standing over you, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin she could see.

Finally, Wanda muttered, “you have been an absolute menace today.”

The heat in her voice made you shift on the spot.

Lifting a hand to your face, she tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, traced the curve of your cheek, and captured your chin in a firm but gentle grip.

You remained perfectly still as she leaned down until your noses almost touched, the glow of her eyes playing on your skin.

Wanda sighed, not from annoyance but in an attempt to maintain control of herself, her breath carrying the slightest tremor of energy wound tight, a coil ready to crack. “I thought you liked being my good girl.”

A whine lurched from the back of your throat. “I could not stop thinking about you,” you rushed to explain yourself, your accent thicker with the fog of your thoughts. “I felt sensitive and warm all day and I wanted you here. I am ovulating.”

The tension in Wanda softened just a little and her head slowly tilted to the side, her smouldering eyes sweeping over you with something dark and appreciative.

With gentle pressure she slid her fingers into your hair and dropped the hand holding your chin to your throat, not squeezing, simply resting there. You almost went limp in her grasp.

Wanda locked eyes with you again, calmly tilting your head back and admiring the way you arched into her touch, pliant and eager. “Ohhh,” she crooned, “my pretty little dolly just needed me so much did she?”

The playful condescension made you drip into your shorts and you squirmed, nodding

Wanda gave your hair a light tug. “Words, dolly.”

You scrambled to answer her. “Yes, Mommy, I needed you, I need you, please.”

Humming in approval, Wanda finally kissed you, slow, deep and savouring, possessive as the hold on your throat tightened just enough to be felt.

At the brush of her tongue against your lips you moaned and let her in, delighting in how eagerly she devoured you, your thoughts becoming increasingly liquid.

Wanda broke off with a shaky breath, brow pressed to yours. “I want you to go upstairs, pick out a size, and lie down on the bed,” she husked, “and don’t undress just yet, dolly.”

She pulled you to your feet effortlessly, sending you on your way with a light slap to your bottom.

You scampered upstairs to the bedroom with barely contained energy, doing exactly as Wanda asked and opening the drawer that held your joint collection of toys, a vibrant array of colours, sizes, and shapes. You picked out a girthier one than usual, grabbed the harness, and placed both on top of the drawers.

Climbing up on the cool sheets of the bed, you laid down on your stomach, knowing full well how Wanda wanted you.

It didn’t take long for her to enter the room, and though silent her presence was like a heavy fog washing over you, the weight of it secure and reassuring.

Obediently, you remained still, listening to the rustle of fabric, to metallic clinks and leather scuffs, and you could feel her approach the bed, stopping just short.

Gently, she asked, “what is your colour, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost) ?”

You blinked slowly as the question registered. “Green, mommy,” you said, calm and clear.

Finally you felt a dip in the mattress behind you.

Wanda climbed over you, straddling your thighs. She barely gave you enough time to register her bare skin against yours before she rocked against your clothed ass, trapping the toy between your bodies.

The desperate whimper would have embarrassed you in any other situation. As it was, all you could think to do was raise your hips for her.

Leaning down, Wanda pressed flush against you, licking a searing path from your shoulder to the hollow space below your ear. She dragged her teeth against the shell of it, “you’re just a needy little slut for mommy, aren’t you, dolly?”

Heat flushed your face, her tone dripping in faux sympathy that had you trembling.

She smiled against your skin, rocking against you and letting you feel just how big the toy you’d chosen was. “All day with such big thoughts swirling around that pretty little head of yours,” Wanda cooed, “you don’t have to think any more, dolly. Mommy can do it for you, can’t she? Mommy knows what’s best for you, doesn’t she?”

Between her words and the hard length pinned against your ass, it was becoming quite hard to think anything coherent, sinking into that warm liquid haze where all you had to worry about was being her good little dolly.

Whimpering, you nodded. “Yes, mommy.”

Wanda’s hand snaked down under your belly and hooked into the waistband of your pajama shorts. She pulled until the seam rode up against your cunt, providing sudden friction to your throbbing clit.

You jolted, moaning shamelessly. “Mommy!”

Wanda ground down, forcing your hips to move and rub against your shorts.

The heat in your gut began to tighten and you clawed at the sheets, whining low in your throat.

With a dark chuckle, Wanda pulled back. “Such a naughty dolly.”

You shook your head frantically.

Wanda leaned down, stroking a hand through your hair. Her nails lazily scratched at your scalp, sending pleasurable shivers down your spine.

She looked at you with a sympathetic pout, the red glow of her eyes all but mesmerising you. “No?” she asked, sweetly mocking. “You don’t think you’ve been naughty?”

“No, mommy, please.”

“Mmh, no, you’re right, malysh.”

She sighed, kissing your hairline. “It isn’t your fault your cunt is so needy,” she said, her voice like dark honey that had your pussy clenching around nothing. “My pretty dolly is just too dumb to know what her body is doing, isn’t she? She needs Mommy to take care of it.”

The nod was automatic. “Yes, Mommy.”

Wanda kissed you, licking into your mouth as if she could sweep every last thought out of your mind with her tongue. It certainly made your head swim.

Pulling away, Wanda grabbed one of the pillows and murmured soft praise when you lifted your hips high enough to slip it under. She hooked her fingers into the back of your shorts and pulled them down just enough to expose your soaking cunt.

Wanda hissed, “ yebat (fuck) .”

You briefly heard the slick sound of lubricant being spread on the toy before the cool, rounded tip pressed against your folds, sliding down to your clit then up until it caught against your entrance.

Pressing a hand flat against the small of your back, Wanda slowly worked the toy inside, stretching you out in deliriously wonderful intervals, every inch making your breathing heavier until her hips were flush with yours and you felt delightfully full.

Wanda cursed again, her breath coming out shaky as she were trying to contain herself, and it occurred to you that she must have enchanted the strap.

Then she swivelled her hips in a lazy, stirring motion and an embarrassingly needy whimper tumbled out of you.

Shame was quite beyond you. “Please,” you begged. “Use me, Mommy, want to be your toy.”

You smiled when you heard Wanda growl above you.

Glowing threads of scarlet energy wrapped around your wrists and pulled them to the small of your back, allowing Wanda to slide a hand into your hair and push your head down against the mattress, steadying herself with her other hand on your hip.

Raggedly, Wanda said, “don’t hold back, dolly, Mommy wants to hear how much you love it when she uses you.”

There was no further warning and you wouldn’t have it any other way, crying out as Wanda began to fuck you in earnest, from deep, hard thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs to the indulgent rol and grind of her hips that had you seeing stars. You begged and moaned and babbled through it all, utterly helpless beneath her and loving every second of it.

The way you stretched around her cock over and over again, the sting of the harness against your skin each time your hips met, the fabric of the sweater riding up your body and your shorts digging into your thighs, her fingers in your hair—you could barely focus on any one sensation.

The heat built and coiled in the pit of your belly and you yelped, “mommy, close!”

Wanda dug her nails into your hip. “Go on, baby,” she urged, voice dripping with pride.

The orgasm crashed through you in shuddering waves, bright and burning and delirious, and not enough, but your mommy knew that. That’s why she didn’t stop, she continued fucking you, cooing sickly sweet praises that made you whimper and shiver in her grip.

Wanda moaned above you, her rhythm deepening, slowing. “Mommy’s going to make you forget how to walk, dolly,” she husked, emphasising her point with a particularly harsh thrust that had your eyes rolling. “Keep you here in bed, use your pretty body whenever I want.”

You flushed at her words. “Please, Mommy, fill!” you pleaded, barely grasping for what you wanted.

Wanda crooned. “My little slut, so eager for whatever Mommy gives you.”

You whined under her, trying to angle your hips so she could fuck you deeper.

She noticed, of course she did, and she laughed, the sound hungry and sweet.

Pleased, she released the magic around your wrists so she could press against your back, the hand on your hip sliding up to your throat. “Pretty little dollies like you don’t need to think, do they? They just need to take it, and you can do that, can’t you, baby?”

You opened your mouth to answer her and whatever you were going to say dissolved and dripped out your ears as her fingers slid between your lips.

Sucking on them, you let go of silly things like words or thoughts and surrendered completely, moaning as you felt Wanda’s hips stutter against you.

Warmth erupted inside you, pearlescent liquid magic like shimmering glass spilled and spilled until you could feel it dripping around the stretch of her cock.

Wanda growled against your skin, her hips picking up to go again.

Willing though you were, the position was beginning to feel a little too much, and you had just enough awareness to grab her wrist, squeezing twice.

Yellow.

Immediately she stopped and pulled her fingers from your mouth, holding your hand. “What is it, malen’kiy prizrak ?” she asked, firm and gentle.

“Need to see you, Mommy. Need to hold you.”

“Of course, thank you for telling me.”

She kissed the crown of your head and carefully withdrew, helping you turn over.

The pajama shorts were slipped off your legs and you wrapped them around Wanda’s hips, arms looping around her neck to pull her close again. The warm length of her strap rubbed up against you, nudging your clit and making you shiver.

Wanda brushed her nose against yours. “Better?”

You nodded. “Yes, Mommy.”

She smiled, her eyes soft. “Colour?”

Sliding a hand into her hair, you kissed the tip of her nose, almost shy. “Green.”

Pleased, Wanda slipped back inside, making both of you groan. 

She worked her way up to a pounding rhythm, hissing praise every time your nails raked across her back hard enough to draw blood, muttering into your ear how much she loved the way you clenched around her, whimpered for her, eager to take everything she could give you. And oh, how beautiful you were each time you unravelled, twitching and gasping beneath her, glistening with sweat, clinging to her like the only solid ground in a storm.

Sometimes she let you arch away from her, eyes falling shut as the pleasure overtook you, but other times she gripped your hair and dared you to look away, staring into your eyes and watching your face shift as you made a mess of her cock all over again, the intensity of it overwhelming in the best way.

When at last you were both exhausted, all you could feel was a heavy warmth in your belly, no longer burning and tight but the last remnants of a bonfire, smouldering down to ash, your body liquid and spent.

Registering movement above you, you tried to reach out to stop the pleasant weight on top of you from moving away, whining and pawing needily.

Red eyes settled on you. “Shhh, dolly,” Wanda soothed, brushing hair out of your eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s okay. We just need to get cleaned up.”

The tone calmed you more than the words, a collection of syllables you only vaguely grasped in your current state of exhausted bliss.

Wanda gently pulled out much to your displeasure, though the feeling of loss was quickly followed by the syrupy sensation of her magic leaking out of you, making you quake.

After removing the harness, Wanda fetched a warm washcloth and gently wiped you down, murmuring sweet praise as she did so. You sank into the feeling, letting it and the sound of her voice slowly pull you back to yourself.

Briefly, she disappeared into the bathroom again only to  return with a glass of water, coaxing you to sit up and take a drink. The cool liquid felt like it washed away some of the lingering fog.

With a sleepy smile, you nudged the glass back to her, a silent demand for her to drink as well and she did.

Finally crawling under the covers, you settled against her chest, soothed by the sound of her heart and her arms around your shoulders.

You smiled against her skin. “You were wonderful,” you whispered, snuggling closer. “Thank you.”

Wanda kissed the top of your head, squeezing you as if she could physically impart all her love by doing so. “Of course. Thank you for trusting me, malysh. "

[hedwig221b]

Hi, I'm just wondering if you have any recs, where Peter is really close with Stiles? (but not romantically obv, it'd still be sterek)

Hopefully you have something, if not it's fine. (I love your recs, I discovered some of my new favs through you).

Hi! I'm so glad you found new fics through me! Here you are! Everyone is welcome to add their faves!

Divided We Stand by KouriArashi

Derek is being pressured by his family to pick a mate, and somehow stumbles into a choice that they didn't expect and aren't sure they approve of….

Whatever It Takes by Green

When Derek goes missing, Peter and Stiles have to find him.

What Goes Around by KouriArashi

"Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.” It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential. Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”

Unexpected Results by pixieblade

What do you do when the people you are supposed to trust, betray you in the worst possible way? What would you do if someone offered you a way out?

Don't Fuss Over Me by Delightful_I_Am

Stiles has a pretty big secret. Peter helps him keep it.

Don't Savage The Messenge by exclamation

There is an uneasy truce between the werewolves in the woods and the humans who live in Beacon Hills, protected by a magical boundary that gives warning any time a werewolf crosses it. Then the sheriff is taken by the werewolves and his son offers himself in exchange. Stiles promises to serve the werewolf pack, not knowing what horrible use they might have for him. But it turns out his most useful skill is the ability to cross the boundary line between humans and werewolves. Life with the werewolves is nothing like he feared and the werewolves themselves are nothing like the hunters' stories would have him believe.

Quality Peter Time by lavenderlotion

At first, Peter had really just wanted to check in with the boy. But the more he thought of about the Spark, how he was suddenly part of his pack he couldn't help himself. So he insisted he take the boy shopping, he just wasn't counting on Stiles being so observant.

Eyes on Fire by Myulalie

When a rival pack goes after Scott and his friends, Stiles finds himself caught in the crossfire. With his subsequent turning to haunt him among other nightmares, Stiles has to learn how to control his new abilities and make something of a situation he never wanted for himself, much less with the tensions that linger in Beacon Hills since the awakening of the Nemeton. As he eventually figures out how to be a werewolf, he finally finds common ground with one Derek Hale, catching feelings as he goes. The unexpected alliance might be just what Beacon Hills needs to bring the established werewolf packs together once and for all.

When it Matters by DaisyBeats

Stiles accidentally calls Derek after he leaves the vet parking lot after Scott confronts Stiles about Donovan. Derek comes back for him

Baby, but my body's intact by Lord_potato

Stiles gives a weak shake in response. The protectiveness grows in him again -at this all, at the fact this man thinks he has the right to hurt Stiles, at the fact this man is going to send their bodies to Derek, at the fact he can't take Stiles' pain away- but he can't fight against the chains. or Stiles and Peter are kidnapped together

Let's get this on track by Lerya

Stiles knew that his options were limited when the world went to shit, too much of shit that he couldn't just talk his way out of. So he did the next best thing, use his magic to travel back to a time before any of this happened, hoping to get a move in to make sure that never happened. He should have known he wouldn't be alone in coming back.

Hung The Moon by BurnItAllClean (nrnyx)

Slowly Stiles got control of himself again. His heart calmed. His breathing evened out. The anger was gone. In its place, a bone-deep weariness settled. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t survive this.

[masterlist link]

[djarinova]

[03:00 am] — satoru gojo x reader

˗ˏ✎ requested by @ichore for my birthday event, prompt word: cozy. i hope you like!! thank you for participating and im sooo sorry this took me so long, ty for your patience<3

content - established relationship, gn reader, gojo calls reader babe and baby, teasing, reader reallyyy needs a piss, clingy gojo - wc; 672

Why does he have to be so strong? And why did I have to drink an extra large cup of hot chocolate before bed?

It's been almost 25 minutes since you first woke up in Satoru's embrace, and although you'd usually be more appreciative to have his arms around you, holding you tight against his body—your back to his chest—you're not sure how much longer you can wait for an opportunity to slip out of his arms and sneak away to the bathroom.

God, Toru, please move, I'll do anything! Anything you want! Just please let me go for a piss–

He stirs, ever so slightly, his breath catching and for a second you think he's going to wake up… Until that all too familiar thrum of snoring starts again.

Damn it! You curse.

A sigh escapes your lips, but you decide to accept your situation, after all, he can't keep hold of you forever, eventually he'll just roll over and you'll be free and you'll just run to the bathroom as fast as you can. No harm done.

You take another deep breath.

He smells of the outside, that faint hint of rain still lingering on his skin, with just a hint of cologne—musky and deep and rich—is almost soothing enough to lull you back to sleep. Almost.

It's comforting to feel him beside you again, the familiar rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the warmth seeping from his skin and heating you at every place your skin touches his. Even his vice-like grip, which seems to be tightening every time you move, is comforting in its own way. He's missed you. It would have been obvious even if he didn't keep saying it over and over again, just from the way he's stuck to you like a limpet ever since he came back (which was 2 days ago now). And you're glad for it, you are. You've missed him too. But right now your bladder is screaming at you to get up, that if you don't move within the next 5 minutes–

“Baaabe, can you please stop fidgeting? I'm tiiired.” A voice says, quiet and deep and laden with sleep.

Satoru.

His voice sends a shiver down your spine and you shake as it reaches your toes.

“Stop moving I said,” he pouts before pulling you flush against his chest with little effort in an attempt to reduce your movements.

You laugh, “I'm not going to stop moving, I have to pee! So you gotta let me go, baby.”

You hear him scoff, “You're not going anywhere, I'm cosy, so you gotta let me sleep.” He huffs.

You roll your eyes as Satoru’s head nuzzles against your neck, he laughs silently at your growing impatience and as you try to wriggle free again you feel his breath tickle your neck. His fingers start playing with the hem of your shirt, gently and delicately twirling the material.

“You're impossible…” You whisper, a smile slowly speading across your face.

“No… you are!” Satoru shouts gleefully.

And suddenly his arms tighten around you and he rolls you over his body, landing you perfectly on your back, without so much as a word. You blink, trying to let your brain catch up with his actions. He's leaning over you now, one hand lies on your stomach—tracing small circles on the exposed skin of your waist, where your t-shirt now bunches—while he uses the other hand to prop himself up next you.

“Gotcha!” He winks at you.

“You're so weird,” you playfully shove at his shoulder, “I thought you were Mr so cozy, you gotta let me sleep, huh?”

“Never too cozy to tease my baby,” he whispers, before pressing a ghost of a kiss against your lips, “now, you going to the bathroom or what? Because if you don't go soon I might just wrap you tight in my arms again. And this time there'll be go no giving in to your demands. No matter how cute you look at me.”

divider by @/saradika-graphics

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

☽ ◦ ◦ ◦ ✩ Cute Moments With Them (HSR) ✩ ◦ ◦ ◦ ☾

✩ March wants the very best photo of the two of you to be her lockscreen. She takes it very seriously. She mulls over what's in her camera roll in contemplation to consider what could be. You ask her to show you what photos were in the running. When she puts her phone to you, showing you some of the cuter photos you've both taken together, you take the opportunity to dart off in the other direction with her phone. She chases after you, and you take a picture of you running with her all blurry behind you. You make it her lockscreen before handing the phone back. You're laughing the whole time, while she pouts at you for taking her phone. "I'm keeping this as my lockscreen to remind you of how mean you are!"

✩ Natasha looks very stern when she spots the cut running down your leg. To the point where you're already apologising before she even says a word. She sighs with the shake of her head. "I shouldn't be surprised these days, go on sit." She works in swift movements of cleaning the blood of the cut and wrapping the wound in bandages. "There all done, I'd tell you to be careful but I'm honestly starting to wonder if you get hurt just to come see me." You laugh sheepishly at her comment, and while she should give you another stern look she merely shakes her head again but this time with a smile.

✩ "Sweetheart, you're a bit heavy handed with your pour." Gallagher doesn't let anyone behind his bar to pour their own drinks. But you're the exception, as much as Siobhan teases him about it. Sometimes he hears her laugh from around the other side, when you give him your best doe eyes and sweetest voice to let you behind the bar. He doesn't mind, you don't do it often, and most of the time you're doing it wanting to make him a drink. But you seem to be a bit too free with your measurements, sometimes one drink has even him feeling a bit buzzed. He still drinks it everytime as long as you promise to let him lean on you all the way home.

✩ Topaz has been looking all over the place for you and Numby. She wasn't overly concerned, as she thinks that if both of you are missing it's clear that you've wandered off somewhere together. She just wasn't expecting you both to come back with a bag full of treasure and Numby draped in random shiny gems you'd both found along the way. She bursts out laughing, a noise that causes Numby to jump in delight. "Hold still I need to get a photo of this!" The photo she takes on her phone is one that always makes her grin when she sees it.

✩ "I don't think pottery is your talent." Aventurine had considered lying about the disfigured mug you had made, but you seemed very aware of how ugly it was when you showed it to him. But miracalously it still ends up serving it's purpose, as you find out several mornings later seeing him drink coffee out of it. As you stare at him puzzled that he's even drinking from the mug that he almost burst out laughing at how strange it looked. "It has it's endearing qualities. I won't have it openly out on display, ever. But it's still useable." By endearing qualities, he means the thought of you attempting to make the mug only for it to turn out like this but you don't need to know that.

✩ Jing Yuan encourages you to come visit him on slower days. Not because he's looking for a chance to slip away, well okay, that's part of it. But because he takes any chance he can to spend time with you. He hadn't intended to doze off before you'd arrived, but alas sleep had sunken its claws into him. He stirs slightly upon hearing the closing of doors and you saying his name. Curiously, he keeps his eyes shut to see what you'll do while thinking he's asleep. You call his name again, footsteps growing closer until your right by his side. He doesn't expect you to attempt to rouse him by running your fingers through his hair. But you also don't expect him to move so that he's pressing his face into your hands.

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (28 - Coming Home)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Can you believe we are more than halfway to the end? Thank you for sticking with me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Three years have passed.

A gentle exhale brushed your skin, slow and steady, like waves retreating from the shore. The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight slipping through the curtains—it was Kia’s arm draped loosely over your waist, her leg tangled with yours. She was still asleep, pressed close, her body radiating heat that expelled the never-ending cold of Reykjavik. Three years and you were still not used to its climate. You blinked once, twice, trying to shake away the remnants of dreams that clung to your mind. 

Then you shifted, careful not to wake Kia. But she stirred anyway, sensing your movement, her eyelids fluttering as she peeked at you through one half-lidded eye. Her dark hair was mussed, and you almost laughed at how absolutely perfect she looked—sleep-warmed cheeks, lips parted in a silent yawn. She fixed her eyes on you, and a smile slowly crawled its way to her dry lips.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still husky. 

You responded by pressing a soft kiss to her temple. In return, Kia took your hand and let her lips graze lightly across your knuckles. Your mornings had been like this nearly every day—quiet, simple, sweet. The kind of peace you never thought possible back when you were sweating through old mattresses in rundown rentals as Ronin. That life feels like a distant nightmare now—one Kia somehow managed to wake you from. 

You shifted to prop yourself on one elbow, looking down at her. “So… any chance you could stay home today?” you asked, light teasing in your tone as you massaged her neck, causing her to purr. “I know you have to work, but I was thinking… we could call it a personal day.”

She laughed weakly. “I can’t exactly make a habit of it. Besides, I don’t think my patients would appreciate me vanishing on a whim.” She reached to smooth the collar of your sleep shirt, her fingertips dancing down your collarbone. “You know I’d love to, though.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “You never bent the rules for me,” you said, hoping to coax another smile from her.

“I did,” she replied softly. “Just not the ones that put other people’s health at risk.”

“You’re irritatingly noble, Dr. Heimisson.”

She leaned in for a kiss. It lingered, your fingers sliding into her hair. You tilted your head, chasing more, your mouth parting slightly as your tongue brushed against hers—testing, asking. She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned in, her hand tightening at the back of your neck. You smiled into it, knowing exactly what you were doing. 

Then, just as things started to tip, she pulled back. “I’ll make us coffee,” she said, her voice low and a little reluctant. 

She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing just for a second before standing. Her scrubs were still folded on the chair from last night. Always neat.

By the time she’d pulled on a shirt and stepped out of the bedroom, you found yourself glancing around the room, the life you’d built together mapped out in the small details. A couple of photos on the dresser. A shared sock drawer. A small stack of your books in the corner (you’d stopped hoarding them a while ago), trading in the ones you’d finished for used copies you hadn’t, from the only bookstore in town. Sometimes, in moments like this, you could still feel the shape of who you used to be. The horrible things you’ve done. But it didn’t take over anymore. Not like it used to.

You passed into the kitchen and saw her hovering by the coffeemaker, quietly humming a tune you had taught her. She offered you a mug, steam curling into the air. 

“You heading out today?” she asked, her soft blue eyes curious. It’s your favorite part of her body. Eyes always held the most power over you, capable of commanding you in ways nothing else ever could.

“Just errands,” you answered. “Groceries, maybe. If you think of anything else we need, text me.”

She nodded before inching closer to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear like she always did. You reached past her for the sugar; her hip nudged yours, a silent order to hold still. You answered with a playful grin, letting her plant a quick kiss on your cheek before she slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind her. 

The house went still. You stood there for a while, basking in the quiet morning.

You didn’t know it yet, but that quiet wasn’t going to last.

—

A call came a few hours later. You were halfway through your grocery list, staring at tomatoes that didn’t look particularly ripe, when your phone vibrated. You missed it. But it was quickly followed by a text, signed by a name glowing on the screen that made your pulse spike.

Steve Rogers. You hadn’t heard that name in… well, in a long time.

You hadn’t really spoken to anyone from the old team in the last three years. Just a handful of letters from Natasha after she somehow tracked you down. You responded, politely, once. You told her you were okay, but asked her not to write again, and she respected that.

When you stepped into life with Kia, you swore off everything that came before. No ghosts, no familiar faces, a clean slate. You told yourself it was the only way anything could feel real again.

Though, somehow, you never managed to throw out Wanda’s things.

They stayed in the basement, buried in boxes you hadn’t opened in years. Somewhere back there were old photos, her worn red jacket. The ring you picked out together—meant to match Wanda’s—now hangs from a chain around your neck. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, but you couldn’t wear it either.

Hers, you imagine, turned to dust long ago.

Your phone when it rang again, causing you to jump in surprise. For an instant, you almost let it go to voicemail. Old instincts kicked in, though—your heart pounded with the sense that if you ignored it, you might have regretted it forever. So you tapped the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear.

“Y/N?”

That voice that used to inspire a room of heroes was unmistakable. It really was him. Your response got stuck in your throat, so you managed little more than, “Steve… yeah. Hey.”

He asked how you were, and you gave him the kind of answer people give when they don’t want to get into it. He tried to stretch the small talk, but you could feel it—this wasn’t that kind of call.

“You can skip the pleasantries, Steve,” you said, not unkindly.

He let out a quiet sigh, then got to the point. “There’s a way. A way to bring them back.”

You swore the world tilted. You gripped your phone tighter, your steps faltering. “What are you talking about?” you asked, but you already knew. The question was just instinct, something to fill the space where air had suddenly become hard to find.

Steve breathed heavily on the other end. This wasn’t some vague, wishful bring-them-back idea, you could tell that much already. Whatever it was, it ran deeper than a theory. It felt like driftwood tossed to the drowning—long overdue, and just barely enough to hold onto. And he was clearly trying to figure out how to explain it to you. Still, you held out any hope that it was true.

“We’re close to a plan,” he explained. “We think we can reverse what happened five years ago—undo the Snap entirely. Tony and Bruce have figured out how the Quantum Realm—”

“What’s that?”

Steve paused. You could practically hear the internal God help me sigh. It made your lips quirk a little into a small smile.

“It’s… okay, so, it’s like a pocket dimension where time moves differently. Or slower. Or maybe not. I don’t know, it’s—” He stopped himself, clearly spiraling. “Look, kid, if you want more science, you’re gonna have to ask Banner or Tony. Or basically anyone else on the team.”

You let out a small, stunned breath. “Okay…”

“All I know is, they’re almost entirely sure that it would work. And we need you.”

That last part settled into your chest and lodged itself there. 

“We’ll retrieve the Infinity Stones from different points in our past, bring them back here, and use them to bring everyone back,” Steve continued. “But we’ll only have one shot at this. Once we’ve fixed things, we’ll return the Stones to their rightful moments so we don’t create alternate timelines.”

“You’re saying time travel?” It came out in a choked whisper.

“Yes. It’s a ‘time heist,’ as Scott calls it.”

The longer the call dragged on, the more questions piled up—none with clear answers. But for now, you let them sit. There’d be time to sort through the mess later.

“What exactly do you need from me?”

“Tony’s got two jobs for you,” he began. “First, there’s a mineral he needs for the time-space GPS we’re building. Without it, the machine might be too unstable to use. There’s a museum in Houston that has it. It’s heavily guarded. Unofficially, too, since this mineral isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“And after I hand over this mineral?” you asked.

“You’ll join the team to retrieve the stones.”

It sounded simple enough. But you were curious about one more thing. 

“Why me?” you asked.

“This has to be a stealth job, and with Natasha going after Clint, there’s no one else who can handle this off-the-radar. You’ve got the skill and the anonymity.”

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the ‘end call’ button, giving yourself one last chance to forget about all this. “So… no official channels?”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “We don’t want to risk alerting the government, or anyone else. If this fails, it could devastate people all over again.”

“You said it would work,” you replied evenly.

“I know this will work. It has to.”

You wanted to laugh at the irony. The phone felt hot against your ear.

“Do I have time to think about it?” you asked.

Steve sighed. “You have until tonight.”

—

The hours between that call and Kia’s arrival home were excruciating. You found yourself pacing the living room, your mind stewing in guilt as it replayed Wanda’s laughter, the perfect shape of her face and the feel of her hand in yours. Over and over and over again. 

And then there was Kia. The woman who’d patiently, gently pieced your broken heart back together, who had stayed through the wreckage until life began to feel solid again. Who loved you at your worst. Was it even right to push against destiny like this? To rewrite history, bend the universe to your will, and reverse events already set in motion?

But as quickly as you questioned it, your own logic countered: nothing about Thanos snapping half of all life into oblivion had ever been natural or just. Maybe this—this chance Steve offered—wasn't defiance at all, but a way to correct a cruel imbalance, to make things whole again. You’d never felt whole since that incident. And neither did Kia even though she’d never said it out loud. 

You told yourself firmly this wasn't a choice between Wanda and Kia. But deep down, from the moment Steve uttered those three impossible words—bring them back—you knew the decision had already been made. If there was even the slightest chance to undo the damage, you'd reach out and take it, consequences be damned.

By the time Kia’s key rattled in the lock, you’ve turned over Steve’s proposal a thousand times in your head. She stepped in, setting her work bag on the nearest chair. The way she looked at you—face drawn, concern evident in her eyes—told you she could sense your tension.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, drawing near.

You forced yourself to speak. You told her about Steve’s call, about the mission to reverse the Snap, the potential to bring back everyone who vanished. The unspoken word at the center was Wanda, but there was so much more: thousands of families, including Kia’s. Her own daughter, her husband. 

Kia stood perfectly still as she processed it. You saw the flicker of hope in her eyes even as her features twisted with longing and fear. 

Then she spoke softly, her voice trembling. “Is this really possible? Can they… can they bring my daughter back?”

That question squeezed your heart. Suddenly, you realized that your desire to see Wanda again paled next to Kia’s longing for her child. She had carried that emptiness with her every single day. 

“Yes,” you managed to say, your voice thick. “We think so.”

Kia’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t cry, but you could feel how much she’s holding back.

“Then do it,” she said. “Help them.”

You reached for her hand, needing to feel her close, even as the distance between what you had and what might come stretched wider by the second. Neither of you said it out loud, but the truth hung there. If this plan worked, everything would change. Bringing everyone back meant rewriting entire lives, and this thing between you and Kia, it didn’t exactly fit into the world before, or the one that might follow.

Even thinking about it felt wrong. Selfish. Ugly.

You could feel yourself splitting into two realities. This reality with Kia, and the reality that dissolved with Wanda. You couldn’t find the words. You just held her hand tighter.

Kia looked away for a moment, like she could already see the ripple effects waiting on the horizon. Then her eyes found yours again. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “we do this for them. For everyone who didn’t get a choice.”

In that moment, your love for her swelled and bloomed and gave you courage. 

—

You left before dawn the next morning, a small duffel in hand, its contents carefully chosen and arranged the night before. Sleep had come in sparse increments, anxiety keeping you company. Houston was a thirteen-hour flight away; Tony had arranged an unregistered Quinjet, and you spent the journey reviewing the museum’s floor plans on a tablet.

The museum in question was near the outskirts of downtown Houston, housed in a stately old building renowned for its obscure geological exhibits. The public wasn’t aware of just how rare that “obscure” gem in its vault truly was. According to Tony’s notes, it was a type of mineral that reacted unusually to quantum energy—a piece critical for stabilizing the time-space GPS he and Bruce Banner were building. Without it, the device might overload on its own power.

As soon as you landed, you made your way to a safehouse on the city’s edge—just a nondescript apartment Tony had secured. There, you changed into dark clothing that offered maximum agility and minimal interference. You double-checked your infiltration tools—glass cutters, a slim electronic lockpick, and a tiny EMP device for any modern security measures.

There were nerves crawling under your skin you hadn’t felt in years. After everything—the missions,bloodshed you and Clint left scattered across cities, you didn’t think you were capable of feeling this shaken anymore.

Maybe it was because the entire operation hinged on this one task. If you failed, the rest of the plan fell apart. You cursed Tony under your breath. Now it made sense why he picked you. If things went sideways, you were the easiest to blame. He probably never thought much of you to begin with.

But he wasn’t wrong to choose you. Because no one had more riding on this than you, and no one was more determined to see it through.

Kia’s face flashed in your mind. Then Wanda’s. You forced your thoughts back to the present mission. “Let’s do this,” you muttered. 

It was close to midnight when you arrived at the museum. The streets were quiet, most of the late-night commuters having already cleared out. You surveyed the main entrance from a safe distance—bright spotlights illuminated the grand facade, and security cameras perched like watchful owls along the eaves. Slipping around the side, you found a smaller service door just beyond a chain-link fence. There was a single guard on patrol, circling the perimeter with the slow, practiced boredom of someone who never expected trouble.

You timed the guard’s route, waiting behind a low hedge until he disappeared around the next corner. A quick jolt from your custom lockpick shorted the rusted padlock on the fence; it fell open with a dull click. You eased through, crossing the short distance to the service door in a half-crouch. Its old keypad glowed faintly. You attached a signal disruptor over the panel and waited, heart pounding in your ears, until the tiny light flickered green. The door clicked open.

Inside, darkness swallowed you. Only emergency exit signs and faint overhead safety bulbs gave any illumination. You consulted the mental map you’d memorized from Tony’s briefing, picturing the route to the restricted vault near the geological exhibits. There’d be motion sensors in the main corridors, so you stayed pressed to the walls, gliding past an open archway into a side hallway. You activated your handheld scanner, just enough to detect where infrared beams might crisscross. Sure enough, a series of faint red lines sliced through the corridor ahead. You ducked below one beam, then twisted sideways to avoid another. The entire maneuver would have made your old trainers proud.

Though there was a dull ache in your lower back from having been sedentary all these years.

Step by careful step, you progressed until you reached the thick, steel-reinforced door of the vault. A digital keypad glowed in the quiet gloom, showing an eight-digit lock. You expected that. What you hadn’t expected was the second biometric scanner installed next to it—an update not in Tony’s blueprint. You forced yourself to calm down, reminding yourself you’d done this before. Stealth ops always required a bit of improvisation. 

You removed a small device from your belt pouch—another one of Tony’s countless inventions. It emitted a pulse that temporarily scrambled biometric scanners, forcing them to default to a bypass code if the user had one. But that code changed daily. You hoped the museum staff wouldn’t have updated the secondary system just yet.

By some cosmic stroke of luck (or Tony’s genius), the device beeped once, and the scanner’s screen flickered. A prompt for a four-digit override code replaced the biometric prompt. With your electronic lockpick engaged, you let it cycle through potential combinations at high speed. Tense seconds ticked by. Finally, a soft click hissed from the latch, and the vault door slid open two inches, revealing a small interior chamber lined with secure cases.

Your target lay in a sealed glass cylinder at the center, the mineral’s deep violet hue faintly luminous even in the shadows. In that moment, you sensed how important it was, how it seemed like a full circle moment. This was the literal keystone for rewriting history, for forging a path back to life as it once was. Or as close as it could get.

Carefully, you placed a glass cutter against the cylinder. The diamond tip whirred almost silently, creating a neat circular hole in the thick glass. You inserted a slim vacuum rod and slipped out the mineral. It was heavier than expected, humming with an odd energy in your hand.

Before you left, you remembered your promise. You took a small folded note from your pocket (paper, so it couldn’t be easily traced), and placed it inside the now-empty cylinder. 

It read:

“I’m sorry I had to do this. Don’t worry—I’ll return what I borrowed exactly two weeks from today. It needs to save the world first.”

You signed it with only a small symbol at the bottom—a private insignia you once used on covert ops, but nothing that would blatantly identify you. Then you turned, tucking the mineral into a padded case in your suit.

A short ride later, you were safely back at the safehouse, the artifact secured. You tossed your gear onto the small kitchen table and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The note you left would cause a stir; the museum might tighten security. But you planned to keep your promise. 

You just hoped you’d live to see that day.

—

Three days later, you’re back where it all started. 

You thought you’d be a little teary-eyed, considering this is where you’ve spent nearly half of your life. But what you felt instead was relief. Relief that the compound still stood. You watched the building for a long moment, soaking up the calm before the storm. In your right hand, you clutched the mineral that would complete the time machine. 

“Aren’t you coming inside?” 

You’d know that voice anywhere.

Clint Barton stood a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, looking nothing like the Ronin persona he’d worn over the past few years. He looked more like the old Clint, the one you didn’t know you missed so terribly. 

You offered a faint nod and took a step forward, your boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Didn’t expect to see you here first,” you said.

He gave you a wry smile. “Didn’t expect to be here at all.”

You exhaled slowly. The mineral pulsed faintly in your hand—your hand that had once gripped a weapon more than anything else, had learned to hold Wanda’s fingers with reverence, and later, Kia’s with gratitude.

Clint’s gaze dropped to it. “That’s what I think it is?”

You gave a small nod. “Final piece.”

“So… we’re really doing this?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. “I’m not sure we are. This part’s on me.” You offered Clint the mineral and he cupped it carefully, turning it over in his hand.

“I thought you’d be suiting up with us,” he said. “Steve and Tony said you’d bring the piece. Didn’t think you’d just—”

“Drop it off and leave?” you finished, managing a faint smile. “That was the plan.”

Clint tilted his head. “Mind telling me why?”

“I told Steve and Tony I’d help find the last component. That’s it. That felt… enough.”

Clint stared at you for a beat. After all these years, he knew you too well to take your words at face value. “That’s all there is to it?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “No. Of course not.”

Clint waited, giving you the space to say it when you were ready.

“There’s a whole life waiting for me,” you said. “Far away from this place. With Kia. We built something that doesn’t need saving. And if I sign up for this—really sign up for this—I’d have to see it through to the end. To the moment someone snaps their fingers and brings everyone back.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze.

“And if she’s there, if Wanda comes back before I’m ready—” your voice faltered. “I don’t know if I’d be able to make a fair choice.”

Clint was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes soft. Then he nodded, slow and solemn.

“I get it,” he said. “God, I really do.”

He kicked at the gravel lightly. “I used to tell myself I went down that path to protect my family. After they were gone, I needed someone to blame for the world falling apart. You know that better than anyone.”

“I do,” you murmured.

“I dragged you down with me,” Clint added. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “No. We dragged each other. We weren’t… good for one another back then. We weren’t accountable. We made each other worse.”

Clint looked away, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

You both stood there in silence for a while, watching the horizon blur into a late afternoon haze.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” you asked.

“It has to,” he said.

“And when it does?” you asked. “What are you going to do when you get them back?”

He glanced at you, resignation in his eyes.

“I’m going to surrender,” he said simply. “Turn myself in. The Accords were a mess, sure, but they weren’t wrong about everything. We need to be kept in check. All of us. We don’t get to come back from the things we did without consequence.”

You hadn’t expected that. Not from the man who once broke half a dozen laws to make it home in time for his kid’s birthday.

“You’d really do that?” you asked quietly.

Clint nodded. “Even if the mission works. Even if they come back… I won’t get to just go back. I’m not the person they left, Y/N.”

You swallowed, his words hitting too close to home.

“They’ll still love you,” you offered, though it felt insufficient. They didn’t land with the comfort you intended. Maybe because you didn’t believe them yourself.

Because you’d been asking yourself the same question for years. 

Kia had offered you peace when the world gave you nothing but silence. She saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen. She gave you a reason to keep going.

And yet, Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know. And the truth of not knowing had been eating at you for longer than you were willing to admit.

“Yeah,” Clint said, almost smiling.

You nodded slowly, not sure whether to admire him or mourn him.

“I hope they see the man who kept trying,” you said softly.

Clint gave a small smile. “You too.”

He held out the mineral to return it, but you shook your head.  

“Give my regards to Tony,” you said. 

You reached out, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bring them home,” you said. “All of them.”

“I will.”

He looked down at the mineral in his hand again, and then back at you.

“Go,” Clint said. “Before you change your mind.”

You nodded, taking one last look at what remained of your past before turning away. You wouldn’t look back. Not this time.

—

You returned to Reyjavik a few days later. By then, it was all over the news—

The impossible had happened. The Avengers had done it. They brought everyone back. 

Airports were flooded with reunions. There was celebration and chaos. The world was finally waking up from a nightmare. And you… you were still trying to process the fact that it worked.

The first thing you did was look for Kia. You needed to see her face, hold her hand—just know she was okay. You walked into the apartment and found it empty, cold in a way that went beyond the absence of people. Kia wasn’t waiting for you at the door. 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to you, shoulders rigid. Her fingers were curled tightly around a mug. 

You spoke her name—soft, almost a prayer.

She turned, and that’s when you saw it. Something in her had already retreated.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she said.

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You hadn’t expected a joyful reunion, not with everything this victory implied. But you also didn’t expect it to feel this fragile, like tiptoeing across eggshells.

Kia looked down at her lap, and for the first time, you couldn’t read her at all. Moments later, she stood up and walked to the window. 

“Maria is back,” she said. “And so is her father.”

‘Her father’, and not ‘my husband’. A deliberate choice of words. Kia talked to you often about them, but it was different now that they aren't gone.

You forced a smile. Whatever this might mean for you, some part of you was genuinely happy for her. Deeply, fiercely happy.

Because you remembered the way Kia used to trace the shape of her daughter’s photo with her fingers late at night when she thought you were asleep. You remembered how she’d spoken about her husband with reverence and regret in equal measure. The two deepest holes punched through her soul—now filled again.

“They’re back,” you said softly, like you needed to say it yourself to believe it.

She still hadn’t looked at you. “They’ve relocated to the other side of town for now. Temporarily.”

Temporarily.

A quiet warning. A gentle ending dressed up as a maybe.

You nodded, jaw clenched against the tremble that wanted to rise.

“Are you okay?” you asked, because it mattered more than anything else. Even now. 

Especially now.

She turned to face you then, finally. Her eyes were raw, rimmed with exhaustion and uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “You gave me a reason to keep living. You helped me breathe again. But he’s here. They’re here. And I—God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Your heart split clean down the middle, slow and silent.

You took a step back, giving her space even though you were already drowning in the distance.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you said. “You’re allowed to not know.”

Her eyes continued to brim with tears. “This—them—none of it would be possible without you,” she prattled on.

You opened your mouth, not knowing what to say, but then she closed the distance between you.

And kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Tasting of salt, mostly. Her hands tangled in the collar of your jacket like she was scared to let go, and for a moment, you let yourself believe.

But you felt it. The tremor in her fingers. The guilt in her kiss. How it was more of gratitude than desire.

“I love you,” she said again and again against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

Because you believed her. You really did.

But you also knew.

You had always known.

This was the last fire before the ashes. She would always carry you in her heart. She would always remember what you gave her. But you would not be the person she came home to when the dust settled.

And you would never, ever ask her to be. You wouldn’t be the one to imprison her in your arms when everything she’d ever lost had finally come back to her.

You brushed her cheek with the backs of your fingers and kissed her forehead. 

“I know,” you said quietly. 

She tried to hold your gaze, eyes swimming with confusion, as if she could see something in you starting to slip away. She wiped at her face, breath shaky. “What should I make for dinner?”

You smiled at her gently. “Nothing. Just relax, okay? I’ll pick something up from our favorite place.”

Kia blinked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded.

You gave her one more look, soft and grateful, then turned your back before she could see you fall apart.

And as soon as you reached the patio, your shoulders shook.

You pressed your hand to your chest to steady yourself, biting back the sound that wanted to escape your throat.

Because that kiss—her love—was real.

But it wasn’t enough. 

—

You turned yourself in to the international authority a week later, after making sure everything was in place for you to disappear cleanly.

Steve handled the details—wiping your existence from every known database, scrubbing records, clearing traces. All except one. A single dossier remained, buried in Stark’s system, written by Natasha herself. Steve couldn’t bring himself to erase it. Not something she’d written. Not even if it’s something as small as a file about you.

You understood. All you asked was that he marked your status as deceased. He tried to talk you out of it, of course. That there were other ways. 

But when that didn’t work, he reached for the one thing he thought might—

“You were the first person Wanda looked for,” he’d said quietly. Well, you weren’t that person from five years ago. Wanda would’ve been mistaken. 

You took Clint’s place without asking his permission. He had too much to lose, and you figured you didn’t—at least not compared to him. You listed the crimes in clear, practiced detail. The missions you’d completed. The blood on your hands. The times you looked away. You took it all. 

Owned it all.

Not because they were all yours—but because someone had to.

They processed you like any other criminal. Stripped you down. Tagged your belongings. Asked you questions you didn’t flinch answering.

Clint was furious when he found out. He caught up with you before the transfer. They had you in cuffs, but it was immaterial. The guards gave you both a moment, recognizing that Clint wasn’t going to be stopped by protocol. After everything, they’d grown lenient with the Avengers. Especially now, with the miracle of the return still fresh in everyone’s minds. They didn’t even understand why they were incarcerating one of them in the first place.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint’s voice cracked, his hands fisting at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan.”

You didn’t bother correcting him. There had never really been a plan after you retrieved that mineral. 

You shrugged. “Oops.”

Clint slammed his fist against the nearest wall, startling the guard by the door. “Goddammit, I was supposed to be the one—”

“Your family is waiting for you,” you told him gently. “Natasha didn’t sacrifice herself so you could just throw your life away. You know that.”

The name alone unraveled him. “And she didn’t die so you could do this, either.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m making sure something good comes from all of it.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged in defeat. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the desire to talk you out of it, to remind you that Wanda would want a choice in the matter. But you had already made yours, and time felt precious then.

“I’m not just taking the fall for you, Clint,” you said softly. “I’m taking responsibility. For the things I’ve done. The choices I made. I can carry this.”

His eyes reddened, tears threatening to spill. You’d only ever seen him like this once before.

“I never wanted this,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he asked the one thing you’d been waiting for. “What about Wanda?”

Wanda was alive and well now. There’s no more war left to fight. You could still picture her living in the suburbs, watching her sitcoms, maybe even finding love again someday.

“Give her back everything,” you said. “The things I’ve kept. The property in New Jersey. It’s hers. She should have a home.”

“It’s going to kill her to think you’re gone.”

You exhaled slowly. “Wanda’s stronger than anyone thinks. Stronger than she thinks.”

Clint shook his head. “She’s not stronger than losing you.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. There’s just the hollow ache of knowing you wouldn’t be there to see if your words held true. Instead, you merely asked Clint to look after her. 

And when the guard finally escorted Clint out, your entire frame gave out like a deflated balloon.

You spent your first night in the cell sitting upright, hands in your lap, staring at the far wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you. The world outside moved on.

And inside, you stayed very still.

You had given Wanda your heart.

You had given Kia your hope.

And now, you have given away your liberty.

Somewhere, in a kinder universe, they all got to live their lives without grief. And maybe, you were there with them. 

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Blood singer, part 12

Summary: Jasper has a surprise, one that brings both joy and more worries.

Warnings (be mindful of your triggers): injury, blood and death, angst, fluff, grief, swearing, sexual content, mentions of mental health struggles, alcohol, eating disorder, mentions of a period

Pairing: Jasper Hale x human!reader (blood singer), Paul Lahote x human!reader

Word count: 11.1k

Blood singer - Series Masterlist

The morning light is soft, golden rays slipping lazily through the curtains and over the tangled bedsheets and blanket Y/N’s still wrapped up in. She stirs, her fingers stretching across the empty space beside her.

Jasper’s not there.

She opens her eyes slowly, the haze of sleep still clinging to her eyelids, blurring her vision. The first thing she sees is the hollow dip in the mattress where Jasper had laid and held her hours before, his shape still etched into the sheets. Her body aches slightly, not painfully, but in the way it always does when she falls asleep cuddling Jasper. While her heart loves falling asleep on his chest, her body protests every morning. Despite all expectations, hugging someone rock hard for a prolonged period of time isn’t the most comfortable choice for a human.

Her eyes drift toward the window, finding Jasper. He’s standing there, silent, unmoving, watching the trees like he hears whisper of secrets carried in the wind only he understands.

“Jasper…” Her voice is soft and scratchy from sleep. “Come back to bed.”

He doesn’t move. The morning sun outlines him like a ghost with his golden hair tousled, bare arms rigid at his sides. His jacket is gone, forgotten somewhere on the floor, and his rigid stance tells her something isn’t right. When she closed her eyes last night, she was under the impression everything was resolved and they could just go back to how things were. It doesn’t seem like it anymore.

She kicks the blanket off and pads across the wooden floor, not bothering to hide the way her shirt is sliding off one shoulder, or how her shorts are twisted slightly from sleep. She leans into him, cheek brushing the middle of his back.

“Did you watch me sleep again?” she murmurs with a crooked smile. “It’s giving kinda romantic… kinda serial killer.”

Still, no laugh. Not even a smirk. Jasper turns slowly, and the second she sees his face, truly sees it, her stomach sinks. His eyes are dark with thoughts that have been taunting him, brows knitted together, mouth tense like he's holding back words he could never take back. But it’s his hands that reach for hers, gently, with adoration and anguish she wants to erase from his face that truly make her heart pick up pace.

He lifts them into the light and that’s when she sees it; faint but unmistakable…bruises. Pale lavender and muted red, blooming underneath like a watercolor explosion around the delicate curves of her wrists where his fingers had held her down.

Y/N blinks. “Oh.”

He doesn’t speak. Just stares at the marks like they’re screaming.

“They don’t hurt,” she reassures him quickly. “Jasper…It’s just a bruise,” she tries again, her voice soothing, brushing her thumbs along his knuckles. “They’ll fade.”

He pulls his gaze from her wrists to her eyes, and the pain there makes her chest physically ache. His jaw is locked so tight it looks like it hurts to speak.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. “Don’t pretend it’s nothing.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you it’s not the tragedy you’re making it out to be.”

“I could’ve broken your wrists, Y/N.” His voice is flat, distant and devastatingly beautiful in its grief. “I could’ve snapped them without even trying. I could’ve killed you. I almost did.”

She pulls her hands free, gently but firmly. “Stop,” she says, staring him down.

He flinches like the word struck him.

“I knew what I was doing,” she continues. “I wanted it. I chose to kiss you. I chose to lose control with you. You didn’t drag me into anything I didn’t ask for.”

He shakes his head, backing away from the window like her words burn. “That’s not an excuse. Your skin is softer than paper, Y/N. You trusted me and I used that trust and turned it into bruises.”

“It’s not about the damn bruises!” she snaps, frustrated now, stepping into his space again. “You’re so focused on the damage you could have done that you can’t even see the progress we made. Jasper, we’ve never been closer than we were last night. We talked. We opened up. You didn’t run from me when I nagged and asked questions or kissed you like you’re the air I need to breathe. You held me…You touched me the way I want to be touched.”

He says nothing, but his eyes linger on hers for a moment.

“I love you,” she says, quieter this time. “And I’m not sorry I touched you. I’m not sorry I kissed you. And I’m sure as hell not sorry I trusted you to share my bed in more ways than one.”

He looks at her like she’s the sun and he’s forgotten how warm the sunrays are. He’s never felt the warmth of someone’s words before, not like this.

“I know you hate this part of yourself,” she whispers, reaching for his hand again. “But you didn’t lose control. You stopped. That means everything.”

His voice is broken when he finally speaks again. “I want to be better for you.”

She steps closer, pressing her forehead to his. “You already are.”

Jasper's thumb strokes over the back of her hand as though he's still unsure she's real. His fingers tremble slightly, but not from thirst and not from hunger. They tremble from the overwhelming tenderness of being allowed to love her with all his might and still be loved despite the mistakes he keeps repeating.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice low and aching. “Not just for the bruises. For... everything. For running last night. For making you doubt even for a second that I’d come back.”

Y/N shakes her head gently, stepping in to rest her forehead against his collarbone. Her hands slide up his chest, slow and soft. “I wouldn’t hold it against you…If you needed a break. Jasper, you might be a vampire, but you’re also allowed to ask for space if you want it.”

His arms encircle her waist gently, his lips brushing the top of her head. “Let me do something for you today.”

Her eyes find his.

“I want you to take a hot shower, get dressed, and come downstairs when you're ready. I’ll make you breakfast,” he says, voice gaining quiet confidence. “Then… I want to take you somewhere.”

Her brows rise instantly. “Take me where?”

He smirks, backing up just enough to see her face. “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” she echoes, narrowing her eyes. “I hate surprises.”

“I know,” he says, leaning in to kiss her nose. “But I think you’ll like this one.”

She squints. “Is it a gift? Is it a location? Is there a clue you can give me? Temperature? Elevation? Threat level?”

“Mm-mm,” he hums, lips twitching.

She crosses her arms. “How am I supposed to emotionally prepare if you don’t tell me anything?”

Jasper grins mischievously, almost boyish in the faint morning light. “You’re not.”

“Oh, really?” she challenges, stepping back.

Then, without ceremony, she hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her shorts and slowly starts shimmying them down her thighs. His eyes follow them down instantly. Her shirt comes next, peeled up and over her head in one smooth motion until she’s left standing there in nothing but a thin, black bralette and panties, the soft morning light illuminating the curves of her bare skin.

Jasper stares, trying to keep his hands to himself.

She raises a brow. “Still not talking?”

He blinks once. Then his boyish grin sharpens into something more wicked. “You think nudity’s gonna get secrets out of me?”

“I can at least try,” she says, shrugging innocently.

He laughs, the sound loud, bright and warm, and it wraps around her like sunlight. “You’re playing with my sanity too much, Darlin’.”

She smirks. “You make it too easy for me.”

He leans in to kiss her temple. “Shower. Or I will forget the plan and prove exactly how dangerous I can be.”

“And what if that’s precisely what I want,” she grins at him, but she heads for the bathroom anyway, tossing a wink over her shoulder.

He watches her until she disappears behind the door, then exhales, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile still tugging at his lips before leaving the room.

--

The water is hot, just how she likes it, and she stands beneath the spray for a long while, letting the night wash from her skin. Her fingers trace slowly over her wrists, lingering on the fading bruises – Jasper’s fingerprints. They don’t hurt, but they’re stark against her skin acting as more than just a reminder. They’re a mirror to how deeply he feels and how much it destroys him to be the cause of even a moment’s pain.

When she steps out and wraps herself in a towel, she’s relieved to get rid of her period underwear and pads. Seems Mother Nature is merciful this month to them both, making it a four day period, instead of the usual five days of torture she expected.

She dresses carefully. A soft, oversized black sweater, lightweight but long-sleeved. She tugs it down over her wrists and smooths it into place. Not to hide the bruises for herself, but for him. Because she loves him enough to want him free of the guilt. Because if he keeps punishing himself for loving her, touching her, then neither of them will survive the kind of bond they’re building. Besides, the sweater offers enough insulation, allowing her to hug her boyfriend as much as she wants without freezing in the process.

This time, she’s not going to let him backtrack and lose all the progress she’s made.

The scent of toasted bread and sizzling butter greets her before she even reaches the bottom of the stairs. Y/N stops in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, watching from the shadows as Jasper Hale; ex-soldier, immortal predator, eternal stoic, leans over the stovetop in a soft black T-shirt and washed out jeans, frowning with absolute concentration at what can only be described as a valiant attempt at breakfast.

He’s got two slices of toast stacked neatly on a plate, scrambled eggs warm beside them, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice already poured and waiting. There’s also a pan on the counter beside him containing something… sweet? Brown? Slightly uneven?

Her lips curve. He’s trying to make a dessert and he’s failing adorably.

Y/N takes one silent step into the kitchen, her heart jumping at the sight of him, drooling over him acting like some kind of a brooding cowboy househusband.

She clears her throat. “Is it hot in here or is it just the chef?”

Jasper hums just slightly before turning to look at her, a bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Darlin’, you keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna burn the cinnamon toast.”

She laughs softly, crossing the room and wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. “So that’s what it is. I thought maybe it was a pancake… or a marshmallow.”

“It’s supposed to be cinnamon French toast sticks,” he admits, frowning at the pan. “But they’re… not cooperating.”

“They’re trying their best,” she teases, kissing the center of his back. “And so are you. Honestly, this is the hottest thing you’ve ever done.”

He chuckles under his breath and reaches for a plate. “Hotter than that time I fought a bear?”

“Way hotter.”

He sets the plate down at the table, pulls out a chair for her. “Then sit down and let me impress you.”

She does, warmly, contentedly, tucking her sleeves over her hands as she stares at the meal he’s made with far more affection than it probably deserves. The eggs are a little overdone, the toast slightly uneven, but the orange juice glows in the glass like sunlight and the effort bleeds into every detail.

He sits across from her, elbows on the table, watching her with quiet curiosity as she takes her first bite.

She moans softly, chewing. “Okay. This is heavenly.”

Jasper’s smile is quiet but unmistakable. “Good.”

But she notices something as she lifts her juice…he’s not eating. Not even pretending to.

She narrows her eyes. “You made all this and you’re not having anything?”

He lifts a brow, clearly amused. “You do remember I’m a vampire, right?”

“Don’t you dare use that excuse.” She points her fork at him. “Emmett ate half the menu at the diner last night. Burger, fries, three milkshakes, two plates of onion rings. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Jasper lets out a low chuckle. “Emmett’s… the exception. He’s always been the one who’ll eat with Nessie. Even likes some of it.”

“So, wait, he enjoys human food?”

“Sometimes,” Jasper shrugs. “He says texture matters more than taste. Occasionally he’ll find something he likes. Milkshakes, mostly.”

“And the rest of you?”

“It’s… unappealing. Mostly tastes like dirt. And we can’t really digest it and have to get rid of it after a while.” He gives her a pointed look.

She pulls a face. “So basically, the undead version of food poisoning.”

“Pretty much.”

She grins, fork pausing mid-air. “Well, guess I’ll never win you over with cooking, huh?”

He tilts his head. “Darlin’, you won me over the first time you looked at me.”

She snorts. “Okay, but hear me out. I can’t cook for you… but I could give you a vial of my blood instead.”

Jasper’s gaze hardens. “Please don’t ever do that.”

She stares at him, eyes wide and innocent. “You missed that it was a joke, huh?”

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Half of me always thinks you're joking. The other half has war flashbacks.”

She leans on her elbows, grinning. “Okay, but serious hypothetical. What if I did give you a drop? Just one a day. Wouldn’t it help you build a tolerance to me?”

Jasper’s entire body stiffens. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because a drop wouldn’t be enough. It’d never be enough.” He shakes his head. “You think I could taste you and stop there? You’re not a test, Y/N. You’re not a game. I’m not risking your life so I can play scientists with your blood.”

She goes quiet, chewing slowly as the weight of his answer lands. “I just want to help you,” she says softly.

Jasper nods. “And I love that, I do. But I see no reason to risk your safety.”

They sit there in silence for a moment, soft light pouring over the table, the cinnamon toast steaming faintly between them.

She reaches across the table, taking his cold hand in hers.

“Well,” she says gently, “I guess I’ll just have to eat enough breakfast for both of us.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, squeezing her hand. “Deal.”

--

They’ve barely stepped off the porch when Jasper slips his fingers between hers and turns to her with a glint in his eye.

“Alright,” he says, head tilting slightly. “You want to drive? Or… would you rather run?”

Y/N stops short, brow lifting. “You don’t mean me running.”

His smile curves, lazy and far too pleased with himself. “No, Darlin’. I meant me. Running. You’d be in my arms, very securely along for the ride.”

She stares at him like he’s just offered her a death wish in a bow. “You,” she says slowly, “would be the one running.”

He nods.

She grimaces. “Promise not to drop me.”

Jasper’s laugh rumbles from his chest, warm and amused. “Never. You’re precious cargo.”

Before she can protest or brace herself, he’s swooping her up into his arms. She yelps, arms flinging instinctively around his neck.

“You really shouldn’t have fed me breakfast before this,” she mutters, burying her face against the side of his throat.

“You’ll survive,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll get us there in a few minutes. Just hold on.”

“Okay,” she huffs. “I’m ready.”

He grins, and then they’re gone.

The world blurs around her. Wind tears through her hair, whips against her face, her sweater rippling like it’s trying to fly off her body. Trees become streaks of green and brown, sky and sunlight flickering through the canopy. Her stomach flips as momentum hits her core, the forest floor a blur beneath them with no ground, no sky, no direction, just movement.

It’s like being caught in a dream where the earth’s been tilted sideways and she’s floating through it, anchored only by the strength of his arms. The speed is disorienting, exhilarating, terrifying.

Her fingers grip the back of his shirt like a lifeline, her face tucked tighter against his neck. He smells like pine, like rain-soaked stone and cinnamon.

She squeezes her eyes shut. “You said a few minutes!”

“Two more!” he calls over the roar of the wind.

She groans. “I hate this!”

“You said you were ready!”

“I lied!”

He laughs, delighted, shifting her just slightly to adjust his hold. His hands are strong and steady beneath her thighs, her back secure against his chest. Despite the chaos, she feels safe. There’s never a second she thinks he’ll actually drop her, but her stomach has definitely relocated to her throat.

The wind slows. The blur begins to resolve.

The trees grow wider apart, the sky opens above them, and finally, finally, his feet skid to a smooth halt on soft, mossy ground.

Silence.

Her hair’s a mess and her heart is racing. She moves her face from his neck with a groan. “I think I died and came back just now,” she mutters.

Jasper sets her down gently, hands lingering at her waist as he steadies her. “You good?”

She blinks, swaying once. “Give me a second. I think my organs are still catching up.”

He grins, brushing a leaf from her hair. “Told you I’d get us here quick.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, catching her breath. “Like a bullet train strapped to a bottle rocket.”

He kisses her cheek, just a brush and says, “Welcome to the surprise.”

She looks around, and for the first time, sees where they’ve landed. The forest breaks at a sharp edge, giving way to a view that steals her breath before she even realizes she’s holding it.

Below them, tucked between cliffs and rolling waves of the ocean, is a secluded cove; a hidden beach cradled by nature itself. The sand is pale gold, untouched and smooth like someone had brushed it clean with sunlight. The tide rolls in quietly, lapping against the shore with lazy elegance, and nestled close to one side is a natural pool carved out of rocks, filled with ocean water so clear it reflects the sky like glass.

And Jasper, oh, Jasper. He stands just beyond the shade of the trees, bathed in full sunlight. He glows. No, not glows, he shines. Skin like sculpted marble kissed by stars, the sunlight catching on every inch of him in a thousand scattered diamonds. His hair, tousled from the wind and their run, is streaked gold, his eyes brighter than the ocean below them. He looks like something the earth dreamed into existence and then tried to hide away.

Y/N lets out a breathy giggle, hand lifting to her mouth. “You didn’t tell me we were going to the beach.”

Jasper shrugs, entirely too casual. “It’s part of our history. I thought it would be perfect.”

Her lips tug into a flustered smile, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “And I didn’t bring a bikini.”

He grins, the corner of his mouth curling suggestively. “Also part of our history.”

She gasps, stepping closer with a playful spark in her eyes. “Someone’s brave today.”

He slides his hands around her hips, pulling her toward him as he tilts his head, amused. “Just following your lead, Darlin’.”

They both glance down toward the sand, the drop steep and sudden. The path carved between cliff and rock is narrow, nearly invisible. She eyes it warily.

“Wait…” she says, squinting. “You don’t mean…”

Jasper doesn’t answer, just raises a brow.

Her eyes widen. “No.”

He chuckles. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“NO!”

Before she can take a step back, he tugs her firmly to his chest and sweeps her off her feet. She gasps, then shrieks as the world drops out from under her. Wind rushes past her ears, hair whipping behind her, but his grip doesn’t waver. Not for a second.

She barely has time to open her eyes before her feet touch soft, warm sand and the world slows again.

She staggers, legs wobbly, heart galloping in her chest. “I’m going to kill you,” she huffs, grabbing the front of his shirt like it might steady the ground beneath her.

Jasper grins down at her, completely unrepentant. “I’m sure I can get you to forgive me, Darlin’.”

Once he’s certain she won’t collapse, he steps back and, in one smooth motion, pulls his shirt over his head. The muscles in his arms and back flex with the movement, lean and strong and perfect and sparkling. He starts unbuttoning his jeans.

Her mouth opens. “Who's trying to influence who with nudity now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, smug. “Is it working?”

She watches, entirely too invested, as he shucks off his jeans with ease, now standing in nothing but dark boxers. The sun casts a golden glow over every line of his body, making him look like something carved out of light itself.

“Take those off too and you might have yourself a deal,” she says, lips pursed, teasing.

Jasper steps toward her slowly, head tilted. “Yeah?”

She hums, letting her eyes trail shamelessly down his chest, over his stomach, lingering just a second too long on his boxers. “I mean, I’m just trying to follow your lead.”

He laughs and shakes his head fondly, brushing a hand through his hair. “You make it hard for a man to keep his composure.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

And with that, she slips her sweater over her head, determined not to be outdone. The last thing she wanted was to reveal her bruises to him in the harsh light of a sunny day, but she won’t let them draw his attention for too long. So, Y/N doesn’t rush. She keeps her eyes on him, steadily, unflinchingly as her fingers curl around the waistband of her pants, sliding them down inch by inch. The ocean breeze tousles her hair, brushing it across her bare shoulders as she stands before him in nothing but a black thong and a matching bra, sun softening every curve, every line.

Jasper watches her like he’s set foot in heaven. His mouth parts to speak, but no words come right away. He seems breathless, though he doesn’t need air. The sight of her undressing with such quiet confidence, her gaze never leaving his, unravels him in a way no enemy or battlefield ever could.

“How did you find this place?” She asks casually, as if he’s not struggling to keep his mind out of the gutter and focused on her.

“I found this place,” he says quietly, “the day I ran from you.”

Her expression shifts, curiosity mingling with caution as she tilts her head. “When I was at the hospital?”

He nods, the memory darkening his golden eyes. “I felt it in your emotions. You were torn thinking about me, about your place in my world and you weren’t sure if it was something you’d want at all. Your words were indicative of that inner battle, but I thought it was a sign. So, I left.”

Her brows furrow as she watches him, arms folding lightly over her stomach, her body unconsciously leaning in.

“I ran until I couldn’t hear the world anymore,” he continues, gaze drifting past her to the water below. “And I found this place. Hidden. Still. Like it had been waiting for someone to discover it. But even here, with the sun on my skin and the ocean breeze in my lungs, I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

She exhales loudly, but he doesn’t pause.

“I thought the kindest thing I could do was make a clean break. That if I really loved you, I had to let you go.” He laughs bitterly. “So I left Forks. Went to Alaska. I thought if I hunted enough, ran enough, froze myself in isolation... eventually, you’d fade from me.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“But every day, no matter where I ran, no matter how deep in the woods I sank my teeth into something that bled, I still thought of you. Worried about you. Wondered if you hated me. Wondered if you’d chosen Paul. If you’d moved on. If you were alive.”

His voice softens. “At night, I’d look up at the northern lights and think it doesn’t even compare to your beauty.”

She gasps softly, her heart thudding against her ribs like it’s trying to reach him.

Jasper raises a brow. “What?”

A sheepish smile curves her lips. “That’s the first time you’ve told me how beautiful you think I am.”

He stares at her for a second like she just said the most absurd thing he’s ever heard.

“Darlin’,” he says, stepping forward and gently cupping her face, “I must have said it a thousand times by now. How has it never registered with you?”

“Maybe I just needed to hear it this way,” she whispers, cheeks warm beneath his cool palms.

He smiles, pulling her into his arms, holding her like he never wants to let go again. “Come on,” he murmurs, leading her slowly toward the nature pool nestled between the sand and the cliffside. “It’s warm this time of day. Crystal clear with no waves.”

As they near the edge, her gaze shifts past the pool, out to the ocean itself. The vastness of it glistens like liquid diamonds under the sun, waves curling gently onto the shore. She pauses.

He feels it in her body, the way her shoulders tighten, and her slow steps. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, brushing her hair back, his hand resting at the small of her back. “I’m here now. You won’t get swept up and taken from me.”

She smiles faintly, eyes still on the horizon. “It’s not that.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

“It’s just… I love the ocean.” Her voice is almost reverent. “It’s why I was there that day. I was feeling... a lot. And the ocean usually calms me down.”

Jasper nods, giving her space to continue.

“I was stupid to get in when there was a storm on the horizon,” she admits, her voice soft. “But I don’t regret it. Not even for a second.”

He watches her closely. “Why?”

“Because it brought me to you.”

His face hardens slightly, not in anger, but in fear. “You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” she whispers, pressing closer, her arm sliding around his waist.

“You almost did.”

She leans into his chest, tilting her face up, eyes bright adoration that runs far deeper than he ever felt before. “But you saved my life.”

He exhales like he’s trying not to break in half.

She nuzzles into his side, sighing. “I’d have died a thousand times if it meant I’d be standing here with you.”

He pulls her closer, one hand curling protectively around her waist, the other cradling her head like she’s a drop of water in the palm of his hand he’s promised to protect.

“And now you’re here,” he murmurs. “I’m not letting go again.”

And with the ocean behind them and sunlight warming even Jasper’s body, they step toward the water together. It laps at the edges of the natural pool, smooth and clear as polished glass. It’s nestled in a perfect spot, half-shaded by the surrounding rocks, sun dappling through breaks in the cliffside. The foam gathers in frothy halos near the far edge, and tiny salt crystals glitter like stars just beneath the surface.

Jasper helps her step down carefully over the rocks, always a hand at her back or arm to steady her.

“I’m not going to shatter,” she teases as she slides in, gasping at the initial chill. “You don’t have to treat me like fine china.”

“You break easier than fine china,” he murmurs, eyes following the line of her arm submerged beneath the ripples.

She rolls her eyes, then splashes him in the face.

He blinks, water dripping from his lashes. “Was that on purpose?”

“Completely.”

He cocks an eyebrow and before she can escape, his hand darts under the surface, sweeping her legs from under her. She lets out a yelp as she drops under with a splash, then surfaces laughing, pushing her wet hair back.

“You’re a menace,” she gasps between breaths, floating backward.

“And you’re a bad influence,” he replies smoothly, his voice warm and sweet as he swims after her.

They fall into a rhythm of soft strokes, quiet splashes, playful brushes of legs beneath the surface. She tries to dunk him once, fails, and he lets her try again, just so he can catch her waist and hold her up like a weightless thing in his hands.

“You’re lighter than a leaf,” he says as he lifts her up effortlessly, her back arched against the sunlight.

“I’m also a terrible swimmer compared to you. I used to swim competitively, but you’re putting me to shame,” she admits, laughing breathlessly as she clings to him again.

He pulls her in, one hand sliding up her back. He’s warm. For the first time since she’s known him, he’s almost warm. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve got me here in case you get tired.”

They quiet after that. Her arms loop around his shoulders, legs drifting lazily around his waist. The sun warms the surface of the water, and for a moment, the only sound is her soft breathing against his neck and the hush of the waves beyond the rocks.

“Jasper?” she says, voice low, muffled slightly where her lips press near his jaw.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you save me that day?”

He stills.

Her hands press flat against his back, kissing his jaw lightly. “How did you find me? Worse, what if you didn’t and I died?”

He pulls back just enough to look at her. “If that happened I’d have found you anyway,” he says, steady and sure. “Even if I had to cross every shore, turn over every stone, wait through every century until you’re reincarnated or I found a witch that could bring you back to me. I would’ve found you.” And for Jasper, that’s exactly how it feels. Like maybe she could have been someone from his life as a human, someone he might have lost in the war, someone he’s been waiting for all this time and now she’s here and all he can think about is how to make sure she gets everything she’s ever wanted, safely, and with him.

Her throat tightens.

“And when I did,” he adds, “I’d have yelled at you for being so reckless. And then I’d have kissed you until time stopped.”

She bites her lower lip, eyes shimmering. “You make it really hard to keep my hands off of you.”

“I’m counting on that.”

He dips forward and kisses her, not rushed, not hungry, just adorning. It’s the kind of kiss that says: You’re safe. You’re mine. I’m not going anywhere.

She melts into it, one hand slipping into his hair, the other resting at the base of his neck. When they pull apart, cheeks flushed, her breath caught again in her throat, she leans her forehead to his.

“I could stay here forever,” she whispers.

Jasper smiles. “Then we’ll stay until you’re ready to leave.”

The water clings to her skin as the wind picks up slightly, but Jasper’s hands are what make her tremble. She’s turned with her back against the rock edge of the pool, arms loosely looped around his neck, legs drifting in the water, and he’s standing between them, close, too close now.

Her lips part, just slightly and that’s all the invitation he needs. His mouth captures hers in a kiss that’s deeper this time, slower, but filled with lust he usually keeps at bay. He kisses her like he’s starving for her, but is still afraid to take too much. Like he’s desperate to keep control, but still wants to give her all of him.

She lets herself fall into it, fingers tangling in the soaked curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until her back is pressed fully against the rocks. Jasper’s hands grip the edge of the rock behind her on either side, boxing her in but never pressing too hard, always holding himself back just enough.

Their mouths move in perfect rhythm, wet, soft, then hungrier. When he groans into her mouth, low and guttural, she feels it all the way down to her toes. Her legs wrap around his waist, her body arching into his with a sigh, and his lips trail down to her jaw, then lower, teeth grazing the curve of her throat.

“Jasper…” she breathes, voice breaking on his name.

He presses his forehead to hers, eyes half-lidded, breathless in a way that has nothing to do with air.

“You’re not helping my self-control, sweetheart,” he mutters.

She slides one hand down his chest, slick with water. “We’ve already established that I’m the dangerous one in this relationship.”

He laughs softly, then tilts her chin up and kisses her again, harder this time. The rock behind her is lightly digging into her back. It’s not rough, not painful, but a gentle reminder she’s entirely surrendering herself to Jasper. Every point of contact between them burns, forming heat that contradicts the cool wind blowing around them and Jasper’s cold skin.

Jasper’s hand slides from the edge of the rock to her waist, fingers brushing bare skin as he trails upward, just under the band of her bra. He pauses there, thumb circling the soft flesh just beneath her ribs.

Her breath hitches.

“Tell me when to stop,” he says, voice low and ragged. “Tell me how far I can take this.”

She looks into his eyes, pupils blown wide with hunger, not for blood, but for her. “You’ll wait for an eternity to hear me stop you,” she whispers. “Don’t stop. Ever.”

His restraint is a thread stretched too thin, trembling. He kisses her again, more fiercely now, his body pressed between her thighs, every inch of him molded to her curves, the water rising around them in gentle ripples.

He kisses like he’s memorizing her, like he wants to leave his name etched into every breath she exhales. Her head falls back with a gasp when he leaves open mouthed kisses along her neck, one hand gripping his shoulder for balance, the other sliding down his back beneath the water, pulling him closer. Her thighs tighten around him and his jaw clenches visibly, muscles twitching beneath her hands.

“Y/N,” he groans against her throat, “please don’t test me.”

She laughs, breathless. “I thought you liked when I tested you.”

“Darlin’,” he mutters, “I love you. And I’m not risking hurting you, no matter how good this feels.”

She kisses his temple, her lips soft at his hairline. “Then don’t stop loving me.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

Their kisses grow sloppier, more needy than precise, lips clashing as she gasps for breath, her laughter mixing with his low, desperate moans. Y/N’s hands roam shamelessly across his body, tracing the muscles of his back, then his stomach, slipping lower, bolder.

Her fingers dip below his waist, teasing the line of his boxers until her palm brushes against his bulge, feather-light, testing the boundary they both know exists.

Jasper’s kisses stop immediately, his hand flies to her wrist, fingers firm but not unkind as he pulls it away. Last thing he wants is anymore bruising caused by his brutish lack of thinking.

“Darlin’,” he warns, but his voice is shaky.

She leans in, her nose brushing his cheek as she grins against his jaw. “Do you honestly think my hand brushing your dick would end oh so badly?”

His eyes flutter closed. He sighs, pained. “Yes.”

She pouts, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Well. That’s disappointing.”

And then, without giving him a chance to retreat, her free hand moves up her back, fingers unclasping the hook of her bra with a practiced flick. The fabric falls into the water between them. Jasper’s eyes snap open just as her bare chest presses lightly against his, her nipples hard against his skin.

Golden eyes turn to black instantly, not out of hunger, but from an overwhelming want. Lust. Every suppressed ache, every second he’s held back, it’s all rushing forth now.

“Y/N,” he grumbles, dragging his gaze upward, trying, failing, to keep his eyes on hers. He starts to pull away, chest heaving, hands gripping her hips too tightly to be casual, but she cups his face with both hands, firm and calm.

“Breathe with me,” she says softly, eyes locked on his.

He resists for half a second, trembling with restraint, but her voice is a lifeline. Her skin is warm, her heartbeat strong against his chest.

“Just breathe,” she repeats. “Nothing else. Just you and me.”

She holds her body close but steady, safe, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones as she anchors him. Y/N’s his compass in the darkness surrounding his thoughts, guiding him through dangerous waters all the way back home.

“Listen to my heart. Feel my skin. Hear my voice.”

She doesn’t rush. She waits. And slowly, inch by inch, he does it. He breathes with her, mimicking the rise and fall of her chest, grounding himself in the rhythm of her body. The trembling in his shoulders eases. His grip on her hips softens.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re golden once more, pupils still dilated, still wide with desire, but in control. Fully in control.

And in that moment, his gaze devours her. Not with violence. Not with hunger. With admiration and longing, with aching and insatiable awe.

“God help me,” he whispers, palms rising to her waist. “You are... breathtaking.”

Her smile returns, small and radiant, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as she leans in to rest her forehead against his.

“I trust you,” she says, barely louder than a breath.

And he leans in again, kissing her like a man who knows he’s holding the sun in his hands and has vowed to never let it go even if it burns him to death.

Y/N takes Jasper’s hand gently, her fingers threading through his until their palms meet. Her gaze doesn’t leave his as she slowly lifts his hand, guiding it upward until it rests over her breast, bare and warm beneath his icy touch.

She leans into him, her lips parting at the contrast and the way his thumb brushes along her skin, like he’s afraid the moment isn’t real. His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes flickering between her face and where his hand now rests, wide-eyed and breathless, like she’s rewritten the laws of what’s allowed between heaven and earth.

She tips her head back slightly, exposing her throat, not to tempt him, but to trust him. To invite him closer. Jasper moves as if drawn by gravity. His lips press first to her jaw, soft and slow, then trail down to the delicate curve of her throat. Each kiss is a promise, lingering just long enough to make her pulse quicken. His mouth is gentle, worshipful, brushing along her collarbone, over the swell of her chest.

She gasps softly when his lips replace his hand, pressing a kiss her nipple, no urgency, no rushing. Just him, learning her with his mouth, memorizing her sighs like scripture. Her fingers tangle in his wet hair, eyes fluttering shut as her back arches slightly, overwhelmed by the way he holds her so carefully, like she’s the only thing he needs to stay.

“Jasper,” she whispers, her voice cracking with need and tenderness.

The sound of his name spoken like that, pleading for more, breaks whatever fragile line was holding him still. Her hips shift, seeking him, grinding against the hardness pressing between her thighs.

A groan leaves him, deep and strained, his hands bracing her tighter, like he’s seconds from losing himself entirely. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds her there in the water, lips against her breasts, arms cradling her like she’s both the flame and the cure for every burn.

Her head falls forward to rest against his curls, and for a long, quiet moment, they simply exist in each other, trembling from desire, the ocean murmuring just beyond their world.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” she whispers, brushing her nose against his cheek.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” he replies, voice hoarse, aching.

She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, golden and glassy now devouring her not with hunger, but devotion.

And when he kisses her again, it's softer. Slower.

Y/N clings to Jasper like he’s the only thing tethering her to the earth, her arms looped around his neck, her body gently, unintentionally, rocking against his. The motion isn’t deliberate at first. It’s instinct, need, the natural momentum of closeness. But once it starts, she can’t bring herself to stop.

The slow friction builds, making her breaths shorter, her grip tighter. Jasper’s jaw tightens, but a moan escapes him; deep, guttural, torn from a place where his control is no longer a concern. His hands lock around her hips, holding her still, but his restraint is fraying and he’s lost the will to fight any longer.

And when her hips roll against him again, he’s entirely gone. He pushes her back against the rocks, his body pressing into hers with unrestrained urgency. One hand slips beneath the water, until it slides along her inner thigh, diving under the edge of her underwear. His fingers brush her clit, just barely and she gasps.

Her head falls back against the rock, mouth open, skin flushed, hair fanned out in dark waves. It’s heaven. It’s madness. Just one touch and she’s shaking in his arms, hoping he understands her body’s plea for more.

“Jasper -”

He watches her like he’s been starved for centuries and finally allowed a taste of something only he can give her. And then as his fingers begin exploring, she speaks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling.  

“I can’t wait to do this with you all the time when I turn.”

Silence.

Everything stills.

His touch vanishes.

She blinks, dazed, confused, until he pulls away, eyes wide, face pale beneath the sun’s glow.

“When you what?” His voice is quiet but sharp, full of disbelief and fear.

Y/N blinks, chest heaving, the words still stuck in her throat. “When I turn. I mean… I thought -”

Jasper is already standing straighter, putting distance between them as the moment crumbles.

“You’re planning to turn?” he asks, every word measured now. Like he’s afraid of them. Like he’s afraid of her answer.

She hugs her arms around herself, heart thudding in her chest, confusion mixing with shame. “I just thought… if I’m going to be with you…really be with you then I’d need to.”

His jaw clenches. His fists curl.

“Y/N,” he says, almost broken, “you think becoming this is the only way to be mine?”

“I thought it was what we both wanted.”

His eyes meet hers, and the storm there threatens to unravel everything.

“You don’t know what you’re giving up,” he says, voice lower now, trembling. “You can’t know.”

She stares at him, wet, bare in every sense of the word and realizes she might’ve just crossed a line she didn’t know existed. And now the only thing heavier than the tension between them… is the silence. The silence between them is thick like smoke after a fire, something you can’t breathe through, only choke on.

Y/N moves first. Her hands shake as she finds her bra floating near the edge of the pool. She snatches it with trembling fingers and hooks it back into place without looking at him, cheeks burning, heart pounding in her chest.

Jasper’s still standing waist-deep in the water, motionless, his hands curled into fists at his sides like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for her and shaking her until she starts making sense again.

“Say something,” she snaps finally, her voice cracking.

“I said what I wanted to say,” he replies, voice low, tight. “You just didn’t like what you heard.”

She glares at him, arms folding over her chest now that she’s covered, now that she feels like she needs to be. “You think I haven’t thought this through?”

“You’re in your twenties, Y/N,” he says sharply. “You’ve barely lived.”

“And you think staying human means I’ll get more out of life?” she fires back. “You think I’ll be betteroff growing old while you stay the same? That I’ll be happier knowing you’ll never touch me like I want you to without holding back?”

His jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re giving up,” he says again, louder this time. “Sunlight. Sleep. Real food. The sound of your own heartbeat. That laugh you make when you get tipsy after one glass of wine. All of that goes away.”

“And you think I care about wine and sleep more than you?” she shoots back, stepping toward him now, voice shaking with anger. “God, Jasper, you think so little of me?”

His eyes flash. “No. I think the world of you. That’s why I want you to stay human. To live.”

“Bullshit,” she hisses. “You want me human because you’re not sure you actually want me forever.”

He flinches like she slapped him. The words hang there between them like something jagged. She regrets them. Instantly. But she doesn’t take them back.

“Don’t twist this,” he says, his voice now hollow and shaking. “Don’t turn this into me being selfish.”

“You are,” she says quietly. “You’ve already made up your mind about what I should be. What I should want.”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” she shouts, eyes wet now, chest heaving. “You think just because you hate what you are, I’m supposed to hate it too? I don’t. I love you. All of you. And you’ve spent this whole time acting like you don’t believe I can handle it.”

Jasper runs a hand through his hair, water dripping from his fingers, shaking like a man coming undone. “Because I don’t want you to have to. I would rather you live a mortal life and have friends, a family, joy, grief, time, real time.”

“And what about us?” she asks, voice barely more than a whisper. “What happens when I age and you don’t? What happens when people start to notice? When you can’t touch me without hurting me? When I’m fifty, and you still look like this? Is that what you want?”

“No, it’s not,” he growls, turning on her. “Because there’s no version of that where I win.”

She goes quiet. They stand there, both breathless, the water no longer warm as the sun disappears behind cliffs. Everything around them feels cold now, sharp. Too real.

“I thought we were finally on the same page,” she whispers, not trusting her voice to hold steady. “I thought you wanted forever too.”

Jasper’s face contorts. “I do. I want you forever. But not if forever costs you everything that makes you you.”

She turns from him, arms wrapping tight around herself. “Then maybe you don’t know who I really am.”

The words echo. They don't shout anymore. They’re too tired for that. They remain in the quiet, the sun is almost gone now, shadows stretching along the rocks and soft ripples of the pool. The earlier heat has faded, cold wrapping itself around her once again.

Jasper is the first to speak.

“I…” His voice cracks. “Don’t you want kids?”

Y/N turns to him slowly, her brow lifting with a pointed look. “It’s not like it’s impossible for us,” she reminds him. “Renesmee is living proof.”

“Renesmee is a result of dumb luck and a vampire miracle,” Jasper counters, running a hand through his damp curls. “One that nearly killed Bella in the process and almost started a fucking war. That’s not a model I want to repeat.”

Her arms cross over her chest. “So if I stay human, would you really stay with me?”

“Of course I -”

“Would you ever actually have sex with me,” she interrupts, “knowing we could conceive?”

He flinches, caught. “I would… if that would make you happy. I’d just… pull out on time.”

She throws her head back with a sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s not a plan, Jasper. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Let’s say it works and I don’t get pregnant like Bella did. I’d still be without children you want me to have,” she continues, her voice rising, breaking. “Don’t you see? I want you. Us. A forever in your arms. I don’t…” She swallows hard, blinking quickly. “I can let go of the idea of children, but I can’t let go of us.”

Her voice trembles, her hands clenching at her sides. “Jasper, I just want you,” she whispers. “Fuck, you barely touched me and I nearly had an orgasm. I’m desperately addicted to you, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise. Stop pushing me away and accept that already.”

He stares at her, unmoving, his expression unreadable like she’s a puzzle he can’t seem to solve. Like he’s afraid if he breathes wrong, she’ll vanish.

Finally, his voice is barely audible. “And if you were to turn… when would that happen?”

She exhales, slow and shaking. “As soon as I experience the human things with you,” she says softly. Then, gently, trying to ease the tension between them, she jokes, “We nearly experienced some of it just now.”

He swallows thickly. “Y/N… are you saying you’d want me to turn you after we make love?”

She smiles. Not teasing. Not flirty. Just quiet and true. “I like that you say it like that. Make love. It’s the first time anyone’s called it that with me.”

He steps closer, carefully, until his arms rest on her bare shoulders. His touch is light, but firm. “That’s not an answer.”

Her eyes search his. “Yes, okay? I want to make love to you. I want to marry you. I just… I want you to be the one to do it.”

Jasper immediately shakes his head, horrified. “Carlisle has better control. He -”

She cups his cheek gently, stopping the spiral before it starts. “And yet I only trust you. To be honest, I’d love it if you’d do it… when we’re alone. I wouldn’t want anyone to see or hear me writhing in pain when it begins.”

His eyes widen slightly, something terrified flickering in them. “You already know it’s painful… Who told you? Emmett? Cause I’ll -”

“Bella told me,” she says quickly. “Because I asked. I needed to know. I know it hurts. I don’tcare.”

“Darlin’…” he breathes, pained. “Why can’t we wait a few more years, at least?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she speaks again, determined more than ever before.

“Because I might not have a few more years.”

Jasper freezes completely, his hands dropping slowly from her shoulders.

Her voice is calm, but every word bleeds like an old wound reopening. “My mother and grandmother both died from cancer. The same type. It’s genetic, and I’ve already tested positive for the mutation.”

He stares, silent, stunned. Is this what Alice meant? She told him Y/N would die even if he left her. She said it was inevitable, that death would collect her either way. How could he have forgotten that? She’ll never get to grow old, no matter what he does. She’ll either die or she’ll be his wife.

Fuck.

He never understood Rosalie’s desire to be human. Not until now. He wishes he could be human. And he wishes Y/N wasn’t dealt a shitty card at life. If they were human, healthy, he’d have already gotten on one knee and proposed. They’d already be rolling around their bed, making love and babies. He’d have a chance to keep her as she is now.

“My mom died within six months of her diagnosis,” she continues. “And that was with surgery, radiation and chemo. To this day, I’m not sure if it was the cancer or the treatments that killed her. My grandmother fought it off once when she was young… but when it came back, it took her in under a year.”

Jasper’s hands are shaking now. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink.

“They both got it in their early thirties,” she says softly. “And I’m already close to thirty. I don’t want to wait around hoping I beat the odds.”

Her voice falters, but she doesn’t cry. She stands tall, raw and brave. “They died writhing in pain. Not even morphine helped. I’d rather cut my loses and take my chances with you. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if there’s a risk. Because the alternative?” She shakes her head. “It’s slow. It’s painful. And it ends with me begging for more time. Time I could already have, a forever in your arms. Which is coincidentally something I’d choose, regardless of the cancer threat looming over my head.”

Jasper looks wrecked. He closes his eyes, like he’s praying, but his hands reach for hers again. And this time… he doesn’t let go.

“I just want you,” she reassures him. “Please, don’t fight me on this.”

--

The wind’s turned colder, brushing against Y/N’s damp skin as Jasper carries her in his arms, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her eyes barely open. She’s quiet, dazed from the run, the crash of adrenaline, and the storm of emotion they’ve both weathered.

Her limbs feel heavy, her heart like it's resting after a marathon. She doesn't even joke about being carried again. She just… holds on.

The door creaks softly behind them. The world inside is warm.

She murmurs something unintelligible, and Jasper kisses the top of her head. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Instead of laying her on the couch or bed, he carries her straight to the bathroom. The tiles are cool beneath her feet.  He sets her down gently, but she sways, unsteady.

“Too tired,” she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” His voice is quieter still.

Without asking, he reaches into the shower, turning on the warm water, adjusting the temperature with careful flicks of his wrist. Then he walks back to her, hands gentle as they guide her into the tub. He leaves her in her underwear, deciding to take zero risks.

The water hits her in soft waves, washing away the salt and sand and ocean from her skin, from her hair. But her fingers don’t let go of him. She doesn’t tease. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t speak. She just stands there in the shower, arms around his waist, her forehead pressed into his chest. Breathing him in. Letting herself be held.

He stays in the shower with her fully clothed, not caring about soaked clothes. His hands move slowly, brushing her hair back, rubbing her back in soft, slow circles as the water trickles over both of them.

They stay like that until her shoulders stop trembling.

Afterward, he wraps her in a thick towel, hands slow, warm even through his cold skin. He helps her sit, then disappears briefly, returning with fresh clothes folded neatly in his arms.

He leaves her to dress, quietly stepping out. When she pads into the living room ten minutes later, fingers shaking the ends of her damp hair, she stops in the doorway and melts.

Jasper is already changed, gray sweatpants, a soft black T-shirt hugging his body, his curls still slightly damp but pushed back. He looks… relaxed. Like he belongs there.

There’s a steaming plate of pasta on the coffee table. Her favorite kind, with too much cheese and the perfect amount of garlic. Next to it, a glass of wine from a fresh bottle of the same kind he bought for her before. And on the TV screen, he paused at the opening of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

She steps forward, barefoot, quiet.

He looks up, offering her a crooked smile. “I figured you’d want comfort food. And comfort magic.”

Her throat tightens. “It’s my favorite one,” she murmurs.

“And I can’t wait to watch it with you,” he says softly, picking up the remote. “I remembered we watched the first two, and I promised you I’d watch them all, so here we are.”

She sits next to him, curling into his side and for the first time since they came home, she lets herself breathe. Jasper wraps an arm around her shoulders, kissing her damp hair.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she whispers.

“I wanted to.”

She looks up at him, eyes heavy but filled with something warm and tender. “I love you.”

He leans down and brushes his lips over hers. “I love you too, Darlin’. Always.”

The pasta is warm. The wine is sweet. And when she presses play, his arm stays firm around her, like he means to never let her go again.

The TV hums softly, the credits rolling as the final notes of the movie fade into the quiet of the room. The wineglass is nearly empty. Her plate sits forgotten on the coffee table, only a bite or two of pasta left untouched.

Y/N is nestled into Jasper’s side, her head tucked beneath his chin, one arm looped around his waist. The other clutches the edge of his shirt, loose but unwilling to let go. Her breathing is slower now, shallower, but not fully asleep.

Jasper hasn’t moved in nearly an hour. He couldn’t, even if he tried. She’s warm and soft against him, her heartbeat a lullaby he could fall into for eternity.

He presses a kiss to her hair, thinking it’ll go unnoticed. It doesn’t.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in my scalp,” she murmurs, voice sleepy.

He huffs a soft laugh. “That’s the plan.”

She shifts just slightly, head still against his chest, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

“I used to dream about you.”

He furrows his brows. “What?”

She smiles, her eyes still closed. “Not you, exactly. I mean… I didn’t know it was you until I met you. But for years, ever since I left Forks a while back, I’d see this man in my dreams. Golden hair. Gold eyes.”

Jasper goes still, body rigid beneath her.

“They were weirdly comforting, in a way,” she continues, unaware of the cold that’s crept up his spine. “The dreams. They felt like déjà vu… Like I was supposed to know this man. Like he was waiting for me to catch up to him.”

Jasper’s eyes darken, not with lust, but with fear of being discovered. He remembers that night in the alley and the way he let her run only to grab her, drag her into the woods. The night he stood in the shadows, inches from her skin, from her blood. The first time he saw her and came so close to sinking his teeth in.

She was terrified of him then, Edward said she referred to him as death in his mind.

He hadn’t wanted to risk her remembering the hunger on his face. The desire. The shame.

So Edward had wiped it clean, replaced her last memory of Forks with one that she could believe was true and still, her dreams had remembered him anyway.

“You were always just… there,” Y/N murmurs. “I used to think I made him up. That I was trying to imagine what I was always searching for. That maybe I was lonely…Or losing my mind.”

Jasper swallows hard. He wraps his arms around her more tightly, like he can shield her from the very past he buried.

“But after I met you,” she adds, smiling softly against his chest, “they stopped. Like I’d finally found what I was looking for. Like the dreams didn’t need to remind me anymore.”

She tilts her head up slightly, her eyes fluttering open, still hazy from sleep. “You know that Taylor Swift lyric? ‘Were there clues I didn't see? And isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?’?”

Jasper tries to smile, though his mind is screaming. What if she remembers? How will he ever explain it to her?

“I think you are my invisible string,” she whispers.

His heart; unbeating, undead, untouchable aches.

“It’s a sweet thing,” she says, yawning now. “Like… fate.”

He brushes her hair from her face, voice quiet. “Yeah… sweet.”

But in his mind, the memory still plays, the hunger in his throat, the guilt, the fear, the choice he made to erase her memory and to hide it from her. And now she’s here, wrapped in his arms, confessing a dream that should’ve never survived the lie he helped create.

He presses another kiss to her temple. “Go to sleep, Darlin’,” he whispers, voice gentle, cracking at the edges. “I’m right here.”

And he holds her long into the night, long after she’s drifted into peaceful dreams, still praying she never remembers what the first one really was.

--

The sun filters pale through the dense trees surrounding the Cullen estate, spilling across the hardwood floors, the silence of the house broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves beyond the windows and the creak of Jasper’s boots on the stairs.

He couldn’t relax all night and once she was awake he couldn’t get out of that house quick enough. She’d curled into him all night, fingers tangled in his shirt like she feared he might slip away if she let go. And still, guilt had wrapped itself around his throat tighter than any embrace.

He finds them in the study; Edward perched in the bay window, gaze distant but already aware Jasper was coming. Alice is sitting cross-legged in the chair by the bookshelf, waiting. She looks up, and the first thing he sees in her face is worry.

“I need to tell her,” Jasper says, getting straight to it. His voice is raw from a night of silence.

Edward doesn’t look surprised. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Jasper nods, jaw tight.

Alice rises to her feet in one fluid motion, arms folding. “She deserves to know.”

“She’s been dreaming of me for years,” Jasper says, pacing, running a hand through his hair. “She described me exactly. The golden eyes. The hair. She remembered me despite your little memory trick. That shouldn’t be possible. She shouldn’t remember.”

“She doesn’t,” Edward says carefully. “Not consciously. Her dreams are fragmented memories. They cling to emotion more than detail.”

“She thinks it’s fate,” Jasper murmurs, voice cracking. “She called me her invisible string. That we were meant to meet and fall in love and it all worked out just right.”

There’s a long pause.

Alice steps forward. “Then tell her. Let her decide what that means. She’s not fragile, Jasper. You know that better than anyone.”

“She’ll think I manipulated her,” he breathes. “That I let Edward erase her thoughts to protect myself.”

“Didn’t you?” Edward says, finally turning his head.

Jasper glares at him. “I was trying not to kill her and save her from myself.”

“And you didn’t,” Alice reminds him. “You stopped. You chose mercy and found a way to give you both time until you could handle it.”

“It’s not mercy when you erase someone’s memory without asking.”

“You were scared,” Alice says, stepping closer, voice gentler now. “Terrified of hurting her. That doesn’t make you cruel.”

Jasper looks down, clenching his jaw. “She said she wants me to be the one to turn her. That she trusts me more than Carlisle. If she knew how close I came to drinking her dry that night, how good her blood smells to me, she’d never say those words again.”

Edward stands, crossing the room with measured steps. “Don’t tell her.”

Jasper’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Not yet. She’s in love with you, Jasper. Let her have this time with you without it being shadowed by something you can’t undo. No one will tell her, we won’t jeopardize your relationship.”

Alice shakes her head. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s necessary,” Edward counters. “You think it’s hard now? Wait until you see the look in her eyes when you tell her you broke her ribs before, almost bit her, then wiped it clean. Your relationship might survive it, but not unchanged.”

“I’d rather she hate me with the truth,” Jasper says, “than love me in a lie.”

Edward doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t agree either.

Then, suddenly, Alice goes still. Her body tightens, her gaze distant, pupils dilating as if she’s staring into something no one else can see, but Edward can see it too.

Jasper moves to her side in an instant. “Alice?”

Her eyes flutter rapidly. Her voice is soft, strained. “They’re coming.”

Jasper asks, “Who?”

“Alec. And Demetri.” Her voice trembles slightly. “The Volturi.”

Jasper stiffens. “What? Why?”

Her eyes are far away still, lips parting. “They both tasted golden blood before. Not just once. Enough to remember it. To crave it. They’ll recognize her scent from miles away.”

Edward curses under his breath, his jaw hardening. “I’ll tell Carlisle.”

Jasper feels the world narrow to one blinding point. Y/N. He told her about it, but she doesn’t actually understand yet how rare she is and how dangerously irresistible her blood could be to someone who’s already tasted it.

Jasper’s fists clench. “She’s not ready,” he says. “I’m not ready to turn her yet.”

But they all know the truth. Time is running out.

-----------------------------------

Tags: @moonmark98 @formulas-bitch @ronniesreverie @anongirl007 @foxycrafterofgreenwood @lamelover @sl4t4darkling @megaprincesscakes @aj3684 @xnarixkimx @rhysology @piya-re @wolfndragonfly @redwitchbitch1 @smh-anon @yoosmekihyun @ittybittymagick @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @pinkpantheris @rinavarwen @eneywey @skagelynn

A/N: If you want to be tagged for future parts, leave a comment and make sure your blog's visibility is on (in settings) otherwise Tumblr won't allow me to tag you.

[rafeys-angel13]

man of the house

summary: rafe has been yearning for his “stepmother” for years, now he actually has the chance to be with her.

warnings: rafe’s a tiny bit of a creep, wards death mentioned

writers notes: i’ve changed the storyline since i posted the sneak peak yesterday 😁

rafe had never understood why someone so young and beautiful would date a man as old as his dad. he remembers when his dad first introduced you to him and his sisters.

he thought you were the most beautiful woman ever, then to find out you were only a year older than him was even more surprising.

you and ward were dating for two years and engaged for 7 months before he had passed. rafe also remembers that horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach when he found out you’d said yes when ward proposed.

rafe always had that fantasy in his head that ward would break your heart and you’d come running to him, but he knew it was never going to happen. it was a stupid fantasy anyway.

when ward passed, it took him around a month to realise that his death may be a blessing in disguise. he missed his father, of course he did, but he needed to be with you one way or another.

he started making you meals, sitting with you while you cried over ward. he rubbed your back and wiped your tears as you sobbed, for days and days.

rafe spent most of the time after ward’s passing trying to figure out when the best time to make a move on you would be. he didn’t want to seem insensitive, but he couldn’t wait until you weren’t upset anymore. that could be months, years even.

this morning, he gently knocked on what was once yours and wards room, now only yours. he pushes the door open quietly to see you still sleeping. he walks over to the bed, sitting on the side and looking down at you.

god you looked so pretty. you always do, but there was just something about how you looked when you were sleeping. so vulnerable and cute. he could watch you all day.

you stirred and he snaps out of his daydream. he hesitantly reaches out and brushes some hair out of your face, still not being used to physically touching you after years of watching you from afar.

you wake up, your sleepy eyes meeting his blue ones.

“morning…” he smiles softly, pulling his hand away from your hair, resting it on your arm. his thumb softly stroking back and forth.

the corners of your lips curve into a sleepy smile. he smiles wider at your tired state.

“good sleep?” he questions with a soft tone. you nod and rub your eyes.

“yeah… comfy…” you sleepily mumble with a slight rasp of sleep in your voice.

“good… do you want breakfast?” he proposes, squeezing your arm lightly. you nod and sit up.

“mhm… that would be nice…” you look up at him as he stands up and heads to the door.

“okay… i’ll go make it now, come down in like 10 minutes…” he smiles slightly and goes downstairs.

you use this time to do your skincare, fix your hair a little and brush your teeth before heading downstairs.

you see rafe at the stove, cooking some bacon.

“smells good…” you smile and sit down at the table. “you up to anything today…?”

“uh… no i’m not busy today” he shakes his head, acting as if he didn’t cancel all his plans to stay with you.

“hm, me neither” you smile, his heart flutters at that.

“then i guess it’s just me and you today then…” he says quietly, plating the bacon up. he cracks some eggs into the pan as you watch from the table, making the most of not having to do anything.

you see him trying to flip the egg, he struggles then sighs, turning to you with a frustrated expression.

“can you help me please? the yolks gonna split if i flip it wrong…” he huffs and you get up, walking over.

you stand infront of him, his chest basically pressing against your back. you gently flip the egg over without bursting the bright yolk.

“see, if you do it without thinking too hard it’s a little easier.” you chuckle and he nods, taking the spatula from you and trying to flip the other egg. he struggles again and you guide his hand, helping him flip it successfully.

“thanks…” he smiles, hoping you don’t see the pink spreading across his cheeks from your touch. his stomach is swarmed with butterflies.

you guys sit down to eat, as you’re cutting up your eggs you notice him staring at you. weird… he speaks up.

“uh… you wanna watch a movie or something?” he tilts his head.

“sure, yeah… what do you have in mind?” you agree as you finish your breakfast.

“i don’t know… like… the notebook?” he suggests with a sly smirk.

“what the hell do you know about the notebook?” your eyes narrow at the thought of him watching the notebook.

“well, you and my dad used to watch it. i know you really like it” acting nonchalant about knowing one of your favourite moves, even though he has literally stored everything you’ve ever told him about yourself in his mind.

“sure… we can watch the notebook…” you nod and push your plate away slightly when you’re finished.

after breakfast you guys sat in the tv room, he had pulled your legs over his lap and was gently rubbing your thighs. you thought it was a little weird but you brushed it off as him doing it without even thinking. it felt quite nice anyway.

when the movie was near the end, you obviously got emotional as you always do. he hears a small sniffle and immediately looks over to you.

“you cry everytime, huh?” he chuckles and pulls you into a hug, pushing your head gently down onto his chest. you nod and cry into his chest.

“it’s just so sad…” you whine and wipe your tears.

he rubs your back gently and he pauses as he feels the urge to kiss your head, should he? is that too far? too soon maybe? fuck it.

he presses a kiss to your head, letting his lips linger there. he breathes in your fresh shampoo that he is familiar with. his hand firmly rubs your back as you sniffle. you don’t pull away, you don’t protest and you don’t even say a thing. you just let him hold you.

rafe is the happiest he’s been in a long time, he’s finally got you, the girl of his dreams, right where he wants you.

-

should i turn this into a series??

[gimmethatagustd]

you could wear my hat | kth

It's hard for Taehyung to ensure no one's getting into trouble at the beach when you look so cute in his snapback.

Pairing: Taehyung x fem Reader

Rating: Mature

Genre/Trope: Beach town, lifeguard au, fluff (ig?), in the words of Paramore, crush crush crush

Word Count: 1,503

Content Warning: TH has lots of tastefully dirty thoughts, tension, an almost kiss

A/N: Rest in Peace our Short King, Easy Mac 😔🙏🏽 I miss you every day. Also, I know the hats in the photos aren't actually snapbacks okay?? The summary sounded cuter when I said "snapback" instead of "dad hat" and it fits the song OKAY?? Let me cook.

Soundtrack: Wear My Hat - Mac Miller

“Can I wear your hat?”

You lean against one of the tall, wooden legs of the lifeguard chair, your bare shoulder pressed against its sandy surface. Sand sticks to your sweaty skin in a few other places Taehyung notices when you walk over to where the team of lifeguards gather to prepare for the day: your knees, the backs of your thighs, the curve of your asscheeks that your cheeky swimsuit bottoms expose when you walk.

He’s looking respectfully, of course. As a lifeguard, Taehyung sees bodies of all shapes and sizes, large expanses of skin in all colors, and many faces alight with the sun's warmth. Bodies are bodies, and Taehyung knows how to appreciate all of them. He especially likes yours. Respectfully.

“Wear my hat?”

“Mhm, I forgot mine at home, and it’s so bright out,” you explain with a smile that makes Taehyung’s stomach queasy like the rock of a boat during a storm. Weirdly, he likes it.

With his head bent, Taehyung raises it slightly, just enough to look at you through his eyelashes. The position makes his eyes big and round, giving him an innocent look that people fawn over — not that he knows. Taehyung knows he’s objectively attractive, but he’s mostly oblivious to the whispers and giggles in his wake when he patrols the beach every summer morning, a snapback slid over his slicked back hair, broad chest on display, a few thin necklaces resting against his pecs. It doesn’t matter what the whispers and giggles mean unless they’re coming from you.

“The sun is barely in the sky,” Taehyung points out, and your smile widens.

It’s relatively early, and the sun is only just emerging from the ocean. The sky is still painted in swooping swaths of pinks and baby blues, with a few wispy clouds as accent marks. Taehyung wishes a camera or his painter’s hand could accurately replicate the feeling he gets when he watches the sky turn like this or the feeling he gets when he turns his attention back to you and thinks you’re looking at him as if you feel the same way.

“But it will be soon.” A counterargument Taehyung can’t possibly rebut.

With an exaggerated sigh, Taehyung grabs the bill behind his head and pulls his hat off. He’s quick to run his hand through his hair, pushing it back so it doesn’t fall into his eyes now that he doesn’t have his hat to hold it into place.

He holds out his hat for you to take, snatching it back just before your fingers curve around the bill.

“Taehyung.”

“Just make sure you give it back.” He shakes his hat as if to scold you in advance for any bad thoughts you may have about potentially keeping it.

“Of course.”

“I’m serious.”

He lets you snatch it out of his hand and tries not to smile at the devious, triumphant little look you give him when you slip the hat. You wear it backward, too, and Taehyung returns his focus to lathering his skin with thick sunscreen because he doesn’t know what to do with the hurricane stirring in his chest. 

You look cute wearing his hat. There’s something about the masculinity of it contrasting with the particular brand of femininity that comes with a pretty girl sunbathing on the beach, smelling of coconut that carries in the wind, designer sunglasses reflecting Taehyung’s sunkissed disheveledness that comes with the territory of spending his days in nature, a romance novel tucked under your arm as you pick out a beach chair near the lifeguard stand. You’re Taehyung’s personal nightmare wrapped up in polka dots and sweaty cleavage he wouldn’t mind licking the salt off of.

“I’ll stay right here,” you promise as you drape a towel over the chair, “that way, you can monitor me so I don’t make off with your prized possession.”

The hat doesn’t even matter. It’s denim so worn that it has turned soft and boneless. The name of the beach is embroidered on the front in a font meant to look like messy handwriting, and it’s so sunbleached that it looks vintage even though Taehyung bought it a few years ago at the touristy gift shop down the street, back when he had a buzzcut and forgot to bring a hat to work. Preventing a scalp sunburn was worth putting up with the stupid gift shop prices.

“My shift hasn’t started yet…” Taehyung doesn’t know why he tells you. You can probably tell. Another lifeguard is sitting on the stand right now; Taehyung is early.

Lowering the beach chair so you can lie flat on it, you rotate his hat so the bill is in the front again, shielding your face from the sun well enough that you can take off your sunglasses.

“Then sit.”

It doesn’t take telling Taehyung twice. He immediately plops on the edge of the beach chair beside you, close enough that there’s only enough space in between your chairs for him to fit his legs.

“What are you reading?”

“Some filth from BookTok. Toxic relationships, violence, smut, all that fun stuff.” You toss your book to him, watching with a sly smile as he flips it over to read the summary.

You look sweet, Taehyung’s favorite brand of Neapolitan ice cream that drips down the cone and curls around his wrist on a hot summer day. There’s an edge to you, though, like Taehyung might get a brain freeze if he consumes you as eagerly as he wants to. 

Brain freezes don’t stop people from eating ice cream.

“Do you like it?” he asks, returning the book. Your fingers rub against each other, sandy and rough, and Taehyung thinks he wouldn’t mind such roughness dragged across his back.

“The book? Or toxic relationships?” You grin when Taehyung scoffs, both of you knowing what he meant. “The writing is exactly what you’d expect from a book bored suburban millennial housewives would recommend on TikTok, but it’s entertaining.”

Taehyung nods, unsure of what else to say. He isn’t usually this quiet, but you have a way of making his head go blank. It reminds him of how he feels when swimming at the community pool. With the pool water lapping at his ears every time he comes up for air, only to lower into the water with each stroke, Taehyung can’t hear anything but the comforting silent sound of being underwater. Swimming is the only time his mind is still long enough for him to let go of the chatter he normally hears inside his head, to go blank.

And then there’s you, teasing and hard to read. Taehyung curls his hands around the edge of the beach chair and tries to ground himself when you slowly sit up to face him, knees knocking into each other.

“You’re really stereotypical,” you say with a laugh.

Taehyung furrows his eyebrows and blinks a few times, stomach dipping when you squeeze one of his shoulders.

“What?”

“You’re so spacy. Such a surfer dude, nothing but sand and seaweed in there, huh?” You slide your hand to the crook of his neck so you can lift your fingers high enough to play with the hair at his nape. “It’s cute.”

“I’m smart,” Taehyung says blankly, and you laugh again.

He thinks you’re going to kiss him. You’re close enough to do it, with your knees pressed to his and your toes wiggling in the sand with his. Coconut and salt, that’s what he knows your lips would taste like. What your body would taste like if he could lay you down on the beach chair and feel what it’s like to touch your skin, only the occasional splotch of sand as a layer between you.

You pinch a strand of hair and pull lightly, effortlessly coaxing Taehyung to tilt his head backward slightly.

“What time does your shift end?” You’re so close now. Taehyung thinks he can taste your words.

“I work six-hour shifts,” Taehyung speaks as softly as the morning waves lap against the shore.

“Maybe we could—”

A shout from the lifeguard stand makes Taehyung flinch, knocking off your hand from his neck.

“Taehyung-ah! Let’s go!” One of the other lifeguards motions for Taehyung to get up.

By the time Taehyung returns his gaze to you, you’re leaning forward to press your lips to his cheek, just beside his mouth. It's quick, barely there, but it's everything.

“Better get up there, pretty boy,” you say with another grin that turns Taehyung’s stomach into a whirlpool. “I’ll have to leave before you’re done, but it’ll be pretty sunny by then. Might need to keep this.”

You tap the bill of Taehyung’s hat as you open your book, no longer looking at Taehyung. He thinks it’s intentional teasing and finds that he likes it.

“I guess I’ll have to hunt you down to get it back,” Taehyung brushes off sand from his legs and ignores another shout of his name.

“I guess you will.”

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (14)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 5.9k

authors note: i'm now writing in real time and will post at the same time when chapters are ready, here and on AO3. i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

tag list: @thelastemzy

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

“You look like shit, Frank.”

Karen’s voice sliced through the stillness, not barbed exactly, but cool— detached in that way only people who once cared deeply knew how to be. Concern cloaked in irritation, irritation built atop familiarity, and familiarity laced with the kind of history no one really wants to unpack.

Frank let out a noise that could’ve been a laugh if there’d been anything left in him to find funny. It was more of a grunt— low, hollow, and frayed at the edges.

“Feel like it, too.”

His weight sagged against you just slightly, like the words had cost him, like the last few steps toward stability were just a little farther than he could manage on his own. You shifted your stance without thinking, bracing him more firmly against your side, your fingers tightening around his waist. It felt instinctive now— catching him before the fall.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice sandpaper-rough and barely raised above the hum in the room. The syllables scraped their way out of his throat like they’d been dragged over concrete.

Karen didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She crossed her arms, chin tilting a fraction of an inch upward. “Why don’t you leave the questions to me for now.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her, his expression unreadable, and gave his head a rough, sudden shake. There was something guarded slipping back behind his eyes like a shuttered window.

She stepped closer, her eyes scanning his face, the blood on his shirt, the weight in the way he leaned. “What happened to you?” she asked, and her tone was clipped now— too controlled to be casual. “What fight did you throw yourself into the middle of this time?”

Still, he said nothing.

But he didn’t have to. It was all there, radiating off of him in waves— pain, exhaustion, something darker humming underneath. And between them, that invisible static crackled like power lines about to snap. You felt it— the long history curling between them like smoke. All the things they’d said to each other, all the things they hadn’t. Years of proximity turned to rupture, sealed up with sharp words and stitched with silence. And here you were, caught dead center in the gap between them, strung out like a wire about to spark.

There was a part of you— small, but insistent— that stirred beneath the surface, buried deep under layers of self-preservation and silence. It lived in the quietest parts of you, the ones that still flinched at raised voices and too-long stares, the parts that understood how fragile a moment like this could be. That part begged you to step in. To shift your weight, lift your chin, meet Karen’s eyes and ask her— gently, but firmly— to stop. To ease up. To leave him be. He’d been through enough.

Not because you thought he couldn’t handle it. But because you weren’t sure how much more you could.

But you said nothing. Bit down on the words before they could leave your tongue. Because you knew better. You knew it wasn’t your place. Whatever tension lived between them— whatever history their anger was built from— it wasn’t yours to step into. You were a visitor here. A witness to something complicated and old, layered in grief and loyalty and regret you hadn’t earned the right to untangle.

So you kept your eyes forward, your hands steady, and your mouth shut. Even as the instinct twisted in your chest— protective, unreasonable, raw.

Even as some part of you hated that it wasn’t your turn to say enough.

He had left you— not her. Whatever fight he’d thrown himself into, whatever blood now soaked through his shirt, it was you who’d spent the night wondering if he was alive. You who’d wandered the streets, alone, heart in your throat. And still, you couldn’t bring yourself to question him. You didn’t ask where he’d gone, who he’d hurt, or why he hadn’t come back sooner. The anger should have been there— God, you knew it should’ve been— but it wasn’t sharp enough to reach your mouth. Not when he leaned on you like this. Not when his weight against your body felt more like surrender than burden. You couldn’t brush him off. Couldn’t make him stand on his own and carry it all without you. Because some part of you— the part that still hadn’t unclenched since the moment you saw him bleeding— was just too relieved he came back at all.

You swallowed and shifted your grip, urging Frank forward. He didn’t resist, but he moved like his bones were glass— like each step risked a fracture. His legs dragged, heavy and slow, and his arm trembled faintly as you guided it over your shoulder again.

“Come on,” you murmured. “Sit down before you fall down.”

The desk chair creaked as you helped him ease into it, the motion careful but not gentle— nothing about him felt breakable, even when he was bleeding. Still, the sound he made as he lowered himself hit something low in your chest. A sharp, guttural exhale, like the pain had cracked through all his defenses.

He brought his good hand up— slow, reluctant— and brushed the edge of his ribs. His touch was light, almost casual, but you saw the flinch before he caught it. Saw the way he tried to bury the pain behind clenched teeth.

You caught the motion. Let your eyes track it. Watched the way his chest barely rose with each breath, like even that small act cost him.

“Ribs?” you asked, already crouching slightly beside him, your voice softer now.

“Probably,” he muttered. “Maybe just bruised.”

You didn’t buy it. You didn’t need to.

“‘Just bruised,’” you echoed. “Right. You keep moving like this, and ‘just bruised’ is going to become ‘seriously broken’ really fast.”

He huffed— something dry and hollow. “You sound like Curtis.”

That name hit like a small shockwave.

Curtis.

You hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t realized how much it would mean until it landed between your ribs like a stone dropped in still water. You’d heard the way Karen had spoken of him— like he wasn’t just history, but something steadier. Someone who still showed up.

And Frank had just… said his name. Aloud. To you.

There was something startling in that. Not envy. Not exactly awe. Just the quiet knowledge that Frank didn’t hand out pieces of himself lightly. And now he’d given you one.

You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded, grounding yourself in the motion.

“Good. Means you’ve survived hearing it before.”

Your hands moved on their own now, instinct overtaking thought. It was easier this way— focusing on the damage. Counting it. Naming it. Turning him into something clinical. Something you could treat instead of something you cared about.

His knuckles were a mess— torn open, layers of skin split and curling, dried blood caking in the creases of his fingers. You gently took his wrist, rotating it with a practiced touch. Defensive wounds. Scratches and tears climbing up the length of his forearm. Whoever he’d gone up against had gotten in close. Too close. You hated thinking about what that meant.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to. The evidence was already written into his skin.

You moved higher, careful with the arm he kept tucked close to his side. The swelling at his shoulder was bad— round and firm and angry to the touch. You pressed gently at the joint from above his shirt, just enough to test for movement.

He flinched— sharp and breathless— and hissed between his teeth.

“Dislocated?” you asked.                                                                              

“Popped it back in,” he said, and his voice was barely more than a whisper now. “Mostly.”

“Jesus, Frank.” The words escaped before you could stop them. Quiet, but not devoid of heat.

He didn’t answer. Just watched you— steady, unflinching, like he was memorizing the way your hands moved.

You leaned back and then moved to the other side, where it seemed most of the blood that had stained his shirt was coming from. Gently, and with slow, tentative fingers, you reached for the neckline of his shirt and tugged on it just enough to see the skin beneath.

And then you saw it.

The cut arced high across the slope of his collarbone— deep and jagged, raw and angry. It looked like it had been made by something imprecise, something reckless. Torn open more than sliced. Blood still wept from the center, sluggish but steady, and the surrounding skin was already beginning to bruise— purple and blue and furious.

You froze, breath catching in your throat.

It was a bad wound. Bad enough that stitching it closed would be difficult. Bad enough that waiting too long might mean infection.

You swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to center yourself. This was your job— this was who you were. You could do this. You would do this.

“Where’s your medical gear?” you asked, returning to the moment around you.

He didn’t look at you. Just jerked his chin toward the back wall, towards one of the tall shelving units, his eyes dipping to the lowest point on it. 

You crossed the bunker in a few long strides, your feet silent over the concrete, and knelt beside the storage bins on the bottom shelf. The plastic creaked beneath your hands as you pulled one open— and your heart dropped like a stone into your stomach.

A near-empty bottle of antiseptic that had expired years ago. A single bent needle threaded with something stained. Gauze that looked like it had been exposed to too many humid nights. No gloves. No tape. No bandages worth using. Nothing close to sterile.

Not nearly enough to handle this.

You stood slowly, closing the bin with a snap that echoed too loudly in the stillness. A wave of helpless frustration curled in your gut.

“This isn’t enough.”

You turned back to Karen and Frank, though your attention didn’t wander to the man seated at the desk. He wasn’t looking at you, anyways; but she was.

Her brow was furrowed and she let out a low, forced exhale. Her arms lifted, crossing over her chest, and her gaze flickered in Frank’s direction.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“Deep cut at the collarbone that definitely needs stitches. His nose is busted. Shoulder’s out of place. Ribs might be cracked. He’s covered in smaller wounds and half of them are already dirty.” You paused, teeth digging into the rounded flesh of your bottom lip. “If we don’t clean him up right, he’ll be septic in a few days.”

Karen didn’t hesitate. With a rough shake of her head, she was already pulling her phone from her coat pocket. Her fingers tapped against the screen rapidly, the light casting shadows across her face— illuminating the bags beneath her eyes, the tense edge of her jaw. “There’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy a few blocks out. I’ll go.”

Movement in her periphery caught your attention. Frank shifted slightly in the chair, opening his mouth— probably to protest. Karen cut him off with a raised hand.

“Don’t. Let me do this.”

She moved toward you and took the half-used antiseptic out of your hand like it belonged to her. Glanced at the label. Seemed to commit to memory. Then she handed it back.

“Write me a list.”

You didn’t move right away. Your eyes lifted to hers, and for a beat— maybe two— you just looked at each other. No words. No softening. Just a kind of mutual, heavy recognition. Two women who had bled different truths for the same man. Who didn’t always understand him. Didn’t always agree. But would still do whatever he needed. Even now. Even angry. Even tired.

Then you nodded.

A few steps away, over to the desk, and you grabbed the nearest pen and scribbled across the back of an old envelop. Gauze pads, tape, more antiseptic, painkillers. Antibacterial cream, sutures, sterile gloves. Maybe some Gatorade.

You passed it to her and your fingers brushed for the briefest second. Warmth. Steady. A kind of silent exchange you didn’t try to name.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

Karen didn’t pause. She simply nodded and turned, coat flaring slightly as she moved.

“I’ll be quick.”

The door clicked behind her. The sound was soft. Still, it felt like something final.

You turned back to Frank. He hadn’t moved. Still seated, still bloody, still watching the door like it might open again and change everything. Like being here, in the bunker, with both you and Karen… took something out of him. Forced him to open a door he hadn’t been ready to see behind quite yet.

You hovered there, a breath away, unsure of what came next.

Then, quietly: “I’ll get started while she’s gone.”

You didn’t meet his eyes when you said it. Didn’t want to. Didn’t trust what might leak through if you did. Your grip on your composure was light; just a few fingers clinging to the edge of something rocky and unsteady.

You gathered what little you had— thread, the mostly used bottle of antiseptic, the last clean gauze pad, a pair of worse for ware scissors— and laid them out across the desk with slow, steady hands. As you moved, you felt Frank’s gaze on you, heavier than it had any right to be. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to set your nerves further on edge. You poured a bit of the antiseptic over your hands, doing your best to sanitize them. Your fingers worked mechanically, but your body… your body was tired. Deep in your bones, tired. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t just weigh you down, but hollowed you out from the inside.

He still hadn’t said a word— not since Karen had left.

He just sat there, jaw set, eyes following your every movement like they were the only thing anchoring him. When you returned to his side once more, gauze and antiseptic in hand, he moved slightly to let you in, letting his arm fall away from where it had been bracing his ribs. His thighs spread wide, with a low grunt, making space for you to step in between them, crowd his body with your own. It was the only option, though— the only way you could get close enough to reach the cut on his collarbone.

You tried to separate yourself from it, from him; but those dark eyes of his tracked your every move, searched your face for every flare or flicker. And in the depths of that deep, unendingly rich brown, were those familiar bursts of amber. Warm, soothing, welcoming. They begged for you to move closer, settle in, stay a while. You swallowed down the lump that had gathered in your throat, fingers flexing about the bottle of antiseptic.

You glanced up at him for a beat— finally, fully— and then forced your eyes settle on the torn, blood-soaked fabric clinging to his skin. Not his eyes.

The shirt was too far gone to be salvaged, and you needed to get to the wound properly. There was only one path forward and it was a familiar one. So you pressed on, though it took strength you truly didn’t feel you had within you.

“You need to take this off,” you said quietly, nodding toward his chest, eyes still on the shirt. “I can’t stitch you like this.”

Frank didn’t argue, but the sigh he let out was thick with unspoken resistance— less defiance, more the kind born from pain and weariness. Even still, the fingers of his good arm moved to the hem, slow and stiff, and you watched as he began to peel it up, his jaw tightening with every inch. His ribs protested first— he winced as the fabric dragged over them— then his shoulder, the movement forcing him to twist just enough to jolt whatever damage had been done there.

You reached up without thinking, helping ease the shirt past his elbow, careful not to pull. Your fingers brushed the bare skin of his ribs, his shoulder, his neck. And as the material finally cleared his head, the fabric clung to dried blood near his collarbone, tearing away with a soft, wet sound that made your stomach turn.

When it finally came all the way off, bunched and discarded on the floor, your breath caught. Your eyes trailed over the arch of his shoulders, down the length of his chest. The damage was worse than you thought— bruises like shadows spilled down his ribs, and the gash at his collarbone stood out in angry red relief. Blood, both fresh and dried, trailed down his torso like a path leading to the waistband of his jeans. Your gaze flickered away in a rush— and heat rippled through your body, burning across every inch of your skin with a vengeance.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t dare try. Instead, you looked away, and reached for the supplies on the desk. You dipped the gauze in the antiseptic and then returned your attention to his cut; and, without hesitation, you pressed it gently to the edge of it, your fingers quick and precise.

He flinched— more reaction than pain, you thought— but he didn’t pull away. His body tensed beneath your touch, a brief coil of muscle and breath, and you felt the ripple of restraint run through him. It wasn’t weakness. It was control— sharp-edged and bone-deep. And part of you hated how much you admired it. Hated how steady he stayed, even when every part of you was splintering.

His eyes dropped to your hands, then flicked up— quick, assessing— toward your face. But you didn’t look back. Your gaze stayed fixed on the wound, on the rhythm of your own movements. Because if you looked up, if your eyes met his, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your balance. The air between you had changed. Thickened. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had mass, shape, weight. It wrapped around you like a summer day somewhere with humidity— slow and suffocating. Exhausting.

You dabbed again, wiping away the worst of the blood. His skin was burning beneath your fingertips— fever-warm, but alive. And the scent of him— sweat, metal, the faint lingering smoke of gunpowder— filled your lungs like it had a claim on them. Like he was seeping into you without asking. Without permission. The flush that rose under your skin was sudden, uninvited. It spread down your neck, over your chest, blooming low in your belly like heat trapped there, begging to be set free. A forgotten kettle set to boil, bubbling up and threatening to overflow.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think better of it, the words slipped out— quiet, almost embarrassed, but laced with something else, too.

“We gotta quit meeting like this.”

His head tilted toward you, just a little. His eyes found yours again— this time slower. Sharper. Like he was really seeing you now. A dry sound left his chest, somewhere between an exhale and a laugh, roughened by exhaustion but undeniably real. Familiar.

“You were elbow-deep in my thigh last time,” he rasped. His voice— God, his voice—dragged over your skin like gravel and silk all at once. You shivered. “Didn’t hear you complaining then.”

You huffed a quiet laugh— more breath than sound— but didn’t rise to the bait. Not when something warm and restless had begun to stir deep inside you, coiling slow and sure, like a fuse catching light.

Instead, a smile curled at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it— wry, instinctive. You risked a glance up at him, just for a second, your pulse a drumbeat behind your ribs. Your eyes flicked over his chest, the ragged cut, the blood drying on his skin. You hadn’t properly looked before— hadn’t let yourself. Before, it had been clinical; a checklist of trauma and treatment. Necessary distance. Protection.

But now… now you let your gaze linger.

His body was a study in contrasts— rough, ruined, and undeniably strong. Broad shoulders, heavy with muscle, chest rising slow beneath bruised skin. The curve of his collarbone pulled tight under the strain of tension, and the muscles along his arms were coiled, restrained, like even now he didn’t fully know how to rest. Scars cut across him like maps— some old, some raw— but none of them diminished him. If anything, they made him more real. More present. Like every inch of him had been earned.

You traced the shape of him with your eyes— the powerful slope of his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw, the taut stretch of his abdomen. The faint line, more a shadow than anything else, of dark hair that crept between his belly button and the waistband of his jeans.

The way his body held itself, even now, with weight and purpose. Not softness. Never softness. But solid. Unshakable.

Your breath slowed as you took him in— really took him in— and something sharp caught in your chest. Not fear. Not pity. Just that aching, heavy awareness of him. The weight of what he carried. The gravity of who he was.

And still, he sat there and let you tend to him.

“Well,” you murmured, finally, fingers brushing the edge of the wound with the gauze again, softer this time. “You can’t deny the view.”

His lips twitched— barely. But it was there. That flicker. That almost-smile. The ghost of something warm buried beneath everything broken.

You felt it sink deeper into your chest— hot and heady and dangerous. Not lust, not just that. It was something more feral, more complicated. The tension that lived in the spaces between breath and touch. The longing that slipped between cracks and curled its fingers into your spine. Held.

He was still Frank. Still him.

You leaned closer, angling your body to reach the top of the wound. But your arm didn’t quite stretch the way it needed to. You had to lean forward on one foot, risk your balance. You wobbled, bracing yourself on the edge of the desk with your free hand. A sharp ache bloomed along your spine, and you shifted again, uncomfortable, the strain pulling across your shoulders.

“You’re gonna throw your damn back out,” Frank murmured— rough, low. Barely more than a whisper. “Sit.”

You blinked, startled by the sound of his voice, by what he’d said, but before you could respond, his good hand caught your hip and tugged. His tough was strong, firm, but the movement itself was gentle. Slow.  

You let out a breath of surprise as your balance shifted— he guided you, pulled you lightly but steadily down onto one of his thighs. He was solid beneath you, the worn fabric of his jeans still damp with blood in places. Your hands fluttered for a second, unsure where to go, before instinct made you press one low on his chest to steady yourself. His skin was hot beneath your palm, heartbeat slow but strong, and the contact sent a low, warning pulse through your own.

His arm stayed curled around your waist. The warmth of his forehead burned through your back.

His hold on you wasn’t possessive, or forceful. Just… steady. Anchored.

His fingers twitched, then curled more solidly around the curve of your hip. Not tight—just enough to remind you he was still there. And as they shifted, the edge of his hand slid lower, rough fingertips brushing the bare skin just beneath your shirt. Just above the waistband of your pants.

It was barely anything. A whisper of contact. But it felt like a spark catching kindling.

The warmth of him burned into you— blunt and deliberate, even if unintentional. His skin was calloused, the pads of his fingers dragging slightly as they settled, half-tucked beneath fabric, half-stilled by hesitation. And still, he didn’t pull back. Didn’t apologize.

He just stayed there, quiet and solid, like that small point of contact was something neither of you were ready to give up. Or acknowledge. As if putting words to whatever this was— whatever had turned the air around you to pure gasoline, a moment from sparking— was simply too much. Too dangerous.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You were caught between the way his breath ghosted across your cheek and the heat of his palm against your bare side. Your heart pounded so hard you were afraid he’d feel it through your ribs.

But he didn’t say anything else. Didn’t let go.

So neither did you.

You refocused on the task in front of you, unsure what more you could do. You set the gauze and antiseptic aside, deeming the state of his cut good enough to proceed. Frank turned the desk chair beneath you both just so, angling himself instinctively— his movements minimal, precise. He knew what you needed before you could say it, before you could even part your lips.

You let out a soft, breathless sound, something close to a laugh— tight and involuntary. But you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not with the way your heart pounded like a warning, not with how dry your lips had suddenly become. You didn’t dare wonder why; couldn’t allow your mind to wander. It was all dangerous territory.

You swallowed again— hard— trying to clear the static. Trying to reset.

The needle shook between your fingers as you brought the thread to its eye. Not a tremor of fear. Not even nerves, not exactly. Just that strange, breathless disconnect— like your body was responding to something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Like every inch of you had been quietly claimed by the gravity of this moment. Of him.

It took two tries. The thread slipped once, missed the mark entirely. You caught your breath, tried again. Slower. This time, it caught.

You exhaled. Murmured a soft warning, letting him know what was to come. His eyes were somewhere far away, though his chin was still turned towards you. As you leaned in, you could feel his breath brush the top of your face, musing some of the strands of your dark hair. You were leaning forward now, your knees tucked into the small space between Frank’s thighs. And with every breath, every movement, your knees would brush the opposite leg, unable to ignore the flex of his muscles against you. You anchored yourself with a hand against the curve of his shoulder, a few inches from the cut— steadying, grounding— and drew the first stitch through his skin.

He flinched. A sharp inhale through clenched teeth. His grip on your waist didn’t change, but the thigh beneath you tensed hard, every muscle drawing tight in a ripple beneath your weight. You felt it in your bones. In the throb behind your ribs.

“Sorry,” you murmured, the word barely more than a breath. Useless. Reflexive. He didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. Just gave a shake of his head. You swore you heard him swallow— thick and slow, like it took a mighty effort to achieve.

The second stitch came slower, more precise. You watched the thread pull through his skin, watched it cinch the torn edges together. Blood welled faintly along the seam, but you reached for the gaze and wiped it away before it could run. Your fingers worked in rhythm— clean, puncture, pull, tie. Again. And again.

His body was warm beneath yours, all solid muscle and restrained tension. You could feel the effort it took for him to hold still. The way he let you do this. Let you close him up. Every so often his fingers would tense and flex against your hip, holding to it like it grounded him in the moment. Like he could pull what strength he didn’t have from you. And you were happy to lend it to him; though you likely needed it more than he did.

All the while, his eyes stayed on your face.

You felt the weight of that gaze like pressure against your skin. It tracked your every movement, every breath, every furrow of your brow. You kept your head down, tried to pretend it didn’t affect you. But it did.

Every time you leaned into stitch, you were close enough to feel the drag of his breath against your forehead. Close enough to hear the quiet, uneven rhythm of it. Close enough that his scent— salt and metal, sweat and something darker— wrapped around you like a second skin. Every part of you was wrapped up within the circle of him. You weren’t sure when you ended and he began.

A third stitch. Then a fourth.

You whispered soft reassurances under your breath, more for you than him. They didn’t matter. The pain didn’t stop him. He barely moved. But you wanted him to know you saw it— what he gave you. His stillness. His trust.

Another knot tied. Another inch closed.

You’d stitched up dozens of wounds before. Maybe hundreds. But never like this. Never with your own chest pulled tight, stretched taut like your skin might split open right alongside his. Never with your breath trapped halfway between your ribs and your throat, too fragile to release. Never with this— this pulsing silence between you, thick and electric, like a storm suspended just inches from touching down. Like the room itself had forgotten how to breathe. Never with the constant thought of his eyes, his lips, just inches from your own.

You snipped the final length of thread and let it fall, your fingers brushing one last time across the bruised and broken skin near his collarbone. His shoulder rose beneath your hand, slow and shallow, as though even the small motion of breathing took effort. Or maybe he was just holding still for you. Maybe he didn’t want to break the moment either. You placed the needle aside with deliberate care, reached for the bloodied gauze and remnants of your work, and set them neatly on the desk like ritual offerings. Then you stayed there. Your eyes locked on the mess you’d made of the tools, your thoughts louder than anything else in the room. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just existed inside the shape of this moment— fragile, breathless, and still.

And he was still watching you.

You could feel it— the weight of his eyes on your face, steady and unflinching. Like he was trying to memorize something, or waiting for you to realize what was already circling the space between you. As if he knew. As if he had already accepted it.

The distance between your bodies had closed so slowly, so completely, that you hadn’t noticed how tightly the air had folded in around you. How intimate it had become. How dangerous. Your hands, now resting in your lap, felt foreign— useless and stained with the residue of him. Your breathing had gone shallow. Measured. Like your body understood something your mind wasn’t ready to name.

“Look at me,” he said.

His voice cut through the quiet like a flint-strike— low and rough like gravel, but steady. A tone that was more challenge than request, soft in volume but sharp at the edges.

You swallowed, pulse thundering in your ears. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You shifted on his lap, legs tensing as if you intended to stand— but his grip on your hip tightened, held you still. Wouldn’t let you go. Not yet.

“Hey.” A beat passed— just enough to let it hang. Then the tone shifted, just slightly. Firmer. Edged. “Never took you for a coward.”

The word landed low, deep in the hollow of your chest, and it spread like heat— rising too fast, too raw to be ignored. Not cruel. Not unkind. Just Frank, all blunt honesty and unspoken weight. The kind of provocation that came from knowing exactly where your armor was thin. It burned, just a little. Because maybe it wasn’t wrong.

So you looked.

Your eyes met his— and the world stopped moving.

The room, the noise, the ache still blooming in your spine— all of it dropped away. All that remained was the impossible steadiness of his gaze. The weight of it. The gravity. Not a demand. Not even a question. Just a man stripped of everything but truth, asking you to see him.

And you did.

You saw the tension in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the quiet storm sitting behind his eyes— more warm amber in them than anything else. His hand shifted at your side, his fingers splaying wide across your hip. Just there, a silent tether. A reminder. You were still in his lap, still straddling the heat and weight of him. And the realization sent a new kind of pulse through you, deep and warm and so, so close to tipping into something else entirely.

You didn’t know who moved first. You weren’t sure it mattered.

Your gaze dropped— just briefly— to his mouth. Then back again. A flicker. A stutter in your breath. That was all it took. A single, shared hesitation. A breath suspended between what was and what could be.

Then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was instinct.

Immediate. Consuming.

A collision of mouths and breath and something too heavy to name. He kissed you like he’d been holding back for days. Weeks. Longer, maybe. Like he couldn’t afford to be gentle. And you kissed him back like you didn’t know how to stop. Like something inside you had come loose and all you could do was follow where it led.

His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of blood and grit and something only Frank could taste like. His stubble scraped your skin, grounding you in the reality of this— of him. He kissed like a man who didn’t get second chances. Who didn’t believe in soft landings.

And still, his hand moved— slowly, deliberately— sliding higher along your side, dragging the hem of your sweater with it. The fabric bunched over his palm as rough fingers skimmed over soft, bare skin, and the sudden brush of cool air against your ribs made you shiver. He didn’t stop. Just kept his hand there, halfway to your chest, wide and warm and unyielding, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

Your own hands slid up his chest, palms flat and gentle, pressed over the steady thud of his heart. It beat hard beneath your touch— uneven, urgent— and you felt your own begin to match it. Every part of you tilted forward, into him. Into the fire.

You didn’t think. Couldn’t.

All you knew was the way his body anchored yours, the way your lips parted to let him in. His tongue slid against yours, hot and slow, and you gasped into his mouth— soft and startled and already gone.

There was no finesse in it. No practiced rhythm.

Just heat. Need. The sound you made when his other hand finally joined the first, settling low on your back beneath your clothes like it belonged there. The way you leaned into him fully now, every inch of you molded to every inch of him, like something inevitable.

And beneath it all, that ache returned— deep and low, pulsing through your center like it had always been there, just waiting for a spark. Just waiting to be let loose.

You didn’t stop to think.

You didn’t dare.

You just kissed him like you were drowning.

And for the first time in a long, long time— he let you breathe.

[xo-myloves]

Omagahhhha PLS Stevie adler smut, where the reader is stevies girlfriend and he fucks y/n while she's sleeping and she's not realizing ittt, she realizes only later when she wakes up

😛

consensual sleep sex fantasy / sleepy moans / raw & reckless / messy love

༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞

You don’t remember falling asleep — just his arms around you, the smell of weed, smoke, and that cherry-sweet shampoo he pretends isn’t his. Stevie’s chest was warm against your back, lazy kisses pressed to your shoulder as you mumbled something into the pillow.

“Anytime, baby,” you’d said before drifting off. “You ever wanna wake me up like that… do it. I mean it.”

And he remembered.

Even now, in the haze of sleep, your body knows him. Hips already shifting, thighs parting. Something inside you stirs — a low, liquid ache that builds before your brain catches up. His breath is hot at your neck, and there’s pressure between your legs — slow, insistent. Hard.

You moan softly.

Still dreaming?

No. That’s him.

You blink, hazy and half-lost in the dark, but you know that feeling too well to mistake it for anything else. His cock is already buried inside you, sliding deep, slow, like he’s savoring every inch. Like he didn’t want to wake you just yet.

“Stevie,” you whisper, voice raw.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, his thrusts lazy and deep, “you told me I could.”

The sound of his voice sends a tremble through you. You melt into the mattress, let out a breathy whimper. You’re soaking, full, stretched in that perfect, aching way only he gives you.

“I woke up so hard next to you,” he mutters, biting your shoulder just enough to sting. “You were already moanin’. Pussy so warm and wet for me… couldn’t help it.”

You reach behind, fingers tangling in his mess of blond curls, pulling him closer. He groans into your skin, driving deeper.

It’s filthy. The best kind.

He keeps one arm tight around your waist, the other braced beside your head. His hips snap faster now, his breath ragged as your walls squeeze around him.

“Fucking love waking you up like this,” he pants. “You’re so fuckin’ sweet when you’re still floatin’. All soft. All mine.”

You nod, lost in it, gasping every time he bottoms out. The slick slap of skin fills the room, your bodies twisting in the sheets — all sweat, friction, and heat.

“Touch yourself for me,” he growls. “Wanna feel you cum while I’m still inside.”

Your hand slides down, fingers finding that spot. It takes no time at all — you’re already on edge, your body chasing it even before your mind caught up.

“Fuck—Stevie—I’m gonna—”

“Cum, baby,” he grits, grabbing your jaw and turning your face to kiss you messy and deep. “Cum on my cock like a good girl,”

You break apart in his arms, gasping his name, your body shaking under him as you clamp around him. He swears — something raw and broken — and then he’s pulling out just in time, spilling hot across your back with a strangled moan.

You both collapse, tangled, sticky, spent.

You blink up at him, dazed and wrecked in the best way. “Holy shit…”

He grins, that stupid-cute grin that almost makes you forget how dirty he just wrecked you. Almost.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

[kosher-salt]

Let me tell you something about fear.

I grew up in a smaller town. I changed high schools after a sports team of my YouTube-and-chat-room-radicalized classmates from far-right families and churches attempted to kill me a few times. Their chief complaints? That I wasn't white and that I was a lesbian* (I'm queer to be certain).

*A word they likely used far more in the search bar late at night.

There have been times, growing up, where I found myself at a coffee shop, campus area of the college, school cafeteria, or grocery store and overhead conversations that didn't strike my fancy. Some of them went something like this:

Person A: That Bad Thing is obviously caused by those immigrants/females/the trans/"Blacks"/scary scary gay men/abortionists (still not sure what that one means).

Person B: Yes yes, Trump/my pastor/Tucker Carlson/pewdiepie/the incels that live in my phone told me so as well and I agree.

A: Excellent. Now I'd like to order my vanilla sweet cream double carafe triple shot venti frapaccino, extra whip and stirred, not shaken. On the rocks. And it better be hot.

Now, I am not an immigrant nor trans, etc., and it was already visually evident that I was a lady so what they said would bother me and gross me out, but I wouldn't feel panic. My ears didn't ring, I didn't feel my heart in my throat. I felt no great animalistic resistance to confronting strangers speaking like this, and I often did if I didn't have good reason to believe that my interjection would galvanize them further.

I have called out, in my life:

-peers at all stages

-adults much older than I was

-professors

-coworkers

-bosses (knowing I'd lose my job, scary but worth it)

-military leadership

The people I confronted were certainly not scared or they wouldn't have been publicly and loudly speaking like this. In these instances, the fear I felt was minor if any, only for administrative retaliation at worst.

And that's because, if I dress right and talk right and deny my hair the right to roam, I can pass as a slightly unusual looking white person ("maybe she's Italian?"). My peers from earlier didn't consider me white for two reasons: I often failed at subduing my hair, and they already knew I was Jewish. I was proud of that, and often called them out for their racist bull, but there was nothing those particular people could do to me that they hadn't already tried while we grew up. I was the only Jew, that nobody would speak up for, suicidal enough after years of putting up with this not to care if they brought their gun.¹ This allowed me to speak up despite that dizzying feeling, the buzzing in my ears, and the way my hands would shake if I didn't keep them firmly around the sports equipment I eventually had to use, months into this, for self defense.

This, then, has been the difference between using my conditional privilege as much as I can to call out bigotry, and how it feels to be faced with hatred against you yourself, where your safety depends on them not noticing you. It is primal fear. If you have crossed paths with a mountain lion, you know the feeling. If you have any doubt, friendly reminder that these dudes did try to kill me. The school was aware. The police were aware. They punished me for recording (which was legal for me to do in Texas).

Here are some places in the last ~600 days where I have heard, in my blue city, conversations that made me feel like I was upwind from a mountain lion:

-In my lyft ride, unprompted:

"That foundation does a lot of research, but to be real they're funded by Zionists." Proceeds to explain how the Zios secretly control everything and experiment on bodies and kids in Gaza and the US. His stickers indicated he identified as left leaning, with a penchant for guillotines and grammatically incorrect Arabic that he almost certainly could not read. I left the car at a stoplight before he could check the mirror and realize it wasn't a sheriff's star around my neck.

-Coffee shop.

Young men that through their (very loud) conversation with each other indicated themselves as a mix of ashamed college students and proud dropouts. Described how the Jews did 9/11, and also about how suicide bombing is simply a cultural difference we must reckon with, and that it's "sus" if you feel any blips of internal disinclination to accept violent jihadism as a valid form of Resistance. They did not appear to notice any contradiction between those two ideas. I weighed both the worth of getting kicked out of my favorite coffee shop and the likelihood that one of these men would follow me home. The emerging horshoe of anti-intellectualism is not lost on me.

-On that note, in classrooms. Especially from professors.

One once brought me into the hall to berate me (and cause me to miss my next class) because our anthropology assignment included sharing the migration paths of our families. I mentioned that mine is Jewish. She told me I'd better renounce my Judaism. That it "triggered her." She then threatened to accuse me of plagiarism.

-At home.

A housemate tried to kill me within 24 hours of meeting me because another roommate told her that I am a Jew (and apparently nothing else).

In these instances, who do you think felt fear? Again, it couldn't be these people, or they would not have been openly and without hesitation making these claims for anyone/strangers to hear, despite how much people with these views love to claim oppression under some Zionist thumb.

I felt fear. I felt fear at minimum for my degree and livelihood. At maximum for my life or freedom if another housemate gave false testimony following the stabby roommate incident.

None of these people knew anything other than that I was in some way a Jew, ethnically or culturally.

This is not the fear I feel if someone is complaining about left leaning people, about pro-choicers, against anything that is a position I elect to have. Yes, I can take a necklace off, straighten my hair, speak differently, and put a fake name down for my apps, maybe get away with being recognized as The Bad People. Some of the individuals I mentioned were unaware for various reasons that a Jew was right there. But it would have been dangerous to let them know. Speaking out could have (and has) led to an assumption I was Jewish. Perhaps because it's so rare that anyone who isn't speaks up for us. After all, easier to get on the bandwagon than to walk the whole way.

This is the fear I have at the library when the group next to me reveals they're organizing a fundraiser to donate to Hamas (not a charity pretending to be unaffiliated, but the terror org itself, explicitly). The discomfort in my chest when the pharmacist tech repeats my last name long after I confirmed it with a strange infection, looks at my chain, sneers, and then throws my prescription at my face like it's the first pitch. When the children in my congregation don't sleep and their parents don't either. When knowing that the only reasons I'm physically unharmed are because most people are too cowardly to do what they rant about online (good), that I don't reveal myself to the ones that aren't, and that I have a natural talent for dodging chef knives.

If you cannot understand that the reason that "anti-Zionist" Jews don't often call this sort of thing out isn't because they aren't experiencing antisemitism, or you asume that antisemites can accurately guess who is and isn't a Zionist, you do not have enough of a foundational grasp on systems psychology to regard yourself an expert in international politics.

And if you aren't a Jew, and you have the cousin of JFK Jr's tape worm riding along with you/hate Jews, you may be getting ready to write something along the lines of, like Jews get on every post about their lived experiences, "that didn't happen and you're a stinky liar and im uncomfortable!!!"

Okay 👍 I bet you are uncomfortable.

[kdylight]

blue cashmere - kdy

content: kim doyoung x reader, fluff, marriage

this is my first fic! >.<

ੈ✩‧₊˚

you push open your front door with a groan, when suddenly a sweet aroma hits your senses. the soup you’ve been craving for the past couple of weeks. the smell is coming from the kitchen, followed by a few melodic hums in the same direction. you had just come home from a grueling day at the office, your ears still ringing from all the constant requests from your superiors. corporate life wasn’t what you had dreamed of, but its what kept you afloat.

you close the door carefully, making your way to the living area of your apartment. the sight you walk to makes your heart burst out of your chest. standing behind the stove, you can see your husband focused on cooking your favourite meal for dinner. the sudden thought hits you, this is why i work so hard... to come back home to this everyday.

doyoung is humming away happily, and despite only seeing his back profile, the curves of his cheeks visibly poke out as he smiles in thought. clearly he doesn’t know you’ve come home yet…

quietly, you tiptoe into the kitchen, approaching him from behind. he's wearing an apron wrapped over a soft blue cashmere sweater, which hugs his figure divinely. as you get closer, your hands wrap around his small waist gently, making him jump.

"ah! that scared me. i didn't hear you come home!" his head turns quickly, as his startled body eases into your touch. you sigh softly, resting your head against his broad back. your hands trail under his apron and up against his abdomen, stroking the soft fabric of his sweater, your gentle movements prompting him to say something.

"everything alright, love?" his head bends over to give you a kiss on the top of your head.

"yeah... just missed you a lot today..." the kiss from doyoung brings all the stress and physical pain to a halt. just a simple gesture of love makes your heart skip several beats. how did i get this lucky? your eyes scan the kitchen, taking in all the dishes he's probably been spending hours preparing for your return home. to think you didn't even have to tell him you've been craving his special soup... the plethora of intense thoughts in your mind cause you to impulsively squeeze your arms in your current embrace around doyoung. startled, doyoung slightly jumps again.

"hey, are you sure you're okay? you're not sick right?" doyoung asks you in a concerned tone, unbeknowst to the improper thoughts in your mind.

you shake your head, nuzzling into his soft sweater. he takes it as an okay, and resumes his cooking, stirring a few sliced vegetables into the pot, before covering it with a glass lid. whenever your colleagues or friends would discuss marriage, they'd often express their envy in your lifestyle —having a husband who treats you like his queen... and its nights like these where you can't help but feel proud. you lift your head up, and doyoung turns again to look at you, noticing your dazed eyes.

"huh? are you sure you're okay?" doyoung's voice full of concern, his free hand cups your cheek. you quickly peck his lips, surprising him.

"i'm fine!" you speak, a hint of red creeping up your cheeks. he narrows his eyes, not completely convinced. its a little bit hard to bring up the fact that your husband cooking your favourite soup for dinner after a long day of work is one of the most attractive things he could ever do. still a teenager at heart, you feel too awkward to express your overwhelming gratitude to him directly, and you know doyoung would probably shrivel in embarrassment if you were to tell him... he's the type to do kind gestures, but not exactly the best at receiving thank you's. so tonight, you plan to show him.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be continued…?

a/n : my first time writing :0 hope u enjoyed… let me know if any of u want a part 2….

[eunoia-9]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝗼𝐮 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐞 🦋

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ: ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜᴘ ᴀɪsʟᴇ

tw: mild stalking/catcalling (not done by Price)

"I just don't know how you do it," You told John, stunned as he sat on your sofa with your now completely calm baby in his arms. "She never quiets down that fast."

"Can't say I know either," John shrugged, keeping his voice low to not alert the infant. Grace was a cute little thing, despite the loudspeakers she called lungs. Soft, wispy hair across her small head, and big eyes that looked so innocently bewildered by everything around her.

"It ain't easy bein' up on your feet all day like that, I know." He sympathized, nodding towards you. "You should sit."

"No, I... I couldn't." You sighed.

"Why?"

"I'm not used to letting people hold her, I just... wouldn't be able to relax." You explained sheepishly. John noted how your eyes never seemed to leave the baby's vicinity, and how anxious you got as he held her despite just sitting there with her. He had never been a parent, per se, but he did know a thing or two about fathering a few grown-ass men. He understood the worry, knowing they're away from you and you can't do anything to protect them.

"She's safe with me," John said, to which you gave a small smile that he perceived as an accomplishment. "I've got an iron grip, promise." He added.

"Thank you," You whispered, feeling the ache in your arms and legs start to weigh on you. Holding a baby every hour of every day gave birth to numerous physical pains you just couldn't shake or alleviate.

"Now have a seat." He said gently, keeping his voice ever so slightly firm to communicate that there was no arguing with him on this topic. You obeyed, seating yourself on the sofa across from him. Right as you sunk into the cushion, you felt an overwhelming grogginess take over your mind, like your brain was slightly heavier than a few moments ago, weighing down with the urge to rest it. The next thing you knew, you were shifting yourself onto your side and dozing off.

As you drifted into a deep slumber just across the room, John found himself in an unexpectedly awkward position. Here he was, cradling a woman's baby in his arms—not entirely opposed to the idea, surprisingly. The little girl was adorable, her tiny features softened by the warm glow of the lamp beside him. She cooed softly, content and serene when her needs were met. Maybe she was like her mother in that sense. It was a quiet moment suspended in time, where the weight of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the gentle rise and fall of the baby's breath.

At first, he intended on sitting like this for thirty minutes or so, but you just seemed so relaxed now that you were finally resting. He got a little caught up in the tranquil experience of holding an infant, and for one of the first times in his life, he let himself bask in that feeling.

-=+☆+=-

A bright light in your face was what woke you, making you slowly stir and crack your eyes open to peek at the world around you. The sun was peeking through the curtains of your living room window and... Wait.

The sun? Why hadn't he woken you up?!

You sprang upwards on the couch, looking around frantically as you stood up, seeing no sign of John, the man you so trustingly let hold your baby. You'd find him later, but for now, where was Grace? There's no way you just let your baby be kidnapped. The panic swarmed in your heart, feelings only described as a mother's, your quick footsteps leading you to your bedroom where you also kept the crib.

Inside, to your instant consolation, was Grace. She was clumsily swaddled and sleeping, with not a bruise or scratch to be seen on her soft skin. The sigh you let out was heavy, to say the least. Nearby, a note was placed on the edge of the crib. Upon closer inspection, it was written on with nice handwriting.

"Changed, fed, and poorly swaddled." The note read, eliciting a small snort from your lips. "Call me when you need me again."

The initials 'J.P.' were scrawled out on the bottom of the page along with a phone number, and you felt the swarming panic fade in your heart, a strange sensation of warmth spreading throughout you instead. What was this? What was he trying to accomplish by helping you so greatly, and what did he mean by 'when you need me'? You huffed. A little full of himself after one night of babysitting, it seems.

It was a nice sentiment, nevertheless, to know that you had made a friend. It made you feel not so alone, not so isolated when caring for your baby girl. The amount of time you spent indoors was making you crazy, but at least you were aware of the presence of another through the wall, a person who was silently cheering you on through motherhood.

With a content sigh, you walked back to the kitchen to find something to eat before Grace woke up. She was out cold, which seldom happened. John must have been a miracle worker because the baby was obsessed with him, it seemed.

A short stride brought you to the cluttered kitchen, where you looked through the pantry for a granola bar or a Lance cracker pack. Not much luck, unfortunately, and you certainly didn't have the energy to make an actual breakfast, so that meant a good old trip to the store. With a baby. Jesus.

The car ride hadn't been all that bad, but it was easy to tell that Grace was not in the mood to have been woken up. She made a few little fussy sounds as you pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store, and she continued to do so as you picked her up. It wasn't going to be a very easy trip, you knew that much. Grace was a sensitive baby, with a strong dislike for light and noise. You usually kept the nursery dim and quiet because of it. A bustling grocery store combined with fluorescent lights and the occasional crackle of the intercom was just enough to piss her off, and that's surely just what you needed this morning.

As you kept the girl occupied with a rattle, you glanced down at the paper you had scribbled a small list of essentials on. A few feminine hygiene products, some fruit, diapers, and soup cans, among other things. You'd already found a couple of items already and were currently looking for the soup cans you had eaten religiously since becoming a mom. It was comfort food, warm broth and noodles. Grace's coo snapped you out of your thoughts of food.

"What's the matter?" You said softly with a smile, waving your finger in front of her face and letting her grab at it with happy babbles. "I'm kinda busy, y'know."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the stacked soup cans on the shelf, just where they always were. You grabbed a couple, thinking four was enough, but you knew damn well you went through these things like rations nowadays. You cooed to Grace a little longer, but not before accidentally nudging a few cans off of the shelf with your elbow.

"Shit," You muttered, blinking and looking over at the baby, pointing at her. "Don't repeat that." You instructed although you knew she wouldn't repeat that. The little thing was barely conscious, but it was nice to talk to her. You'd caught yourself talking to her a lot lately, but it was to be expected. It was you and her against the world.

You knelt to pick up the cans, grumbling to yourself about being a klutz. One peek upwards and you were met with the sight of a figure standing at your cart. You stood back up, eyeing the stranger while you placed the cans back on the shelf. It was a man, someone you didn't know, just... staring at Grace. Weirdo, you thought to yourself, immediately getting a bad gut feeling. You quickly stepped forward and grabbed the handle of your cart, subtly pulling it towards yourself and giving the man a polite smile.

"Sorry, am I in your way?" You asked, to which he simply grunted and shook his head no. You took the opportunity to study him. White, dark hair and eyes, all black clothing, and a bizarre look in his eye. A contemplative look, as if he were deciding something. You nodded to him and pushed past with your cart. What was this dude's problem, eyeing your baby like that? He wasn't even trying to act like he wasn't.

-=+☆+=-

The shopping trip stretched on longer than you thought it would, seeing as it was almost noon now. Grace was getting irritable, evident from her little huffs and fidgets, so you figured it was time to leave before the store got an earful. As you wheeled the cart to the checkout line and greeted the cashier, you took the opportunity to awkwardly look around. Checkouts were always a little nerve-wracking, so you found it was better to just look anywhere else but there. When you turned your gaze to the entrance of the store, you spotted him.

It was the same guy from the soup aisle, there was no mistaking it. He was watching you, standing outside menacingly in the darkness, and barely illuminated by the neon glow of the store signs. After meeting his gaze, he quickly looked away, but you weren't stupid. He was waiting for you, and that was terrifying. What do you even do in this situation? He was obviously tailing you, but the police weren't going to do anything since he hadn't done anything either. Yet.

There was no room for stupid decisions, not when you had Grace with you. You had to go about this wisely, but how? Do you leave the store? No, that was most likely the worst possible thing you could do right now. Do you tell the cashier? Maybe, but there wasn't much they could do about this, either. Do you call someone? Possibly. But who?

And then the lightbulb flicked on, and you quickly fished your phone out of your pocket. John wrote his number on the note he left, and you took a picture of it! You'd kiss your past self if you could. You copied his number into the keypad and held the phone up to your ear.

Ring... ring... ring... Click.

"Hello?" The familiar voice said. The relief was palpable in your own.

"Hey. This is John, right?" You said, praying he didn't give you a fake number when he left that note. It was doubtful considering you could just go to the next door over and kick it down, but you had to make sure nonetheless.

"Yep," John affirmed. "Do you need help with Grace?"

"Uh... you could say that." You mumbled, eyeing the man outside the store until a tap on the arm made you jump.

"Ma'am, please, there's a line." The cashier deadpanned.

"Right. Sorry. Um, one sec, John," You said, holding your phone between your cheek and your shoulder as you removed your card and gathered your bags, wheeling your cart off to the side and sitting on a bench, but making sure you didn't leave the store. There's no way you were doing that. “Sorry, I’m back.”

"Are you home right now?" John inquired.

"No." You sighed. "Y'know that store near the complex? I come here for groceries a lot, but... anyway, that's not the point. I think I'm being followed."

"Followed?" He replied, the (unpleasant) surprise evident in his voice. "What makes you say that?"

"Actually, I don't think I am, I know I am," You corrected, starting to ramble through your nerves. "I met this guy earlier while I was shopping, and now he's just... standing outside. Staring. I'm sorry if I'm bothering you but I didn't know who else to call and I'm kinda freaking out-"

"Luv, hold on," John interjected. "So he met you earlier, and now he's outside."

"Yes." You said shakily, trying to keep your composure.

"And the baby's with you?"

"Yes."

"Damn," He murmured. "Alright, hang tight. I'm on my way."

"Thank you," You breathed. "Thank you, John."

"Don't leave the store," He said firmly. "Just wait for me, yeah?"

"I won't, I'm still inside." You reassured him. "I'm not that dense."

John chuckled. "No, no, you're not. Stay calm, luv."

Click.

What was it with him and 'luv?' It wasn't fair how quickly you calmed down when he called you that. It eases your mind, even if it's only a minor change. Now wasn't the time to think about that, though. You let your hand drop into your lap, setting your phone there while you lifted Grace from the cart. You needed to keep her close. It didn't feel right not having her with you when there was some creep lurking around and eyeing you and your baby like meat.

A brief tap on the shoulder alerted you to look to your left, the smell of booze, weed, and BO assaulting your sense of smell. Looks like someone got tired of waiting.

"Hey, sweetheart,"

chapter 4

word count: 2228 (yay finally a longer one)